Our new old Governor, Jerry Brown, has set out in an earnest effort to reduce expenses, saying services may have to be reduced to close the budget gap. As he combs through the budget line by line, he might want to turn a miser’s eye to the state’s plethora of agencies.
Prompted by an emailed list from an outraged friend, my own visit to www.ca.gov/CaSearch/Agencies.aspx, found a directory of nearly 400 state departments, bureaus, commissions, offices, and agencies at our disposal, and out of our pocketbooks.
Now we are a state of more than 33 million people. We make necessary and worthwhile demands on the State to facilitate our daily lives; and in turn, its services to us require agencies. But 400?! Remember, each one employs well-trained and cheerful staffs who receive paychecks, benefits, and pensions. They’re set up in buildings with lights, plumbing, copy machines, and HVAC. It’s a pricey operation.
In fairness, there must be some overlap in the listings. An office might encompass a department and a commission, representing the same entity, but listed separately. For example, the
• California Department of Alcohol and Drug Programs,
• California Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, and the
• California Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control Appeals Board.
At least we hope they are one and the same. Otherwise, the worst case scenario looms in the imagination. Each department sprang up in a different wing of the building. Each one ignorant of the other. Each with its own protocol, paperwork, personnel, and of course, budget.
Some boards, commissions and agencies could be combined:
• California Bureau of Automotive Repair,
• California Bureau of Electronics and Appliance Repair and the
• California Bureau of Home Furnishings and Thermal Insulation. (I know, this last one is a stretch, but really, where else would it fit?)
What about the California Political Reform Division and the California Pollution Control Financing Authority? Ok, I’m being flippant. But we do know that without reform, politics pollute.
Here’s a logical, money-saving combination: The California Hearing Aid Dispensers Bureau and the California Office of Deaf Access. They’d probably be glad to make each other’s acquaintance.
For the pragmatic, let’s combine the California Department of Mental Health and the California Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV). At the very least, they should sit next door to each other. That way, after a day in line at the DMV, you could get the mental health support you’ll need.
Surely the following two have enough in common that they could share offices. Rename some forms, and voila! The California Division of Communicable Disease Control and the California Division of Environmental and Occupational Disease Control become the California Division for Control of Diseases You Catch at Work, or Somewhere Else.
Some of these agencies seem obsolete; others appear frivolous in their creation, and superfluous in their ongoing operation. To wit:
• California Board of Barbering and Cosmetology --- What’s left for them to do?
• California Acupuncture Board --- What’s the point? (Sorry.)
• California Spatial Information Library --- Is that information about outer space, or parking lot design?
• California Bureau of Naturopathic Medicine --- Stop!
• California Committee on Dental Auxiliaries --- OMG.
In some cases, there exists no readily available evidence these agencies are doing their jobs:
• California Prevention Services --- What exactly are they preventing? Nothing of note. We all can name things needing prevention that go unchecked in this state: litter and bad manners come to mind.
• California State Legislative Portal --- We need a window on dysfunction?
• California State Legislature --- Yeah, speechless.
The California Office of Binational Border Health must be pretty busy trying to figure out how to revamp our immigration procedures and policies. If not, they should go ahead and get started. I don’t recall hearing anything from them, ever.
The California Office of Public School Construction won’t have much to do in the next few years. Maybe they could lend a hand to Binational Border folks.
One agency appeared on my friend’s list, but not in the State’s directory of agencies: the California Opinion Unit. Darn! We could use an office like that. But I doubt the Governor wants to open the forum. Not enough room in the inbox.
He’d have to create a companion agency: the Office of the California Department for the Commission on Opinion Response – Unit.
And if he did, he’d need to hire.
Showing posts with label immigration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label immigration. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Another Angle on Immigration
I heard an inspirational speaker once talking about the introduction of ramps for the handicapped into public places - banks, shopping malls, airports. The expense was enormous and because of this, many able-bodied folks shook their heads as they passed the construction, thinking of all the other things the money could be spent on.
But as the ramps were completed, he observed all manner of people using them. Many able-bodied folks apparently found the ramps preferable to the stairs --- gentle, less taxing. No rules restricted the use of the ramps, so anyone who wanted to could angle up or down the way, stress free. And of course, those who couldn’t use the stairs before now gained unfettered access to a myriad of services previously held at bay. Everybody benefitted.
Thus, the speaker inspired us to help those in need, even if only for the selfish reason that we would benefit from our own largesse. Stinginess so rarely pays.
The United States Citizenship and Immigration Service says that to be a legal immigrant into our country, you must enter with a passport and/or a visitor’s visa or a work visa. That’s it. That’s the difference between legal and illegal.
It seems funny that so many come into the United States from Mexico without one of those two documents, a passport or a visa. I think what it means is that many Mexican citizens do not have passports or visas. And, they don’t have the basic information or the means to acquire them. That makes them illegal. That is their crime.
Most Mexican immigrants come here to work. And they do work. We have nearly eight million undocumented immigrants employed in our country now. With numbers like those, deportation is unrealistic, as is prosecution. And in truth, these folks are not true criminals, but rather our neighbors and friends, our colleagues and helpers. Like most everyone around us, they are hard-working, honest people seeking better lives for their families. They abide by our laws; improve their lives and ours by making every day contributions as we do.
When I was a high school principal, the Mexican Consulate apprised me of more than 400 adults in my community, many of them parents of students at my school, who had no identification at all. No driver’s license, nothing. The Consulate came to my school on a Saturday and set up remote communication with Mexico City, enabling those who had birth certificates to acquire their matricula cards, a form of identification that banks across the United States accept for establishing checking and savings accounts. Certainly, a matricula card would be a key component in the process of acquiring a passport or visa. Evidently, in Mexico, a person can move into adulthood without such a thing.
I wonder if, as a part of our response to illegal immigration, we could assist Mexican citizens working in our country in gaining their matricula cards, their passports, and visas. That is to say, instead to trying to keep our fingers plugged into the porous dikes of our borders, instead of building fences and walls, instead of investing in razor wire and weapons, maybe we could consider working with the concept instead of against it.
What might be our benefit in such a scenario?
Millions of dollars now spent on border patrol might be reduced or redirected. The time, manpower, and money expended at and between the portals along the Mexican-American border could be focused on those we truly want to keep out, the real criminals. It’s the drug dealers and thieves, looking to disappear into our country, and to ply their unlawful lifestyles here, that we truly want to identify, apprehend, keep out, or deport. They represent a tiny portion of those crossing the border.
The rest pay sales tax on their purchases, but not income tax because of their lack of documentation. Maybe if we assisted with their documents, we would benefit in tax revenues collected from another eight million employees.
I know it’s not simple. The issue is complex, multi-faceted, and has years of neglect adding to its recalcitrance, not to mention the attendant, boiling emotion. Folks will shake their heads at the expense of such a process. But whatever package of policies we ultimately combine to create immigration reform, we should consider building bridges and ramps, not only fences and walls.
But as the ramps were completed, he observed all manner of people using them. Many able-bodied folks apparently found the ramps preferable to the stairs --- gentle, less taxing. No rules restricted the use of the ramps, so anyone who wanted to could angle up or down the way, stress free. And of course, those who couldn’t use the stairs before now gained unfettered access to a myriad of services previously held at bay. Everybody benefitted.
Thus, the speaker inspired us to help those in need, even if only for the selfish reason that we would benefit from our own largesse. Stinginess so rarely pays.
The United States Citizenship and Immigration Service says that to be a legal immigrant into our country, you must enter with a passport and/or a visitor’s visa or a work visa. That’s it. That’s the difference between legal and illegal.
It seems funny that so many come into the United States from Mexico without one of those two documents, a passport or a visa. I think what it means is that many Mexican citizens do not have passports or visas. And, they don’t have the basic information or the means to acquire them. That makes them illegal. That is their crime.
Most Mexican immigrants come here to work. And they do work. We have nearly eight million undocumented immigrants employed in our country now. With numbers like those, deportation is unrealistic, as is prosecution. And in truth, these folks are not true criminals, but rather our neighbors and friends, our colleagues and helpers. Like most everyone around us, they are hard-working, honest people seeking better lives for their families. They abide by our laws; improve their lives and ours by making every day contributions as we do.
When I was a high school principal, the Mexican Consulate apprised me of more than 400 adults in my community, many of them parents of students at my school, who had no identification at all. No driver’s license, nothing. The Consulate came to my school on a Saturday and set up remote communication with Mexico City, enabling those who had birth certificates to acquire their matricula cards, a form of identification that banks across the United States accept for establishing checking and savings accounts. Certainly, a matricula card would be a key component in the process of acquiring a passport or visa. Evidently, in Mexico, a person can move into adulthood without such a thing.
I wonder if, as a part of our response to illegal immigration, we could assist Mexican citizens working in our country in gaining their matricula cards, their passports, and visas. That is to say, instead to trying to keep our fingers plugged into the porous dikes of our borders, instead of building fences and walls, instead of investing in razor wire and weapons, maybe we could consider working with the concept instead of against it.
What might be our benefit in such a scenario?
Millions of dollars now spent on border patrol might be reduced or redirected. The time, manpower, and money expended at and between the portals along the Mexican-American border could be focused on those we truly want to keep out, the real criminals. It’s the drug dealers and thieves, looking to disappear into our country, and to ply their unlawful lifestyles here, that we truly want to identify, apprehend, keep out, or deport. They represent a tiny portion of those crossing the border.
The rest pay sales tax on their purchases, but not income tax because of their lack of documentation. Maybe if we assisted with their documents, we would benefit in tax revenues collected from another eight million employees.
I know it’s not simple. The issue is complex, multi-faceted, and has years of neglect adding to its recalcitrance, not to mention the attendant, boiling emotion. Folks will shake their heads at the expense of such a process. But whatever package of policies we ultimately combine to create immigration reform, we should consider building bridges and ramps, not only fences and walls.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Stop Shouting!
The Scene: Tommy and Dickey Smothers - strumming away on guitar and bass violin in the 1960’s, swapping political barbs for our edification and entertainment. Back and forth they would go, tit for tat, see-sawing their way through both sides of a current event, until finally Tommy could no longer hold his own. His arguments inevitably faltered. Backed into a corner, he would swell up, contort his face, and unleash his best game-ending attack, “Oh yeah?!”
From there, knowing he’d won, Dickey would simply pluck his bass, letting his brother’s feeble, emotional display speak for itself, and the music would go on.
A similar scene played out at some sort of political gathering in New Jersey recently, except with a twist, and not nearly so funny: With the Governor at the podium, a heckler from the crowd raised his arm and angled an accusatory finger at the speaker. Veins distended in his neck, arm pulsing to the beat of his words, he shouted until neither the Governor nor the other audience members could ignore him.
This is our unfortunate truth: More and more people, out of arguments and moved by anger, shout out in public settings, hurling unanswerable blurts, derailing the moment. It is the method of the frustrated and powerless. Take a cheap shot and see if anyone else around you will pile on. “I don’t have a well-formed argument. I don’t have a platform, or forum. I’m hurt. I’m afraid. I feel defeated. And you stand for what I’m mad about. Let me attack you in public where I am free to act this way, but you, in your position, must obey the rules of decorum.”
But this time, the speaker didn’t smile and wave his hand, hoping to dissuade the heckler. He didn’t shake his head and wait. He didn’t surrender. Governor Chris Christie turned to his heckler, pointed back at him and in a forceful but calm voice said, “It’s people like you who scream and yell that divide our country. I’m about bringing our country together.”
With the breath knocked out of the red-faced man and order restored, the Governor returned to his business. No one could deny the truth of his response. Folks from that room will not likely break out into unbridled rudeness again anytime soon. If they’re going to flail in helplessness and fury, they will most likely chose their targets more carefully, or retreat to the safety of the internet. There they can join forces with others dug-in and disenfranchised, persuading no one, but righteous in their vehemence.
Now, will I vote for Chris Christie if he runs for president? Don’t know. Don’t know much else about him. I’m just glad he stood up to the crackpot.
I don’t know that any similar event took place in California around Proposition 19, the legalization of marijuana. Yet it seems, incredibly, that we’re going to vote on this extremely controversial issue without opposing forces standing toe-to-toe, wailing, wringing hands, or gnashing teeth. Nobody got all blood-pressure-y! (Of course, it’s not too late --- we have a few days left before the election.) Still, in the mean time, business people, educators, law enforcement, newspaper editors, and ordinary citizens expressed their views in a remarkably civilized manner. The fate of the Proposition remains to be seen. But it appears the outcome will be derived from voters’ consideration of the issue sans drama.
Maybe we could use such a model for a discussion of immigration. Maybe folks could just start talking about it; other folks could listen and respond with alternative viewpoints, and so on and so on and so on.
I’ll bet there are some really good ideas out there that could begin to unravel this knotty issue. Maybe we could take turns, offer suggestions, and ask questions without ridicule. Maybe even immigrants could join in.
Of course, Arizona will be in a time out for the first round. They must sit quietly while the rest of us begin a thoughtful conversation, thinking about laws, and human beings, considering what was, what is, and what should be.
Oh, if I could only play the bass fiddle. I would strum away while we talk, offering a measured rhythm to the tune of the times.
From there, knowing he’d won, Dickey would simply pluck his bass, letting his brother’s feeble, emotional display speak for itself, and the music would go on.
A similar scene played out at some sort of political gathering in New Jersey recently, except with a twist, and not nearly so funny: With the Governor at the podium, a heckler from the crowd raised his arm and angled an accusatory finger at the speaker. Veins distended in his neck, arm pulsing to the beat of his words, he shouted until neither the Governor nor the other audience members could ignore him.
This is our unfortunate truth: More and more people, out of arguments and moved by anger, shout out in public settings, hurling unanswerable blurts, derailing the moment. It is the method of the frustrated and powerless. Take a cheap shot and see if anyone else around you will pile on. “I don’t have a well-formed argument. I don’t have a platform, or forum. I’m hurt. I’m afraid. I feel defeated. And you stand for what I’m mad about. Let me attack you in public where I am free to act this way, but you, in your position, must obey the rules of decorum.”
But this time, the speaker didn’t smile and wave his hand, hoping to dissuade the heckler. He didn’t shake his head and wait. He didn’t surrender. Governor Chris Christie turned to his heckler, pointed back at him and in a forceful but calm voice said, “It’s people like you who scream and yell that divide our country. I’m about bringing our country together.”
With the breath knocked out of the red-faced man and order restored, the Governor returned to his business. No one could deny the truth of his response. Folks from that room will not likely break out into unbridled rudeness again anytime soon. If they’re going to flail in helplessness and fury, they will most likely chose their targets more carefully, or retreat to the safety of the internet. There they can join forces with others dug-in and disenfranchised, persuading no one, but righteous in their vehemence.
Now, will I vote for Chris Christie if he runs for president? Don’t know. Don’t know much else about him. I’m just glad he stood up to the crackpot.
I don’t know that any similar event took place in California around Proposition 19, the legalization of marijuana. Yet it seems, incredibly, that we’re going to vote on this extremely controversial issue without opposing forces standing toe-to-toe, wailing, wringing hands, or gnashing teeth. Nobody got all blood-pressure-y! (Of course, it’s not too late --- we have a few days left before the election.) Still, in the mean time, business people, educators, law enforcement, newspaper editors, and ordinary citizens expressed their views in a remarkably civilized manner. The fate of the Proposition remains to be seen. But it appears the outcome will be derived from voters’ consideration of the issue sans drama.
Maybe we could use such a model for a discussion of immigration. Maybe folks could just start talking about it; other folks could listen and respond with alternative viewpoints, and so on and so on and so on.
I’ll bet there are some really good ideas out there that could begin to unravel this knotty issue. Maybe we could take turns, offer suggestions, and ask questions without ridicule. Maybe even immigrants could join in.
Of course, Arizona will be in a time out for the first round. They must sit quietly while the rest of us begin a thoughtful conversation, thinking about laws, and human beings, considering what was, what is, and what should be.
Oh, if I could only play the bass fiddle. I would strum away while we talk, offering a measured rhythm to the tune of the times.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I'm from Oklahoma. Read: Scotland
I had the honor and privilege of attending a swearing-in ceremony for 1303 new citizens of the United States of America yesterday.
I sat in the balcony of Oakland's Paramount Theatre, an Art Deco icon. The Art Deco Style is defined by eclecticism, a perfect metaphor for a melting pot. Families and friends of the imminent citizens from 105 countries surrounded me along with gilded curtains and walls, sweeping images of man and nature.
We watched a video about Ellis Island. I saw the face of my great great grandfather on the screen. Or someone who looked just like him. Like most American citizens, I descended from immigrants.
We sang the National Anthem together with tears streaming down our faces. We put hands on our hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.
We heard a man from US Citizenship & Immigration Services speak seven languages with ease. I marveled at his facility, but the young woman seated next to me said, "I think this should all be in English. They're becoming American citizens, after all."
I thought about my great great grandfather and wondered what resistance he encountered in New York and Missouri. And my great great grandmother, and my great grandpa. When those people who got here first looked at my family, did they see human beings?
Many years ago, I took in a stray kitten. Tiny, filthy, and on the verge of becoming ferrel, she had been taunted and battered by the young boys living in the apartment below mine. After weeks of coaxing, she finally allowed me to lift her into my arms. Shuddering with fear, she clung to me as we ascended to my apartment. She lived with me for 16 years. Lulu.
In Lulu's 13th year, a wet, ragged, and desperate kitten found its way to the crawl space under my house. Of course I took her in, if only for a few days to find her a new home. To my surprise, Lulu didn't just resent the new kitty, she actively stalked her and attacked her at every opportunity. "You don't belong here!" she seemed to be saying. "Go back where you came from! This is my house."
I guess Lulu forgot her own history.
I sat in the balcony of Oakland's Paramount Theatre, an Art Deco icon. The Art Deco Style is defined by eclecticism, a perfect metaphor for a melting pot. Families and friends of the imminent citizens from 105 countries surrounded me along with gilded curtains and walls, sweeping images of man and nature.
We watched a video about Ellis Island. I saw the face of my great great grandfather on the screen. Or someone who looked just like him. Like most American citizens, I descended from immigrants.
We sang the National Anthem together with tears streaming down our faces. We put hands on our hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.
We heard a man from US Citizenship & Immigration Services speak seven languages with ease. I marveled at his facility, but the young woman seated next to me said, "I think this should all be in English. They're becoming American citizens, after all."
I thought about my great great grandfather and wondered what resistance he encountered in New York and Missouri. And my great great grandmother, and my great grandpa. When those people who got here first looked at my family, did they see human beings?
Many years ago, I took in a stray kitten. Tiny, filthy, and on the verge of becoming ferrel, she had been taunted and battered by the young boys living in the apartment below mine. After weeks of coaxing, she finally allowed me to lift her into my arms. Shuddering with fear, she clung to me as we ascended to my apartment. She lived with me for 16 years. Lulu.
In Lulu's 13th year, a wet, ragged, and desperate kitten found its way to the crawl space under my house. Of course I took her in, if only for a few days to find her a new home. To my surprise, Lulu didn't just resent the new kitty, she actively stalked her and attacked her at every opportunity. "You don't belong here!" she seemed to be saying. "Go back where you came from! This is my house."
I guess Lulu forgot her own history.
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