Thanksgiving in Ireland

Why did Jared and I decide to go to Ireland in November?

(1) Because we have become especially well adjusted to California's drought weather, and have forgotten what humid cold truly feels like, 

(2) because tickets to Ireland in the winter are really (relatively speaking) cheap, and therefore, affordable for a pair of recent grads with barely three years of combined full-time employment under our belts, and 

(3) because who doesn't want to experience the beauty of Ireland at least once in their lifetime? Even if that once-in-a-lifetime time happens to be in the winter.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

We arrived in Ireland on Thanksgiving morning. Of course, in Ireland it was just another November day. Which meant it was time to check out all the touristy spots in Dublin.

Randomly Interspersed Travel Tip: Here's something they don't tell you when you pay for a rental car online-- once you get there, you'll be charged extra, mandatory insurance fees that may double or triple the price you were quoted online. So sneaky. But having a car is still worth it. The most beautiful parts of Ireland are outside the city centers.

Once we made it through the maze from the airport to the Arlington Hotel in Dublin downtown, we brushed our teeth, set down our bags, and used free WiFi to map out our afternoon.

First stop, the one and only, Trinity College. Home to what is surely one of the most magnificent and iconic libraries in the world. Stacks upon stacks of tomes. And security guards standing by to make sure curious guests don't get their hands on those tomes. (Which kind of defeats the purpose of a library, but hey).

Does Harry Potter come to mind? Or the Jedi Archives?

I was really there! And I have more than a ticket stub to prove it.

The Trinity Library is also home to the beautiful Book of Kells, an ancient biblical manuscript. We were not allowed to take pictures of the Book, but you should know that it was amazing and definitely worth seeing. 

After we had our fill of staring at lovely book spines, we walked over to the nearby Christchurch Cathedral. We paid a little extra to join a guided tour, which was completely worth it! 

Outside Christchurch.

From the tour, we learned that half of the cathedral fell apart back in the Medieval days. It was many years before it was finally rebuilt, by a famous architect. He was sure to build it exactly like its still standing counterpart. He even employed out-of-use techniques for authenticity's sake. 

We also learned that the Tomb of Strongbow, which has been at the cathedral for hundreds of years, is missing his nose because people used to conduct business at the tomb-- to somehow reinforce the validity of the deals they made. They would pass money across Strongbow's face, which eventually led to the decay of his nose. 

One of the highlights of the tour was climbing the narrow stairway to the belfry. Here, Jared overlooks the city of Dublin. (Oh, and we learned why someone in the bell ringing profession might develop a hunchback; hint: staircases).

An elaborate system of bells. Both Jared and I took a turn ringing them, and I'd dare say, we did an excellent job.

Another fun fact is that the cathedral currently has costumes from the latest English royalty TV series, The Tudors, on display. Apparently the cathedral serves as a set location for the dungeon? And a few other places. The costumes are in the crypt below, along with a bunch of cool artifacts that nobody knows what to do with... 

Once we left Christchurch, we had a small dinner at a tiny restaurant-- I've forgotten the name. Had a sandwich and some pasta. The first Thanksgiving where we did not experience the sensation of being completely stuffed with mashed potatoes, gravy, rolls, and stuffing... But little did we realize, we'd experience our very own Thanksgiving-like coma in just a few days...

Friday, November 28, 2014

This was my favorite, favorite day of our trip. We left the hubbub of Dublin and drove south to Glendalough (lough is pronounced "loch"), which is truly one of the most peaceful, beautiful places in the world. Picture green, tree covered hills, surrounding a deep blue lake. Then picture ancient ruins, churches, houses, gravestones-- remains from the religious order that once lived here.

Glendalough was founded in the 6th century by Kevin, a hermit priest. To me, it seemed like the perfect place to contemplate the divine. It is easy to see what compelled Kevin to build his home in this valley.

Pondering the people who lived here hundreds of years ago.

Small chapel and lichen covered headstones.

Window slits, an ancient architectural trend.

A tiny home. 

The Irish Cross.

Ready for adventure!

Good thing we didn't bring Firpo.

As we wandered through the woods, we happened upon this uprooted tree.

We spent the entire day exploring Glendalough. I kind of guessed we would before our trip, so we did not plan anything else for the rest of the day.

After Glendalough, we drove west to Cahir. We stayed at the Cahir House Hotel, a decent little place, near the enormous (but unfortunately closed for renovation) Cahir Castle. By the time we made it to Cahir, we were starving. We went in search of vegetarian fare, which brought us to Lava Rock, which had a veggie pasta on the menu.

Lava Rock was so, so good. For one, they surprised us by offering to make a stuffed bell pepper dish for us, in addition to an order of the veggie pasta. Just thinking about their food makes me want to book a ticket to Ireland so I can eat there again...

The bell pepper was filled with rice and vegetables and complimented by a creamy, tomato sauce. The pasta was filled with vegetables and served with a cream sauce and topped with a sharp parmesan cheese. And of course, the presentation was perfect. 

Saturday, November 29, 2014

So, why did we drive out to Cahir? To see the Rock of Cashel, an ornate castle atop a hill. 

A perfect November day.

Walking among the graves.

Look closely and you'll see paintings underneath the whitewash. At one point in history, paintings were considered to be irreverent, so they were painted over. Today, people are hard at work trying to restore the elaborate artwork beneath. 

Our lady.

Looking out over the farmland.

Walled in Cashel.

Tiny slits for arrows.

Inside the musky chapel. Once castles were no longer considered essential to survival, they fell out of fashion and into disrepair.

Next stop, Lough Gur. Another picturesque lake surrounded by greenery and ruins. 

Complete with wildlife!

There are many small sites of interest near Lough Gur, but the one we were most keen on seeing was the Stone Circle.

Pagan ritual spot?

Randomly Interspersed Travel Tip: One of the wonderful things about going to Ireland in the winter is that normally touristy spots are empty. 

Aside from a man smoking a pipe (yes, a pipe), Jared and I were the only people at the Stone Circle. And once the man left, it was just me, Jared, and grazing cows.

A tree alone in an open field.

There is something wonderful about the way the Stone Circle is perfectly round. I wish there was some way to know more about the people who created it.

After spending a good amount of time standing the middle of the circle, we headed to Kilkenny to see Mosse Pottery. To explain this choice, let's rewind our trip a few days, to our flight from New York to Dublin. 

Jared and I sat next to a really nice Irish man named Michael. He has lived in Zambia since the 1970s doing Catholic charity work. In fact, he was catching a connecting flight from Dublin to London, then another from London to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Nairobi, Nairobi to Zambia. 

We shared with Michael that Jared's true last name should be Moss. Michael asked if we had heard of the Mosses in Kilkenny. He told us we should check out their Mill, find out if we might be related.

Some Internet digging led us to Mosse Pottery, and we decided to visit. Turns out Irish roads are not always the most well-lit and our GPS SIM card map of Ireland was about three years out of date, but after a bunch of wrong turns and set backs, we finally made it to Mosse Pottery. Owner, Nicolas, had already left for the day, but the shop was still abuzz with shoppers. 

We never did find out if we are related to the Mosses. But we did buy a lovely little cooking tray adorned with hand stamped flowers. A birthday gift for my mom.

Randomly Interspersed Travel Tip: Ireland has many different types of roads, the best being "M" (which stands for motorway). These are equivalent to American freeways and tend to have wide lanes and occasionally lights (especially when you arrive at a roundabout). Then there are "N" (national roads), "R" (regional roads) and "L" (local roads). Regional and local roads are incredibly narrow and not always in the best shape. Whenever we could, we would avoid them, but truly avoiding them is impossible. When we told Evelyn we were scared of driving at night, she said she was, too. 

Sunday, November 30, 2014

We set out northwest from Limerick to see the famous Cliffs of Moher. The Cliffs are majestic. As we walked towards them, we came across a man playing a bagpipe. We could have sworn he was playing Come Thou Fount, but when we asked, he claimed he was playing Danny Boy. 

Randomly Interspersed Travel Tip: The Cliffs have WiFi! Of all places. This was great news because the B&B we were staying at was waiting for the local Internet provider to repair its connection, and we needed a way to email our family and look up college football scores. 

Atlantic waters.

The sunniest day. Jackets not necessary.

Cliffs of Insanity!

Somewhere on Sunday.

The Cliffs are close to a geographical area called The Burren. Whilst watching a multi-part documentary on Ireland, I heard this quote describing the landscape: "it is a country where there is not water enough to drown a man, wood enough to hang one, nor earth enough to bury them."

The landscape is rocky, rough. Millions of years ago it was at the bottom of a sea. We followed a map of the Burren, trying to locate points of interest along the way.

No tourists in sight to take photos of the both of us.

One of the most fascinating landmarks in the Burren is the Poulnabrone Dolmen, pictured below. The tomb was most likely used around 3600 BC, thousands of lifetimes before ours. Excavations have revealed bodies were buried here. 

The Portal Tomb.

Similar to the Stone Circle, relatively little is known about the ritual surrounding this tomb or the people that built it. There was something surreal about being so close to an ancient human construction, like Poulnabrone. 

Aside from a few grazing cows, Jared and I were the only people there. There was nothing but a rope fence to keep people from walking right up to the tomb. 

We stayed in the most lovely place near Limerick-- Avondoyle Bed and Breakfast, run by a woman named Evelyn. When we got back from the Cliffs and the Burren, she had a fire going in her living room. Jared and I helped ourselves to her magazines, and relaxed by the fire.

Later, Evelyn made us hot chocolate. We chatted with her about life in California. Her eldest son is actually a lawyer in the Bay Area. 

Hot chocolate, warm fire, and Irish tabloids. Need I say more?

Randomly Interspersed Travel Tip: If you go to Ireland and find yourself in the Limerick area, check out Avondoyle B&B! The room we stayed in was so comfortable and cozy. Evelyn was such a sweet hostess. Breakfast was delicious-- fresh baked muffins, fruit, and yogurt-- although there is a rather extensive menu to choose from, especially if you prefer meat options. 

Monday, December 1, 2014

Finally, the cold caught up to us. When we left Evelyn's home in the morning, it had been raining on and off for the last several hours. But we were eager to get to our next destination, Dromoland Castle. 

Entering Dromoland...

Once a real life castle, Dromoland had been transformed into a 5-star hotel. And one benefit of traveling in the winter is that normally pricey hotels, like Dromoland, have deals. For about $200, we stayed in Dromoland's smallest room (which was still not all that small).

Apparently electric towel racks are a luxury thing. They heat your towels while you bathe. I'm really hoping that's their purpose... But I've been known to confuse my luxury item purposes before.

Icy fields surrounding Dromoland; clearly, it is December.

We chose Dromoland because Jared's dad highly recommended it. He stayed there for a few days on business, and particularly remembered the beautiful Walled Garden. Unfortunately, gardens are not all that colorful in the winter. 

Jared and attempted biking around the castle, but after 15 or so minutes, we were met with a downpour of rain, and abandoned our plans.

Before the rain. So 19th-century romantic!

For us, the highlight of Dromoland was our fabulous dinner at the Earl of Thomond Restaurant. Remember how I mentioned it would be a few days after Thanksgiving that we'd finally get the gargantuan meal we were used to? The Earl did not disappoint. 

Jared, looking handsome as ever. The restaurant requires fancy attire.

Jared and I have talked about our meal here at least once every other week since we got back from Ireland. It was just phenomenal, and so worth the price (and skipping lunch). 

Not wanting to look like foolish Americans, we did not take photos of our food. By the time we made it around to dessert, we felt very foolish indeed, wishing we had photos to remember every course by. 

Alas, I will attempt to recreate our six course meals from memory:

Jared: (1) mango salsa with feta, (2) paprika roll and four-cheese gnocchi with vegetables, (3) parsnip soup, (4) taggliate pasta with avocado and vegetables, (5) petits four and tea, (6) sorbet and brownie (see below). 

Victoria: (1) mango salsa with feta, (2) paprika roll and parmesan/truffle risotto, (3) bitter greens and hazelnut salad, (4) feuilletee (puff pastry) stuffed with mushrooms, peppers, and other vegetables, (5) petits four and hot chocolate, (6) chocolate souffle (see below).

Gin and tonic sorbet. Brownie. Poached pear.

Vanilla ice cream and the most divine chocolate souffle I have ever seen or eaten. (Petits four in the top left corner).

Service was excellent (like something out of Downtown Abbey). Food was so delicious. And so abundant. We were just millimeters away from exploding at the end of the meal. Thankfully we didn't have far to walk before collapsing on our bed and simultaneously regretting that we had eaten so much and wishing we could eat it all over again...

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Time to leave the Shannon area and return to Dublin (west coast to east coast). By now, the castle grounds were covered in frost. Our car was covered in ice-- which was surprisingly a first for this trip.

Not having a set itinerary for the day, we just leisurely headed back to Dublin, stopping at sights of interest along the way.

We took a detour to see the Rock of Dunamase, a castle owned by Strongbow. In spite of the ruin, you could tell that the castle had once been a very large, reinforced building.

Not sure what part of the house I'm standing in...

Ancient doorway?

Facing the sun. The only way to get warm.

Park entrance.

Aside from a handful of exploring youths, we were the only people at the Rock. It was really quite magnificent. Surrounded by farmland, adjacent to a tiny chapel still in use today.

One thing we began to realize after our first day outside Dublin is that the landscape is just dotted with ruins. There is really no comparison in California. Structures from before colonial times and missionary settlements are rare. Towers, houses, castles, churches-- they are all over the Irish countryside.

Our next detour was to a manor where we had a small lunch-- pea soup and bread-- the only vegetarian items still available that late in the day.

So Downton!

Finally, we made it back to Dublin, where we stayed at the lovely Roxford Lodge, which I would highly recommend. The accommodations are tiny, but very nice-- i.e. the bathtub had jets! And after a long day of driving, a bath is exactly what you need to wind down.

That, and a couple of sandwiches and a chick flick. Yes, since the sun had set and we weren't about to brave narrow Irish streets, we decided to stay in and watch one of the hotel's offerings, "Sliding Doors." If you haven't seen it, you should know it is kind of sad.

Relaxing. Notice the fake stained glass window?

In just a few hours we would be on our way back to California... Where in a just a few months, we'd start planning our next big trip. 

Until next time...

Cutting sugar out of your diet won't prevent cancer, or a basic guide to debunking Internet myths

This is the first rule of debunking Internet myths: If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

In the last few days, I have seen multiple people post an article supposedly based on research from Johns Hopkins that you can effectively "starve out" cancer by cutting the foods it feeds on out of your diet-- sugar, milk, etc. This post, written on someone's WordPress, has swept social media outlets, convincing people that chemotherapy, surgery, advanced medical technology is all a sham, because if only you would eat healthy, you'd never succumb to cancer. Not so.

Johns Hopkins actually released a very comprehensive statement that debunks every one of the lies put forth in the article, and I would encourage anybody who is genuinely interested in learning how cancer works and how you can try to prevent it to read their statement.

This hoax isn't the only hoax that exists on the Internet. There are hundreds, thousands, possibly even millions. The thing about the Internet is, anybody can make a website and publish whatever content they like. Unlike newspapers, like the New York Times or Wall Street Journal, that have teams of fact checkers and editors to vet articles, blogs and personal websites and YouTube videos, are not scrutinized for falsehoods. The point may seem obvious, but just to be clear: anybody can say whatever they want on the Internet, that does not mean it is true!

So next time you see your friend post an article that sounds too good to be true, here are a few basic steps you can take to quickly verify the veracity of the article yourself:

1. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.
Whenever you catch yourself thinking, "wow, this is so simple, I wish I had known that..." stop and ask yourself, "do all the facts add up?"

2. Find out where the article is coming from.
In the case of the fake cancer update, it was published on an individual's WordPress account. Take a look at the URL: does it have the words "wordpress" or "blogspot" in it? If so, keep in mind that those are sites that allow people to create personal blogs often free of charge. Blogs can be great for finding new recipes, sharing a personal opinion, or reading about a friend's trip to Japan, but blogs are usually not good sources for news, medical research, and other fact-based types of stories. (Also, just because the website calls itself something like "Wausau News" does not make it a true news source!)

3. Consider these questions: How is this article presented? Do you think the author may have an ulterior motive?
In the case of the cancer-sugar hoax, the webpage was littered with links on raw food diets and how they cure tumors, lupus, epilepsy, and all sorts of other diseases. Highly suspicious. Usually websites like this are trying to sell a product and falsely use the names of scientists, research institutions, and even celebrities to try to give credibility to their product.

A friend of mine once purchased natural diet pills because of ads featuring celebrities and experts. It was only after the company tried to charge her hundreds of dollars (fine print), that she learned the company was disreputable and used people's images without their consent, and wrote fake testimonials. Don't fall prey to a trap like this! Do your homework first.

4. This is a big one: Corroborate what you read with well known, credible sources.
Thanks to Google search, this step is actually wildly easy. Just type in your question to Google, and chances are you'll quickly find a valid source to verify. For example, I typed "does sugar cause cancer?" into Google, and the first result was an article from Mayo Clinic about the causes of cancer. The Mayo Clinic is an internationally known, very prestigious medical institution, and on page 2 of this article, Mayo clearly explains how cancer is caused and why some might mistakenly believe that sugar plays a role in this process.

Another way to verify the validity of information you read is to try to find the studies or people they reference. During my time as an assistant debate coach, two of my students came across a website that was filled with what seemed like valuable evidence for a hard to argue topic. I was suspicious, and searched for the names of the "professors" affiliated with the website. Turns out the professors did not exist. In some cases, the universities mentioned did not exist either. The entire website was a sham.

It was tempting for my students to try to get away with using false facts, but as one of my students wisely said: "I'd rather lose than use fake evidence."

In the case of the cancer hoax, Johns Hopkins was cited as the source for this research. If this was true, you'd be able to find news about this on the Johns Hopkins website or in an academic journal. It only takes a few minutes of Internet searching to find out that such an article does not exist-- and that in fact, Johns Hopkins has published its own article to inform the public that that supposed research is really a lie!


Now, some of you may be thinking: the media and big research institutions don't always tell the truth, ergo we should rely on blogs to expose facts that would otherwise be covered up. If you think that, I really don't know what I can say to you, except, please take a minute to think logically through the implications of that position.

Is it true that the media and big research institutions can be wrong or cover up truth? Yes, but when the choice is between believing in what the New York Times or a Stanford professor have to say versus a blogger or pseudo-scientist without a medical degree, I'd go with the former.

News outlets, like NPR, New York Times, even podcast This American Life, hire fact checkers to verify that what they share is true. If they slip up and post something erroneous, another news outlet will often quickly latch onto that and call them out-- essentially harming their reputation. Journalists lose their jobs over untrue reporting, bloggers do not.

When it comes to prestigious research publications, like Nature, there is a high bar set for whether or not an article is accepted for publication. Research must be methodically carried out, and is later thoroughly scrutinized by other professors and experts to assure the results are consistent. If something does not add up, the research is not published.

On the other hand, anybody can sit down and type up a blog post and photoshop a picture to make it look like a scientist or well known public figure is endorsing their product. I could type out the following sentence: "According to recent studies conducted by Dr. Jane Smith of the University of Hawaii, it has been found that you can teach dolphins how to converse in English." Just because I referred to a "doctor" and a real university, does not mean there is any validity behind the statement.

When it comes to facts, the little guys-- the bloggers-- might get it right when news media and research do not every one time in a million.

But if I had to bet my life on it-- if I had cancer and needed help-- I'd go with the real Johns Hopkins Medical Center, and not a website that blatantly lies about where its "facts" come from and tries to sell a raw food diet.

Confessions from a Peruvian who wishes she was more Peruvian

There has only been one time in my life (in the United States) where someone has come up to me and assumed I spoke Spanish-- and that was at an airport, where an elderly Latina woman was frantically looking for a departure gate, so it could've just been coincidence.

I have very pale skin, an assortment of face freckles, and varying shades of brown hair. People don't always believe me (or believe me with private reservation) when I tell them I'm 50% Peruvian. 

I don't usually take selfies, but when I do, I catch my reflection in a bathroom mirror.

"Yes, it's crazy, but I swear I'm Peruvian!"

Sometimes, after I tell someone I am Latina, they will squint a bit and look at me sideways, as if now that they know, my facial features will realign themselves and my skin will become a few shades darker. (Try it with the photo above, and let me know if any pixel magic happens).

I'll shrug awkwardly, and depending on what kind of mood I'm in, I may try to launch into my long list of "proofs that I am Peruvian." Here's an abridged version of how that usually goes:

1. I'll pull up a photo of my mom on my iPhone. "She looks Hispanic, right?"

2. If that doesn't work (my mother happens to be especially light skinned), I'll pull up photos of my grandparents. "Okay, they really really look Hispanic, right?!"

3. I'll bring up the fact that I speak Spanish fluently. Maybe not well enough to dictate a legal document, but certainly well enough to have a long conversation or give a talk at mi abuela's funeral. "Spanish-- or Castellano as we call it in Peru-- was actually my first language."

4. I might talk about all the family recipes I know how to cook-- papas a la huancaina, empanadas, kabocha... "I ate quinoa before it was cool." #quinoahipster

5. I'll share anecdotes from my trips to Peru-- such as the time I translated a local tour guide's funny jokes for English-speaking tourists or the time I visited a recently excavated ruin where my mom used to play as a child. "We stayed with family when we visited."

6. I'll show doubters my ID. "If I wasn't Peruvian, why would my middle name be Bejarano?"

7. Optional: If in my car and in the SF Bay Area, I will play copious amounts of Latino Mix and sing along. But who doesn't love Latino Mix? I even enjoy listening to their commercials.

Getting rained on at Ollantaytambo, Peru. Does the poncho make me look touristy?

Victoria-in-2009 probably cared more about proving her heritage than the Victoria of today cares. What's that trending Internet meme, "haters gonna hate"? 

With age and maturity (and I say this a little tongue-in-cheek, I'm only 25 and used a hashtag a few paragraphs earlier), I've discovered that what others think of you doesn't matter as much as what YOU think of yourself. 

Internalizing an Identity

So, what do I think of myself?

People look at me and, 9 times out of 10, assume I'm just another white girl. But this is where it gets really disconcerting, because, 9 times out of 10, I look at myself and assume the same thing. 

Maybe it's because whenever I try to find the Inca-in-the-mirror, I find can't-dance-white-girl instead. Maybe it's because I grew up thousands of miles away from Peru and my Peruvian extended family. Maybe it's partially due to the fact that people treat me like I'm white, and I've internalized that identity with more intensity than I've internalized my Peruvian identity.

I can casually whip out the fact I'm Peruvian, and people will show surprise. They'll think, "oh, that's really cool," but they won't stop thinking of me as a white girl. I'll be a white girl who is a little Peruvian, the same way I'm a white girl who majored in English or a white girl who took a year of Russian in college or a white girl that likes Bollywood.

It's as if "white" is my primary identity, and Latina my secondary.

But the crazy, crazy thing is that I am biologically 50% white and 50% Peruvian. So there should be no SECONDARY and no PRIMARY identity. Just equal halves.

How do I change my mind about myself? Do I get plastic surgery and a spray tan? Do I move to a country where I'm forced to communicate only in Spanish? Do I work with a speech therapist to develop a strong accent?

Or is the answer more simple than that? Maybe all I need to do is embrace who I am (and who I am not) and be okay with that. 

Now, excuse me while I go listen to "Taboo" by Don Omar again (which is mostly in Portuguese, but based on the Andean song "Llorando Se Fue" by Los Kjarkas, which is based on Lambada, a type of music). 

A Eulogy for Items Lost, but Not Forgotten

I

On Wednesday, December 18, my Bejarano family gathered together for the funeral of my grandpa, Heriberto Wilson Bejarano Paredes, or Papa Hery, as we affectionately called him. After the funeral, we went to one of his favorite buffets in Salt Lake City.

While we were there, two men in a white Cherokee shattered the front passenger side window of my sister's car and stole her purse. They proceeded to make large purchases at WalMart, Smith's, RedBox, and other nearby stores.

When we left the restaurant, we found broken glass strewn across the asphalt. Although my sister was in intense shock, she gathered herself together and began making calls to cancel her credit cards. I called the police and filed a report. A police officer met us at the restaurant, where he was able to access the surveillance camera (which is how we know a little bit about how the crime was committed).

My sister's fiance jumped into the restaurant dumpster, hoping that maybe the thieves took the wallet and ditched the purse. After his search came up empty, he, along with several of our excellent cousins, drove to nearby stores to see if they could find any leads (or useful surveillance footage). Over two hours passed, and they came up empty.

II

The good news is that all of my sister's credit cards were cancelled and that she is not liable for any of the purchases the burglars made. Also, we found a local business to repair her car window the next day, and they charged us a reasonable price.

The bad news is, many of the items in my sister's purse are irreplaceable. Credit cards, iPhone earphones, chapstick, and the purse itself are items that can all be fairly easily replaced-- but there were other items in my sister's purse that, although worth little monetarily, were worth a lot sentimentally.

There was a USB drive that contained many of the essays she had written during her time as an undergraduate economics student. Many of these essays were not saved on her laptop and do not survive in paper form.

Since we had recently come from my grandfather's funeral, my sister had copies of the program in her purse. She specifically sought out English and Spanish copies to keep in her collection. My sister's fiance designed the programs, and her contribution to the funeral preparations was to print the programs.

Before my sister's fiance bought a "real" gold-and-diamond ring, he made my sister a ring out of twine and string. It is a simple ring, probably worth only a few cents if we're talking materials, but to my sister that ring means a lot. I remember receiving a text message photo of the ring when her fiance gave it to her-- she was ecstatic.

There was a joint-journal she kept with her fiance. Earlier that day, while we sat at the funeral service, my sister took time to carefully record her feelings about our Papa Hery. She could try to re-write the memories that were in her journal, but she will never be able to replicate the entries with same emotion that comes when an event is still fresh in one's mind.

And even though the bag itself is replaceable (I found an identical one online), even it has memories attached to it. When my sister came to California for my graduation, we decided to buy matching tote bags at Target. I still remember that trip to the store, and when I see my own bag, I think of my sister's identical one.

III

Now, you might be thinking, why did she have all of those items in her purse? Why did she leave her purse in the car? Those questions are easy to ask after-the-fact. My sister is torturing herself with those very questions. The truth is, we've all done careless things like that before-- and the purpose of this post is not to educate you or anyone else on proper safety precautions, but to mourn the loss of items that, by meaning so much to my sister, have come to mean a lot to me and our immediate family.

The last two days have been really rough for my sister. It would be one thing if the thieves merely took her credit cards, it is another thing to know that two sinister people have items so close to your heart. A journal, two funeral programs, a USB drive, a square knot ring.

We cannot reasonably expect to get any of the contents of my sister's purse back, yet we still hope that maybe something unexpected will happen. That the police will bust the perpetrators for another crime (and find the purse), that the thieves will have a change of heart and return the items, that somehow we'll wake up tomorrow and realize this was all a dream....

As I reflect on this small tragedy, I am impressed by how quickly we mobilized to help my sister. I am amazed at the calm, eloquent way she went about calling her bank and her credit card company to cancel her accounts (even when that included sitting through a slew of automated messages).

I think it is really cool that she has cousins, and a fiance, that were willing to drive from store to store trying to track down information about her lost bag. (If a guy jumps into a dumpster for you, you know he must really like you).

IV

So, a message to my sister: we all care about you and love you very much. You won't stop making great memories. And at the end of the day, while the items you own are important, the people that surround you are the most important. :-)

This is what my sister's stolen bag looks like.

Vegetarian Etiquette

Recently, I made the decision to be vegetarian. Truthfully, it's one of the easiest decisions I've made in my twenties--compared to deciding to be a full-time Mormon missionary, get married, study English at Stanford, etc.--choosing to be vegetarian was really simple. In fact, I didn't even really consciously decide to be vegetarian, I gradually just "became" vegetarian. As my mom pointed out when I told her about my new lifestyle, "you never really liked meat any way."

Now that I'm part of a growing Vegetarian Clan, I have become aware of the many mildly offensive things non-vegetarians say. I'm ashamed to admit that I, too, once said things like that to friends of mine who were vegetarian, vegan, or had another type of dietary restriction.

During this time in the world (or at least in America) where many people are choosing to eat (or to not eat) certain foods for health, moral, or other reasons, I think it's time all of us learned a quick lesson in the etiquette of how to treat and interact with people who do not eat what you eat.

I am not writing this from the viewpoint that vegetarians are morally superior or smarter than non-vegetarians-- the majority of my family is non-vegetarian and I am totally fine with that. I am writing this from the perspective of someone who is in a minority and who is just asking for a little more respect and understanding from the non-vegetarian majority.

1. "There's a salad!"

If you're vegan or vegetarian, chances are you've probably heard this phrase A LOT. You show up to an event that serves a meal and realize that everything has meat in it; when you ask the host/ess if there is anything vegetarian, s/he surveys the table of food and offers up the phrase: "There's a salad!"

I really don't like hearing "there's a salad!" when there is a table full of food for everyone else to eat-- but hey, I know that the person saying that is usually just trying to be helpful, so I usually just shrug it off and make a mental note to grab myself some food after the event is over.

But what really, really gets to me is when someone notices that I haven't had any salad, and tries to follow up with, "you're vegetarian, you must love salad," or worse, "you're vegetarian, but you're not having any salad!?"

That just really makes me upset. You'd never say, "you're Mexican, but you're not an illegal immigrant!?" to someone, or "you're Mormon, but you don't have seven children (or wives)!?" Why? Because those stereotypes are offensive, and you would never just assume that because someone affiliates with an ethnic or religious group they necessarily fit the stereotype.

But for some reason, it's okay to assume that vegetarians love salad. (Because what else would they eat, right? ...Wrong.)

The truth is, I don't usually eat salads. Sure, I'll have a little garden salad if it's served with a nice panini or heaping portion of pasta. If it's a candied walnut, apple, and goat cheese salad, topped with a nice raspberry vinaigrette, I'll eat an entire dish of salad. But more often than not, the salads you see at your every-day event are not fancy salads full of nuts, fruits, veggies, and fine cheeses. They're often mixed greens (with tiny shreds of carrot) that made their way to your nearest grocery store in a plastic bag. 

Fun fact: basically everything in that bag, no matter how it's marketed, tastes the same: bland.

If you're a meat-eater and you're not interested in taking more than three bites of that salad, chances are your vegetarian friends aren't interested in eating a whole lot of it either.

So please, if you realize that you forgot to bring a vegetarian dish to your event and can't quickly remedy the problem, be kind enough to just apologize and promise to do a better job in the future. Don't try to shove all your salad off on your poor vegetarian guest.

And if you will soon be hosting a party, remember that a regular old salad-in-a-bag does not satisfy your vegetarian item requirement. (Unless your guest is Jared and it's baby arugula).

Addendum: Vegetarians, vegans, and others with food restrictions have commented that they don't expect people to cater to their diets. So, I should revise: don't sweat it if you don't have something prepared for your food-restricted guest, but still, please don't guilt us into eating the bagged salad.

2. Be courteous when making decisions about where to eat and what to cook.

My sister decided to go vegan this past year, and when we tried to explain this to my 91-year-old grandmother, she said, "I'm not modern like you young folk." She doesn't really get what being vegan or vegetarian entails, but she knows we have dietary restrictions and whenever we go out to eat, she gives me a few options of places to eat beforehand, so I can choose a place that has something vegan/vegetarian on the menu.

This is such a nice gesture, especially coming from someone who doesn't understand the appeal of eating vegetarian. It is the same kind of courtesy you might extend to someone who has an allergy to seafood, or a strong aversion to a certain type of cuisine. So please, extend that courtesy to us vegetarians, too! (And in return, we'll try not to drag you to a raw food cafe).

My grandma, sister, and I end up going to Olive Garden a lot... but hey, they serve a great vegetarian minestrone and their tasty breadsticks are vegan! 

3. No, it's not "all in my head."

Some people find it funny to give vegetarians food with meat products in it, because they believe "if it doesn't look like it has meat in it, it's probably fine." Or, just as bad, they give vegetarians meat because they're careless.

Please don't be the waiter that brought Jared a ravioli sampler and forgot to make a no-meat request to the chef. I know you're busy, but let's return to the allergy analogy: if someone breaks out in hives and swells up in the face from eating peanuts, you'd probably try pretty darn hard to make sure you didn't feed them a peanut-laced meal.

Now, you might be thinking: yeah, but an allergy can make someone sick, unless you're allergic to meat, you'll be fine eating some! False.

Here's another fact: once your body has stopped digesting meat, cheese, or another type of animal product for long enough, it becomes very hard for your body to break down those food products. The result? You get sick-- sometimes you feel nauseous, sometimes you vomit. Whatever happens, it isn't pretty, so in effect, it is comparable to having developed "an allergy" to a type of food.

Trust me. And even if you don't, just be courteous, and don't tell your vegetarian acquaintances, "it's all in your head."

Recently I went to an event that served a dish that looked vegetarian. When I asked one of women in charge of the event if it was okay for me to eat, rather than just assume it was, she went to the person who had prepared the dish to verify the ingredients. Turns out the dish wasn't vegetarian, which was kind of sad, because it looked delicious, but the woman who figured that out deserves a commendation for going out of her way to be helpful and understanding.

4. "Can you eat _____?"

Some people have trouble distinguishing between vegan and vegetarian and gluten-free, etc., etc. And that's completely fine and understandable. After all, there are lots of new and specific diets out there!

But what really bugs me is when people decide to play the "can you eat [insert type of food]?" game. For instance, a few days ago, I was at a dinner and a woman sitting near me noticed I wasn't eating much. I told her I was vegetarian and that lots of the dishes at the get-together had meat in them.

When a server came by with ice cream, the woman near me pointed at her dish and asked, "so you can't eat ice cream?" To which I replied (somewhat snarkily), "does that ice cream have meat in it?"

When you ask questions like that, what you're really doing is making an assumption about someone. You're not sending the message that you're open-minded and would like to learn more about a different way of life.

Vegetarian Stuffed Bell Peppers

As a Mormon, people have asked me questions like, "so do you wear weird underwear?" Or "is it true that Mormon men have many wives?" I really don't like talking to these people, because they really have zero (or close to zero) interest about my beliefs-- they just want to reaffirm their own belief that Mormonism is wacky by asking me to answer yes or no questions. As a full-time missionary who spent a lot of time knocking doors and street contacting, we'd get questions like that with some frequency. Turns out, people who ask those kinds of questions are almost never interested in genuine discussion.

When people try to play that: "what [regular things] can you not eat?" game, I feel like all they're looking for is validation that vegetarians are nuts because they don't eat steak or soup made with chicken broth, etc. I imagine it's only worse for vegans.

So, look, if you don't know the dietary restrictions that accompany labels like vegan, vegetarian, etc., you could either (a) Google them when you finish reading this blog post, or (b) next time you're with a vegetarian friend, politely make an inquiry as to what they eat. Try asking an open-ended question. Here's a sample conversation: "Jared, I know you are vegetarian. I am not sure what type of foods vegetarians can and cannot eat. Would you mind telling me?"

You might also (non-judgmentally) ask Jared about why he's vegetarian, or about his favorite foods-- you might discover that being vegetarian is not as limiting as you think! There are countless desserts, delicious entrees, and tasty appetizers that vegetarians enjoy. Chances are, non-vegetarians would probably enjoy a few of those dishes, too.

5. Disagree with me, but please don't try to attack my way of life.

My mom and I used to get into huge, heated arguments on politics when I was younger. They usually ended with me in tears and my mother wanting to disown me-- those were painful times. Lately, my mother and I have tried to find middle ground-- and when we can't, we've agreed to disagree. When we try to view political issues from each other's perspective, it is easier to understand why we feel the way we do.

You may not understand why it is important for me to be vegetarian. I believe eating less meat is healthy. I believe by choosing not to purchase meat, I can effect a small, but positive impact on the current meat market. I believe that not eating meat is a morally good thing to do if you believe that animal suffering should be minimized (just look up "factory farms"). And I also believe the vegetarian food is just tastier (because like I said earlier, meat was never my favorite thing to begin with). 

Me and my mom, smiling together in our Hawaii kitchen. 

Do you remember the quote from my mother I used earlier in this article? She has been a lifelong meat eater, but when I told her about my decision to stop eating meat, she said: "you never really liked meat any way." And not in a rude way, but in a, "huh, for you that really makes a lot of sense" kind of way. She tried to understand where I was coming from, and told me that when I visit for Christmas she will make vegetarian food for me. 

And for all of you vegetarians out there: try to be respectful and understanding of your carnivorous friends. We might eat differently, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends!

(Plus, you convince more people with kindness than you do with criticisms).

What's in a name (and three last names)?

This is the story of my name, which just so happens to be comprised of three last names. 

Two weeks ago I went to the Social Security Office, took a number, and waited in a crowded room (sometimes standing, but mostly sitting) for just under 2 hours. I was surrounded by people from different walks of life-- many of them old, waiting to meet with someone to discuss Social Security benefits, some of them young, waiting to submit applications for new Social Security cards, and some of them recently married, like myself, waiting to meet with a Social Security representative for a legal name change.

Since I was little, I assumed that I would change my name once I got married. This is horrible to admit (especially here, on the Internet!) but I never really loved the last name Hurst. I appreciated the fact that it identified me as a member of my dad's wonderful, hard-working family. I thought it was kind of cool that the name was derived from a word meaning "grove of trees," but I was never really a fan of the harsh sound the "u" makes. "Hurst" like "wurst" or "cursed." 

A Hurst among a hurst! How fitting.

When I was little I was also kind of embarrassed of my middle name-- Bejarano. I used to tell people my middle name was "confidential" (which in middle school, once led one of my classmates to believe my middle name was literally "Confidential"). It was hard to pronounce and people always wanted to know what it meant in Spanish. Hey, I thought, I never ask you what "Jones" or "Neil" or "Muhlstein" mean! Why do you assume that every non-European sounding name must have some specific, readily known meaning?

My sister Rebecca has what I used to think was a "real" middle name because it could also be a first name-- Marie. Rebecca Marie sounded so cool. In fact, on Facebook she goes by her entire name: Rebecca Marie Hurst, which just looks and sounds so pretty. Victoria Bejarano on the other hand-- that just sounded like a regular first and last name. (At least, this is what the young me thought).

Paul (dad), Paul Joshua, Victoria (+kitty), Rebecca

I started to feel some pride for my middle name when my little brother, whose first name is Paul, but who goes by Paul Joshua (since my dad's first name is also Paul), began to tell people that his full name was Paul Joshua Bejarano Hurst. He assumed that his first name was "Paul Joshua" and that he got to share both my dad's last name and mom's maiden name.

Once I told him that I was the only Bejarano. He started crying and ran off to my mom, who assured him (although it was a lie) that his middle name was also Bejarano. And you know how kids think-- as soon as someone else wants what you don't want, you suddenly begin really liking what you have.

I began to feel more Bejarano pride when I visited Peru and got to learn more about my mom's culture. Suddenly, Bejarano became my connection to an exciting past. It was the legal part of me that proved to the world that I really was Hispanic. When people asked me what my middle name was, or tripped over their pronunciation of it, that gave me an opportunity to talk about my Peruvian heritage.

I went from keeping my middle name confidential to proudly displaying it across my resume, essays I wrote for class, my poems, everything fit to print.

The Original Bejaranos: My mom is standing, upper right.

In March of 2010, I embarked on a year-and-a-half long journey as a Mormon missionary in Salt Lake City (well, the suburbs of Salt Lake City, Park City, and a little town that I love named Kamas). I wore a nametag that said "Hermana Hurst" (Sister Hurst in Spanish). I no longer went by "Victoria," but Hermana Hurst or Sister Hurst.

When people addressed me (or thought of me) they associated me with the name Hurst. It's kind of strange to think that more than half of the people I met on my mission will never know my first name. It must have been around that time that I really began to bond with my last name-- Hurst.

Sister Padilla and Sister Hurst, now Danielle Macias and Victoria Muirhead

When I talk to old mission companions on the phone or correspond with them via e-mail or Facebook, we often refer to each other by our "mission names"-- Dany Macias is still Sister Padilla for me. And I'm still Sister Hurst (or occasionally Hursty) for her. In twenty years from now, I'm convinced that I'll still think of Thacia Schmidt as Sister Schdmit, Lizeth Picuasi as Sister Picuasi, and Geraldine Chatter as Sister Chatter. The same definitely goes for the elders (guy missionaries) I knew on the mission-- especially since I don't even know all of their first names.

When you wear a last name around like that, you get attached to it. The same way I have always been wholly attached to the name Victoria.

Victoria-among-the-Mountains

I have always been grateful to my parents for naming me Victoria. It's as if success is written into my being-- Victoria, victorious. Victoria, a delicate, yet powerful name. There is no way the war cannot be won. 

The day after I turned 8-years-old; with Rebecca at the Laie Temple

When it came time to change my name, I wondered whether I should keep Bejarano or Hurst. I wondered whether I should take on Muirhead. Ultimately I decided, why not take them all?

Victoria Bejarano Hurst Muirhead

Bejarano to represent my mother's family. Hurst to represent my father's. Muirhead to represent my husband Jared's family-- as well as the family of our own we'll have one day.

When I called my mom on the phone to tell her about my decision-- to keep all three last names-- she told me she had secretly been hoping that was what I would decide.

When I told the representative at the Social Security Office about my decision-- she told me the name was too long and that she would need to get special approval to go ahead with the name change. To her it was just a really clunky, long, maybe boring last name. (She also disapproved of me getting married at 24-years-old and in a state other than California, as she'd make clear during the course of our meeting). But what does she know?

The thing about names is, people endow them with meaning. I have made Victoria my own story, and I'm happy to represent the people, living and gone, who have made Bejarano, Hurst, and Muirhead theirs.

Am I as good of a person as I believe I am?

Last Wednesday, I had the opportunity to meet and interview Christina Maslach, a professor of psychology at UC Berkeley. She is known for her extensive research on occupational burnout and has won awards, such as the Professor of the Year award from the Carnegie Foundation in 1997.

But, for better or worse, Maslach is perhaps better known as the person who stopped the Stanford Prison Experiment in August of 1971.

Christina Maslach, photo from obweb.org

The Stanford Prison Experiment

At the time, Maslach was dating Phil Zimbardo, whom she later married. Zimbardo had designed and begun to implement an experiment in which college students, all male, all screened for prior criminal conduct, signs of depression, etc., were divided, at random, into two categories: prisoners and prison guards.

At the start of the experiment, prisoners were "arrested," dragged out of their dorm rooms in the middle of the night and taken to a location unbeknownst to them (that location was Jordan Hall, one of the buildings on Stanford's Main Quad), where they would be kept for two weeks. Prison guards, on the other hand, were not required to remain on-site for two weeks, but instead, worked daily shifts at the "prison."

According to Maslach, Zimbardo and his colleagues believed the experiment would be innocuous--boring, even. They predicted that the college students would just sit around, prisoners on one side, guards on the other, while the two weeks allotted for the experiment went by. Maslach underscored the point that the experiment was reviewed and approved by all relevant bodies (human subjects, legal, etc.)

Nobody predicted that the prison experiment would actually begin to resemble a quite disturbing prison experience.

Maslach was not directly involved with the planning and implementation of the experiment. She explained that while Zimbardo was preparing to conduct the experiment, she was finishing her doctorate work at Stanford. When the experiment started, she was getting ready to start her professorship at Berkeley, across the Bay. But partway through the experiment, Zimbardo asked her if she would help him collect data by interviewing the participants. She agreed to help.

Maslach had been on-site earlier on in the experiment, when she observed/participated as part of a mock parole hearing, however, she said she "didn't see much." This time, when she came to interview participants, she got a better look at what was going on in the basement of Jordan Hall.

Maslach described standing around, chatting with people in the basement, when she caught sight of the prison guards escorting the prisoners to the bathrooms. "I saw these guys come out with these khaki uniforms and they had a line of guys in white smocks with paper bags over their heads-- and the paper bags were so they were not actually seeing we're in the basement... And I saw that, and I just got sick to my stomach... I didn't understand what was going on. I didn't want to look."

When Zimbardo met up with Maslach, he escorted her to a space where she could see the prison yard, and she recognized one of the people she had been chatting with earlier that day. "Oh, that's the one they call John Wayne," an observer told her, "he's the toughest guard, so the prisoners call him John Wayne." "John Wayne" had adopted a Southern accent and gave harsh commands to the prisoners.

Maslach was upset-- she felt like what she had witnessed was wrong, but at the same time, nobody else seemed to find it all that disturbing. Other observers pointed out that she had recently gotten a degree in social psychology-- wasn't this just human behavior? "Can't you take it? Can't you look at it?" They asked her.

Despite others' opinions, Maslach shared her concerns with Zimbardo. The two had recently started dating, and Maslach was frustrated that he couldn't see things from her perspective. "The more we talked, the more upset I was getting."

"Is this really the man I think he is?" Maslach wondered.

Zimbardo and Maslach, photo from Lund University website

At the end of a long discussion with Zimbardo, he decided to end the experiment. All of the prison guards and prisoners were called in and the study was formally concluded. The last day was spent interviewing participants and debriefing as a group.

Remember John Wayne? Maslach explained that during the debriefing session, one of the prisoners asked John Wayne if he was being himself or if he was just playing a role. John Wayne claimed it was just an act-- but the prisoner pointed out, if it was just an act, why did John Wayne need to trip him? Why was his behavior so excessively mean?

Them, Not Me

During my interview with Maslach, I began to think, if I could have observed the Stanford Prison Experiment back in August of 1971, would I have been bothered by what I saw? I want to think I would be, I want to think I would not be comfortable watching a guard like John Wayne verbally abuse a helpless prisoner. But the truth is, I don't know. I don't know how I'd react.

As I sat there, the thought popped into my mind: I know I wouldn't be John Wayne. I know I could never be so cruel.

In retrospect, the Stanford Prison Experiment is considered by some to be unethical, and it is very unlikely that a similar experiment will ever be carried out again.

When people write about the Stanford Prison Experiment today, they often focus on the fact that seemingly "good" guys turned into mean prison guards. They made prisoners do counts, kept them from getting to sleep on time-- they went out of their ways to fulfill their roles. But Maslach pointed out, not all the guard were like John Wayne. He was an anomaly. Some of the guards were actually really nice to prisoners, or at least, didn't go out of their ways to insult or trip them.

Sure, it's scary that regular people can turn into monsters-- but in talking to Maslach, I realized that perhaps what's more scary is that the dozens of people around them can watch that transformation without doing anything about it, without even really realizing that it's happening. Zimbardo, his team of researchers, the other prison guards, they watched an ordinary college student turn into "John Wayne," yet didn't do anything to stop, or to even mitigate, his behavior.

When Maslach pointed that out-- when she pointed out that none of the other guards suggested John Wayne ease up on the prisoners or redirect his energy-- I suddenly realized that I was just as bad as the rest of them. Even if I could never see myself yelling at or directly demeaning prisoners the way John Wayne did, I could see myself, another prison guard on the prison yard, standing timidly by as one of my colleagues mistreated the prisoners entrusted to our care.

I suddenly thought of an event that had happened only a few days prior to my meeting with Maslach. My husband Jared and I were relaxing at home, in our small studio apartment, when we began to hear shouting coming from upstairs. It was the second time something like that had happened: a male voice yelling, a woman crying. The time before, we had heard what sounded like a woman being shoved to the ground. That time I had called the police. This time, I wasn't sure what to do. Would calling the police do any good? Should I try to find a security guard? Should Jared and I go upstairs and knock on our neighbors' door ourselves? I knew that whatever was happening, it wasn't right, but I felt powerless and ultimately did nothing.

Maslach explained that studies show that there are many factors that prevent people from intervening when they know something bad is happening. For instance, oddly enough, the more people that see something happen, the less likely someone is to intervene. Take a busy street or a crowded subway car, for example. How many times have you seen something that was off, yet reasoned that if there really was a problem, someone else would help?

That night, when I heard commotion upstairs, I used that line of reasoning. I thought, we live in a large apartment complex. Maybe some of our neighbors will hear the fight and do something about it.

Maslach also pointed out that people are less likely to help when they're in a hurry. That reminded me of the Biblical parable of the Good Samaritan-- in an animated version for children that I saw years ago, the priest doesn't stop to help because he has somewhere important to get to. What could be more important than a suffering man about to die? I used to think as a child.

Now, I thought back to the 16th Street and Mission BART Station I used to ride to every day for my summer internship; how often did I pause to take a good look around and see if any of the homeless people sprawled out near the station's entrance were in need? I all but ignored them as I ran up the stairs and hurried to work, even when they waved their hands in my face and called out to me, I pretended not to hear them or politely said "I'm sorry, no cash" before I quickened my pace and sped away from the station.

When I shared some of my thoughts with Maslach (in particular, the anecdote about my neighbors), she explained that another barrier to intervention was when a dispute seemed like a family matter. That made me think of the rare, but painfully memorable, times that I have seen parents be especially mean to their children (I'm not just talking strict, I'm talking, scary) and have just felt my heart break in two, unable to say or do anything. I've felt afraid that my intervention would only make things worse or might result in a negative outcome for me as well. I worried that maybe I just didn't understand another person's family dynamic, culture, upbringing, etc.

I thought back to a recent campaign a friend of mine had posted about on Facebook: Save Our Sisters, a campaign to end violence against women in India. I was touched by the beautiful, devastating "Abused Goddesses" posters created for their latest campaign. I grew up in a household where all forms of physical violence were considered unacceptable, and the posters reaffirmed what I already believed. I wondered what effect, if any, these posters would have on people who lived in communities were certain forms of domestic violence were considered acceptable.

This is why nothing is done, I realized, because even though hundreds, thousands, probably millions of people, don't think domestic violence is acceptable, it's hard to summon the courage to go out of your way to directly confront someone who is abusive. On top of that, it's hard to convince the victim of violence that they deserve better than that, that they should not tolerate such abuse.

As part of Maslach's work on occupational burnout, she interviewed police officers. According to the officers she interviewed, the most difficult calls to respond to were domestic violence calls. Officers never knew what situations they'd encounter behind closed doors-- would the victim be grateful that they had come? Or would the victim defend their abuser, would the abuser and the abused turn on the cops?

I felt a little pang of guilt when I thought about calling 911 to report my neighbors.

I like to think that I am the kind of person who stands up to injustice, who speaks up when she sees inappropriate conduct, but maybe I am more of a "sheep" than I realize I am. While I might not be one of the John Waynes of the world, I don't know if I'm one of the Christina Maslachs of the world either-- if I'm willing to speak up in a situation where everybody else seems to think things are okay.

In my efforts to learn more about the Stanford Prison Experiment, I ended up learning a little more about myself. And I'm not sure what to do with that insight yet.

End Note: The interview of Christina Maslach, along with an interview of Phil Zimbardo, were commissioned by the Stanford Storytelling Project. These interviews, along with other interviews of notable professors and alumni, will be used to create a geo-tagged history of places on the Stanford campus. A special thank you goes out to Natacha Ruck for working tirelessly to arrange these interviews and many others.