I wasn't joking

National Georgraphic Traveler named the U.P. drive one of the world's greatest scenic routes.

...Look About You

Growing up driving on streets named Dort and Crapo, visiting museums named Sloan, passing a hotel named Durant and a mansion named Mott, I learned from an early age that Michigan meant autos. And this definition has made it especially painful, in the last few years, to drive around Flint and notice the weeds that spring from the asphalt of the deserted concrete islands that used to hold Buick City, Chevy in the Hole, and Flint East. Because if Michigan is autos, these decaying, blighted, swaths of emptiness cruelly remind me that my town is dead, her industry gone, and my state finished. But what I learned on a recent trip through the Upper Peninsula is that my childhood belief that Michigan means autos is both shortsighted and ill fitting.

Driving through copper country, I was reminded that in 1841, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula was the site of the nation’s first copper boom and by 1869 the state was producing more than 95% of the nation’s copper. In the U.P. I learned that long before the auto industry was born, the Quincy Copper Mine near Hancock had already earned the nickname “Old Reliable” after paying out a dividend to its investors for 32 years. And while Old Reliable worked, Michigan’s booming lumber industry produced more lumber than the next three states combined. So to believe that Michigan is autos is to forget that it was also once lumber and copper. Michigan has been defined by industry before, and my state has watched these “reliable” industries come and go. Lumber gone. Copper gone. Autos dying. We’ve been here before, and the reminder that Michigan still remains after experiencing the death of defining industries was comforting. But what I found more comforting, and what this drive illustrated best, was understanding why equating Michigan with any industry is so stupidly unjust.

Because when the rocky, undeveloped coast of Lake Superior favorably compared to Maine’s Acadia National Park, and when the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore offered sandstone cliffs rising from water that shares the blue and green colors of the Caribbean, and when I stood 700 feet above the world’s largest freshwater lake taking in a view that I had thought was reserved for California’s PCH, I learned that Michigan has always been much more than copper, lumber, or cars. I learned, after looking out over the cold, blue waters of Lake Superior and smelling the pines of Tahquamenon, that Michigan’s strength does not come from industry, but from her natural beauty.

So though it’s easy to believe, driving around Flint, that my state is dying, I now know that Michigan is much stronger than autos. No, Michigan cannot be equated with any industry. Because when the copper industry and lumber industry died, Michigan still lived; and when the auto industry does indeed die, she will still stand, strengthened and always defined by her natural splendor. Michigan is not dead. She is beautiful, and beauty is permanent.

If you seek...

...look about you.

Walter

It was the standard collegiate tshirt, navy blue with “Michigan” written in bright block maize letters across the front. And since “where in the states are you from” came immediately after “what’s your name,” “how many brothers and sisters do you have,” and “how much money do you make” in the horribly predictable Nicaraguan meet-and-greet conversation, everyone knew what my tshirt meant. Michigan was Daveed’s pueblo, and when I wore that shirt around town people would read it aloud. Meecheegan. So it was always a good day when I wore my pueblo around town, and it was a great day when I wore it on a Sunday afternoon during my second year of service.

Walter and I had become, for lack of a better term, drinking buddies. Though it only happened three or four times, our routine was as predictable as the meet-and-greet conversations I had with countless Nicaraguans. He’d see me walking through town, catch up to me in his car, and invite me out for a drink. Swooning over a private car and the thought of alcohol, I’d quickly oblige and hop in. We’d swing over to the local gas station to buy a six pack of Toña cans before driving around town and picking up a few more of his friends. Three grown men in the back and two in the front of his green Hyundai Excel, we’d pound the first couple of beers while on our way out of to Bar Titanic along the Panamericano. At the bar, we’d switch over to rum and coke and waste the day talking about Nicaraguan politics and how, no, I couldn’t easily get them a visa. The one drink he invited me out for always turned into several drinks, and by the time he’d drop me off at home, it’d take all my concentration to lock my doors, neatly tuck in my mosquito net, and pass out. I’d wake up the following morning with a headache.

The Sunday I was wearing my Michigan tshirt was no different. I was on my way to visit Maria’s family when the green Hyundai pulled along side me and offered a drink. Two hours later I was a few drinks deep sitting at Bar Titanic listening to my compañeros sing along to Mexican Ranchera music. And in the middle of Javier Solis’ ballad, Walter finished off his rum and coke, threw his hands up and screamed “Vivaaa…MEEEEEcheeeegaaan!” He looked directly at me when he said it and finished off his proud exclamation with a hearty laugh, gazing around at all of us for approval. I responded by grabbing the letters of my shirt to flip the sides out aggressively (think LeBron James grabbing the sides of his jersey after a thunderous dunk) and, nodding my head, said “Meecheegan!!!”

We stayed at Bar Titanic all day drinking an unhealthy amount of alcohol. After every drink, Walter would raise his hands and salute my home state with his rallying cry, laughing each time as if it was the first time he said it. By the third or fourth drink, all of us had enough liquid courage to join in and help him finish off the salute. By the fifth and sixth, we all knew to start watching for the last sip when the ice in the glass melted, and we joined in right from the beginning. Viva! MEEEcheeegan! By the seventh and eighth, we didn’t have to wait for Walter. When the spirit moved you, you’d put your drink down and raise your arms. Your compañeros would follow suit and we’d cry together, "Vivaaaa……MEEEEEEEEcheeegaaaaan!!”

I woke up the next morning with a hangover, and in an attempt to “work it off” I walked out to my backyard and started doing laundry, scrubbing my tshirts on a concrete slab. When I came to the Michigan tshirt, I was more gentle than normal. I only gave it a couple of scrubs along the concrete and only slightly ringed out the excess water. Instead of hanging it in the direct sunlight, I found a premium spot under the shade of my mango tree. That was my ranchera rallying cry I was holding. It was my pueblo I was guarding. I had to be gentle and caring. I couldn’t let those colors fade. I thanked Walter under my breath, went inside and slept off my hangover.

Viva Michigan!

Peace Corps Expansion Act

Maybe boring for most, but a good history of the origins of the Peace Corps and certainly worth watching for fellow RPCVs.

Diego

Amongst my friends, Victor Victor comes up at least once every two weeks. His absurd name and obnoxious questions I described here, reserved a place for him in friends speak lexicon. Which is a shame because I didn’t like the guy and I spent less than one full day with him during the entire two years. He was nothing more than an extra. I’d much rather spend time talking about the people I enjoyed and actually knew at the end of two years. So, I’m going to try to introduce a few more characters. And although you might think otherwise after reading this post, at some point I’ll write about someone older than ten years old.
____________________

I met Diego while walking through town to the main bus stop. He ran up from behind and yelled “Oy, chele!” (hey whitie!) and offered to shine my shoes. Over his small shoulder he was lugging the typical wooden box the shoe shine boys used to carry their brushes and polish as they ran around town looking for work: dusty cowboy boots and leather shoes. He was about eight years old and had a cocky strut. His hands, face, and tank top were smudged and, in some places, nearly covered with shoe polish. He wasn’t wearing shoes. I declined his offer because I was headed to teach a class, but I told him to stop by my house the following day. “You go to school in the morning?” I asked. “Yeah. In the morning.” “Come by tomorrow afternoon then.”

He showed up the next morning. “Didn’t you say you go to school in the morning?” “School was canceled today,” he told me. I didn’t believe him, but before I could question him much further he was fast at work. Bent over his wooden box polishing my shoes, he had a quick rhythm. Two fingers into the polish, rub the shoe, two fingers into the polish, rub the shoe, grab the brush, brush the shoe. Repeat. He was wearing an old blue hat with the Valvoline logo on the front. It was set to the smallest size, and he wore it with the brim pushed way up over his forehead. While he was working the hat would slowly creep downward until it reached his eyes and he had to push it back up. He worked this movement into his rhythm. Grab the brush, push the hat up, brush the shoe. Repeat. “I like your hat,” I said. He kept polishing and asked what the logo meant. “It’s a brand of oil for cars. I have a blue tshirt that has the same logo on it.” He stopped polishing and looked up with wide eyes. “Really,” he skeptically said.

My Valvoline tshirt was one of my favorites. I had bought it at the Flint Goodwill a few years ago and wore it a lot around the house and to the gym. It had the three qualities I looked for in a good tshirt: a good fit; a comfortable, worn in fabric; and a perfectly sized neck - not too tight, not too big. While Diego was finishing up my shoes, I went back to my room and fished the shirt out from the wooden shelves I had made to hold my clothes.

I unfolded the shirt and showed him. His eyebrows went up and the whites of his wide eyes and glowing smile painted a stark contrast to his dusty, shoe polish smudged face. He couldn’t believe that my tshirt had the same logo as his hat. He got closer to the shirt and studied the logo before yanking the hat off his head and holding the two together. “They are same! The hat and shirt are even the same color! Tuani,” he said. Cool.

He finished up my shoes, and I overpaid him. As he was leaving I asked if his feet hurt from running around barefoot. He looked back over his shoulder at me like I was crazy and let out a half laugh. No, he scoffed. I’ve never felt less tough. He hurried away looking for his next customer.

-----

Diego was in the unfortunate group of kids that had to work to help support their families. Since there was a morning and afternoon session of classes at the elementary and high schools, these kids could theoretically attend school for half the day and work for the other half. It rarely played out so nicely though. It was my experience, as well as the experience of several elementary school teachers I asked, that these working kids came to school only sporadically, if at all. Presumably, they only made it to class when their family had enough money to eat. I had a hunch that Diego wasn’t attending any classes until I saw him one day in his school uniform. Blue pants, white shirt, and black shoes. Besides for a missing button on his shirt and a small hole in the top of his right shoe, he could have passed for an elementary school student in the States. I wished that he could wear that uniform everyday. He waved when I passed.

-------

He continued to show up at my house once every few weeks during my two years, and the visit never changed. He’d polish my shoes and then ask to see the tshirt. To Diego's unbelieving mind, comparing the tshirt and hat never got old. When he had once again assured himself that the two logos were indeed the same, he’d reveal his white teeth with a bright smile, return his hat to the top of his head, pack up his things, and take off. On his way out, I’d always ask “Why aren’t you in school today?” I go in the morning or I go in the afternoon or classes were canceled or I didn’t feel like it today. His reply was quick, said as he was turning his back and hurrying away to find his next customer.

------

I spent most of my last week in town, tracking people down to say goodbye and leave them with some insignificant possession I had promised them. A Frisbee, a baseball, a school notebook, a backpack, a deck of cards. That whole week I kept my Valvoline shirt in the bag I carried around town. I was excited to run into Diego to give him the shirt. It’d be too big for him, but so was his hat. He’d be a Valvoline sponsored nine year old shoe polisher. I couldn’t wait to see his reaction. His wide eyes and blinding smile. His high five.

I never found him. I tell myself that he was no longer roaming the streets looking for dusty cowboy boots and leather shoes. I imagine he turned in his shoe polish and brush for a notebook and pencil. It’s easiest to deal with poverty when I pretend it doesn’t exist. When I convince myself that I couldn’t find him because he was in school. He was doing homework. He was a student. My Valvoline shirt isn’t fit for a student anyway.

Happy Birthday, Sergio

When I was living with his family for the first two months in Palacaguina, Sergio and I would eat dinner together. There was a small, wooden table that sat in the central patio of the house and we’d sit on either end of the table facing each other. Everyone else that lived in the house would serve themselves and eat sitting in a chair or along a bench, but Sergio and I were always seated and served at the table. Oftentimes, the family would even set the table with a tablecloth and a white cloth placemat outlined with doily-esque gold designs. I received nothing but the best hospitality. His mother or grandmother would serve us. A fork, a plate of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and a plastic, Winnie the Pooh plate with two tortillas for me. A spoon, a bowl of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and half a tortilla on top for Sergio Luis. After one meal about two weeks into my stay with his family, I finished my meal, put my fork down, and looked at Sergio Luis. He was still finishing up his tortilla. I smiled and said, “I beat you.” He quickly finished his tortilla but didn’t say a word.

The following night, we again ate dinner together. A fork, plate of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and a plastic, Winnie the Pooh plate with two tortillas for me. A spoon, a bowl of rice, beans, scrambled eggs, and half a tortilla on top for Sergio Luis. I ate my meal normally but watched horrified as Sergio lifted his bowl to his mouth, slightly tilted his head back, and shoveled the food into his mouth. It wasn’t pretty and a lot of the food ended up on the table and down his shirt but it was very efficient. He didn’t say a word during the meal until he slammed the bowl down onto the table, raised his arms, and screamed “I beat you!” I struggled to keep from laughing and when I had composed myself, I calmly said “You beat me because I do not eat like a dog. You shouldn’t either.” At that moment, smiling at a four year old boy covered in food, I realized I had a student that was paying close attention.

I had come to Nicaragua to teach a high school business course, but truthfully I was never very good at teaching at the high school. I was just never great at teaching a group of 50 teenagers. I struggled to get them focused. I hated dealing with discipline problems. I had few resources besides a blackboard. I had no formal teaching experience and was easily frustrated or overwhelmed. Even after classes that went particularly well, my momentary high of a job well done was coupled with an exhaustive feeling of “I can’t do this tomorrow.”

Teaching smaller groups or individuals was a better fit. It allowed for more interaction; it was less overwhelming and more rewarding. It was possible to change activities quickly and easily within a small group. But most of all it was simply less formal. In smaller groups, I was seen more as a facilitator than a teacher. Students were more willing to ask or answer questions and have fun when I was seen as a friend and not a teacher. And the most informal and enjoyable teaching I did was with Sergio Louis.

We started with colors. Blue, green, red, yellow, orange. I’d buy two small packs of candy and reveal the bags to a delighted, squealing Sergio. The pieces of candy were similar in size to Skittles, though not as tasty. I’d fish one small piece from the bag and ask Sergio to name the color of the candy. If he got it right, he got to eat it. If he got it wrong, I got to eat it. It was, perhaps, a cruel way to teach a four year old the standard colors of the world, but Sergio was a quick learner. The first time he named every color correctly he danced with joy. Blue, green, red, yellow, orange.

We didn’t stop with colors though. Over the course of two years, I helped Sergio learn how to write, how to tie shoes, how to swim, how to eat ice cream, how to sing Hail! To The Victors, how to whistle, how to apologize. He posed curious questions like “Why don’t you have earlobes?” and learned that everyone is different. He jealously asked “Why don’t I have a beard” and learned that children can’t grow beards. Our class time was informal, spent swinging in a hammock or hiding from the piercing sun under a tree, but the learning was serious and quick. And it was unusually enjoyable.

After a long day of struggling to get all my students focused on vocabulary, formulas, and homework assignments, it was always refreshing to return to Sergio’s curiosity. He soaked up, as fact, anything I threw his way. I didn’t have to struggle to get his attention, and rather than wasting time trying to teach percentages I could focus on teaching what was really important. Like how to appropriately greet me.

We’d start with closed fists. I’d bring my fist down, knocking his fist, and as if it were a direct result of my blow, his small fist would swoop above mine and come crashing down to knock my fist. This happened rapidly, and without hesitation we’d finish off the two initial knocks with a standard fist bump. There was some confusion when we were first learning, but when I started to call out the steps “Mine! Yours! Middle!” he was an old pro within days. Like any good teacher who senses his students are ready for more, I introduced a more challenging handshake; one that can be best described as the Eight Mile greeting.

We’d shake hands normally, pivot our wrists around grasped thumbs, shake while grasping each others' thumbs, slide our hands away, grip our fingertips together, pull and snap our hands back and finish with a snap of our fingers. The Eight Mile greeting proved to have a lot of steps where a beginner could get lost or confused, but we broke it down into manageable parts and practiced diligently. With time we perfected each step and slowly put them all together for the full greeting.

The final step was an easy one. We combined the fist bumps and Eight Mile shake into one, long, beautifully choreographed, impressive greeting. I’d enter the house and without word Sergio would hold his fist out giving me the queue to bring my fist down on his to start the fluid chain reaction of moving fists, hands, and fingers. After the final snap of our fingers, we’d casually move along with our conversation as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. As if we didn’t notice the jealous looks from our audience. As if a four year old and a twenty five year old hadn’t just greeted each other with an elaborate secret handshake.

After mastering the handshake, it was clear: we were an awesome teacher/pupil tandem. As a team, I could teach him anything and he could learn everything. Spending time with Sergio was the most enjoyable and successful teaching I did in Nicaragua.

---------

On my last day in Palacaguina, I went over to Sergio Luis’ house and we greeted each other with our handshake. He sat on my lap and I explained to him that I was leaving the following day. He asked why I couldn’t stay. Why are you leaving? Why can’t I go with you to the United States? And as I struggled to come up with replies, Sergio and I learned that we had our limits. The awesome pair was fallible. We learned that I couldn’t teach him things that I didn’t quite understand myself. We sat down to dinner that night and I worried –as any teacher does – that Sergio wouldn’t remember anything I taught him. That in a few short months he wouldn’t even remember his teacher. Consumed in thought, I looked up and noticed Sergio’s side grin from behind the bowl he was holding up to his mouth. He slammed the bowl down, raised his arms, and said “I beat you.” I smiled. He’d remember.

Viva Nicaragua!

For those of you who haven't seen the newest NBA commercials:



For those of you who haven't seen a Nicaraguan fiesta:

The Chamorro Family

This is an excellent article on recent Nicaraguan history told through the lens of one of the country's most famous families. If you like the article and are interested in learning more about Nicaragua, or are just looking for a good book, I'd suggest Stephen Kinzer's Blood of Brothers.

The only critique I have of the article is when in the second to last paragraph, the author describes the Chamorro neighborhood as "middle-class." I can assure you that anyone in Nicaragua dining on seafood paella and living in a "sprawling four bedroom" is much wealthier than "middle-class," and it's a disservice to the country to describe the neighborhood as such when my friends and the majority of the country struggle to get by on less than $2/day.

Go Blue!

I probably won't be winning any tournament pools this year.

Bizarre Foods

Bizarre Foods' Andrew Zimmern was in Nicaragua a couple of weeks ago filming an episode for his show. I hope/wonder if he got giardia.

Once you get over the fear of parasites, I agree with Zimmern. The best way to understand a new country is by sharing a local meal with its people. And if you can help prepare it, even better.




Buen provecho!

Nicaraguan Vampires

I'm glad I didn't read this article while I was living in Nicaragua. My "shanty" had "gaps big enough for the flying mammals to sneak through during the night," and sneak through they did. Ten minutes after my lights would go off, I'd hear my visitor swoop in and fly around. But I thankfully had a mosquito net and besides the droppings I cleaned up every morning, the bats in my house weren't too much of a bother.

The night before this picture was taken, however, was a bit less comfortable (check out the bat hanging above me). I had to sleep with my sleeping bag over my head and awoke several times through the night when the bat would fly so close I could feel it's wings hit me. There's a lot of things I don't miss about Nicaragua.



The standard Nicaraguan technique for getting rid of bats involved wrapping a clove a garlic in a red cloth and hanging the cloth from the roof. I was also told to smash garlic into the roof in the form of a cross. Neither of these worked. Go figure.

"No reason only the poor should experience this."

This is cool and presumably much more effective than a Microsoft PowerPoint presentation. Then again, a lot is more effective than PowerPoint when trying to explain poverty to rich people. Like experiencing this and living for two years here:


Also know that when US taxpayers send Peace Corps volunteers to countries with malaria and dengue fever, we provide them with mosquito nets and preventative drugs to defend against these diseases. As a Peace Corps volunteer sleeping under a US government provided mosquito net, why was my life more valuable than the 2000 African kids that died from malaria yesterday? Donate a net.

And you thought Illinois was bad

A good run down on the ridiculousness of Nicaragua's corruption, specifically "El Pacto." Living there for two years really made me appreciate our government. Warts and all.

Translating "el gordo," Aleman's nickname, into its English equivalent makes me laugh. Fat Man.

Flickr Pics

For those interested, I've finally posted my pictures from this past summer, my last few months in Nicaragua, and Brian's wedding.

You can find them on my Flickr page. Enjoy.

Bored?

"Are you bored yet?" My boss has asked me this a couple of times since I started working here about a month ago. I normally just politely respond with something like "No. It's all new to me, so it's fun learning how everything works." That's essentially the truth, I am enjoying learning something new, but I might give her the whole truth the next time she asks. It'd go something like this:

Bored?!? I woke up today and took a hot shower. That shower and the anticipation of tomorrow's is enough excitement to get me through any long, boring day without too much pain. And now I'm sitting here at a computer hooked up to high speed internet, contemplating what kind of coffee I'm going to drink today. You know that big coffee machine in the kitchen? The one that has at least 20 different flavors, each individually wrapped so that I can put the envelope in, push a button and have a hot cup of coffee within 20 seconds. Yeah, that's pretty cool too and I'm still not quite over the joy of pushing that button every morning. Besides, I still have 15 flavors to try. How can I be bored when within the next few weeks I plan on trying the MilkyWay cappuccino?

Bored? Ha! I've just finished my cup of coffee and now get to work while deciding where to eat lunch. Should I walk across the street and have something in the food court? Taco Bell, Arby's, Sbarro, Panda Express? Or maybe I'll be a little braver and venture two more blocks to Chiptole. Or maybe I'll just gamble and let the next food advertisement I see decide where I go. It will, undoubtedly, be available within a 20 minute walk of my office. Just saying that is fun and exciting.

Urgh. I've finished my trash meal and feel tired and unmotivated. I might even be a little borrr....but that's before I remember that after work I'm hanging out with friends. We'll probably do something fairly low key, relax and watch TV. Nothing too exciting unless your nights over the last two years have mostly been spent alone, under a mosquito net, with a book and an 8pm bedtime. With that in mind, copying and pasting an hour more isn't bad at all. And I'll do anything without complaint or boredom, with headphones and Pandora. Bored? Really?

Boredom is relative, and I think it's very hard to be bored in the first world (including sterile office environments) when you've experienced the boredom of rereading 7 month old Newsweeks in the third world. So until my boss takes my computer away, puts me in a rocking chair, cranks the heat up to 90 degrees, and asks me to stare at the wall, my answer will continue to be "no, I'm not bored yet." Not even close.

2008 Year in Review

January 1: Celebrate the new year in Atlanta, GA.
January 5: Fly Phoenix, AZ to Managua, Nicaragua.
January 20 - January 27: Trek around Costa Rica with two friends and a Toyota Yaris.
February - April: Read, finish most Peace Corps projects, read.
April 24 - April 27: Secretly escape Nicaragua for a Bachelor Party weekend in Chicago.
May 22 - May 27: Fly into New York, spend night, take train to Boston. Spend weekend in Boston with friends and family. Watch best friend get married. Take train back to New York, spend one day sight seeing with family. Fly back to Nicaragua.
June 10 - June 12: Poop into small glass jar three times in as many days for Peace Corps to medically "clear" me. Deemed physically healthy with no lingering parasites. Worry about status of mental health.
June 12 - July 4: Almost die from boredom, anticipation of pending close of service, and stomach parasites. Cry in realization that the shame of defecating into a small glass jar and presenting your waste to a doctor was all for naught. Worry that though you've been deemed "healthy," you're still spending some nights in an unlit, roach infested latrine.
July 5: Use unlit, roach infested latrine for the last time. Shower in cold water for the last time. Scrub clothes on concrete block for the last time. Smile.
July 6: Bid farewell to my adopted home of the past two years.
July 8: Officially complete Peace Corps service.
July 9 - July 21: Visit Central America's Caribbean beach towns from Managua, Nicaragua, to Panama City, Panama.
July 22: Fly Panama City, Panama to Houston, TX. Eat Wendy's Baconator. Fly Houston, TX to Phoenix, AZ. Return home triumphant and unemployed.
August 10 - August 14: Road trip with brother from Phoenix, AZ to Van Horn, TX in Pontiac Grand Prix. Road trip from Van Horn, TX to Michigan in 17' foot UHaul, towing a Pontiac Grand Prix.
August 14 - August 22: Relax in Michigan summer bliss.
August 22: Fly Detroit, MI to San Francisco, CA.
August 22 - Sept 1: Tour California's coast from San Francisco to Los Angeles with friends....in a convertible.
September 1 - Sept 29: Relax, readjust, and job hunt in Phoenix, AZ.
September 29: Move myself and two suitcases to Chicago, IL.
September 30 - October 29: Job hunt and walk Jake's dog.
October 31: Move myself and two suitcases to new apartment.
November 10: Start life as young professional.
November 23: Buy 40'' flat screen TV.
November 26 - Nov 30: Celebrate Thanksgiving with family and friends in Flint, MI. Smile.
December 19 - Dec 21: Give myself an early Christmas gift, spend weekend in Detroit, MI with friends and family.
December 22: Fly Chicago, IL to Phoenix, AZ.
December 22 - Dec 28: Enjoy Christmas without stress of pending return date to the Third World.
December 31: Celebrate the new year in Chicago, IL.

Here's to being privileged! Happy New Year!

Chevy Volt Now

"The EPA has now preliminarily agreed to a method for testing the Chevy Volt that would lead to at least a 100 mpg estimate." And according to some, the Volt should get a rating of 120 to 200 mpg.

What would that mean to our gas consumption over the course of a year? I don't know. But what if we assume that every new vehicle sold in the United States is a Chevy Volt? How much gas and money would we save? And how much gas and money would we save if we make the same assumption but replace the Chevy Volt with a Toyota Prius?

The first table shows gas consumption and cost in 2007. Assuming each vehicle travels 11,000 miles per year, I used the Corporate Average Fuel Economy (CAFE) standard for cars to predict the total gallons of gas used per year. Then, assuming that gas costs $3/gallon, I came up with the total money spent per year on gasoline based on the 16.1 million cars sold in the U.S. last year. In other words, if every car sold last year got 27.5 mpg, traveled 11,000 miles, and gas cost $3/gallon, we would have used 6.4 billion gallons of gas and spent $19.3 billion.

U.S. Vehicle Sales	16,100,000
Average Miles driven/year	11,000
CAFE Standard	27.5
Gallons/Year/Vehicle	400
Total Gallons/Year	6,440,000,000
Cost/Year ($3/gallon)	$19,320,000,000

Now, rather than using the CAFE standards of 2007 let's use the conservative estimate of 100mpg rating of the Chevy Volt and the Toyota Prius rating of 46mpg to determine total gas consumption and cost if all of the vehicles sold last year were Volts or Priuses. Using the same assumptions (11,000 miles driven per year, $3/gallon of gas, 16.1 million vehicles sold), the U.S. would consume 1.8 billion gallons and spend $5.3 billion if all vehicles sold were Volts or $3.4 billion gallons and spend $11.5 billion if all vehicles sold were Priuses.

	Chevy Volt	Toyota Prius
U.S. Vehicle Sales	16,100,000	16,100,000
Average Miles driven/year	11,000	11,000
Estimated MPG	100	46
Gallons/Year/Vehicle	110	239
Total Gallons/Year	1,771,000,000	3,850,000,000
Cost/Year ($3/gallon)	$5,313,000,000	$11,550,000,000

With the Volt technology, the U.S. would save 4.7 billion gallons of gas and $14 billion per year. The Prius would save us only 2.6 billion gallons of gas and $7.8 billion per year. The cautious comments of Toyota's national manager of vehicle technology, Bill Reinert, suggest that Toyota is commited to the Prius and skeptical of the Volt technology and market. GM, on the other hand, is fully vested in the Volt and the technology needed to reach its goal of releasing the car in November 2010.

It's clear that this car could drastically change the automobile, blowing away even the most fuel efficient car on the road today and saving us lots of money and gas. So rather than wasting more time talking about the GM of the 20th century, let's start talking about the GM of the 21st century and what we need to do to invest in the most innovative project currently happening in the auto industry. Let's put the Volt on the road today.

Why?

Why do we still have to read articles that state "The real problem is that many people don’t want to buy the cars that Detroit makes" when last year GM sold more cars and trucks worldwide than any other car maker? They managed to do this with less workers than Toyota, Nissan, and Volkswagen. GM's Cheverolet Malibu was named the 2008 North American Car of the Year, beating out the Honda Accord (and it has better fuel economy than the Accord!), and GM's Saturn Aura and Chevy Silverado were named 2007 North American Car and Truck of the Year, beating out the Toyota Camry and Honda Fit.

Why is Thomas Friedman saying "If we miss the chance to win the race for Car 2.0 because we keep mindlessly bailing out Car 1.0, there will be no one to blame more than Detroit’s new shareholders: we the taxpayers," when Detroit, and specifically GM, will release Car 2.0 in November 2010? Why is he willing to tout Japan's "government led electric car project" and yet spit on any effort of the American government to invest in a company developing an electric car that will destroy the fuel economy of a Toyota Prius?

Why, if the domestic auto industry problems are all self created, would a relative start up in Silicon Valley also be asking for government money to continue to develop the automotive technologies of tomorrow?

Why are we not talking about the Chevrolet Volt and what our nation needs to do to get it on the road today? Why are we willing to watch GM fail when the company holds our nation's best chance at lowering our oil consumption?

Why is no one reporting that our nation's highest paid autoworkers work at Toyota's Georgetown, KY and Fremont, CA plants?

In the follow-up memo, Toyota pointed out that workers at Georgetown and at New United Motor Manufacturing Inc. in Fremont, Calif., which Toyota owns with GM, are the highest-paid autoworkers in the United States.

Why didn't anyone remind Senators Bob Corker of Tennessee, Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, and Richard Shelby of Alabama that all of their states have always received more federal funding than they've paid in federal taxes? Before they killed the auto deal, why didn't anyone remind these senators that much of the excess federal money their states receive comes from the workers in the states they've turned their back on?

Why can the American government quickly pass a bill that shells out $700 billion to financial institutions, but can't, over the course of a month, come up with a bill that releases $14 billion to the auto industry?

Why?

Free Press Editorial

Dear Members of Congress:

Remember, too, that Detroit helped rescue America as the Arsenal of Democracy in World War II and, through GM's no-interest loans, helped jump-start the battered economy after 9/11. Now, when our automakers and autoworkers need a hand up, will America really turn its back?