Law forum to focus on public interest

There is a crime taking place in the poor neighborhoods of Los Angeles that is often obscured by the daily death and violence that infests the city.

Con artists, using home equity fraud, often target the elderly and impoverished residents of this area with their scams. But recent law school graduate M. Duran is fighting back to protect these people through litigation and other advocative tools.

This is only a portion of a video that will be shown during this year's First Monday program. The program will focus on public interest law and its place in the modern world.

"It deals with areas concerned with the public as opposed to corporate lawsuits," said Roberta Harding, law professor and co-organizer of the program.

An example of this is providing legal services for lower-income individuals, Harding said.

SPILF is an organization dedicated to promoting interest and awareness in public interest law. It also helps students obtain summer employment in that area.

Events dedicated to spreading the word about public interest law will be held on law school campuses across the country, as well as at other locations of interested organizations.

It is directed on the national level by the Alliance for Justice, a group that encourages reform of the legal system while ensuring the everyday citizen's access to the courts.

"They raise the visibility of public interest advocacy," Harding said.

The key feature of the program is the video put together by the Alliance, titled "Fighting for Justice in the 1990s." The video spotlights lawyers who are pioneers in the fight for justice in today's court system. These range from several congressmen to consumer advocate Ralph Nader and others, who discuss the need for new strategies and tools for creating progressive change.

Afterward, SPILF will hold a panel discussion on "The Future of Public Interest Law." Panelists include Joe Barbieri, director of Fayette County Legal Aid, and Alison Connelly, Kentucky Public Advocate, among others.

Freelancing for The Man

Check out this old newspaper article I wrote. I don't think I realized at the time what institutions I was defending. Though at least it was 'news,' not op-ed. (Estuary will continue this week.)

Vendors in Lexington Arrested
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Several T-shirt vendors were arrested over the weekend in Lexington for selling counterfeit Final Four merchandise.

Officials seized more than 75 T-shirts and nearly $1,000 in cash.

The bust was a cooperative effort between UK, the Lexington Police Department, the Fayette County Prosecutor's Office and the Collegiate Licensing Company.

The CLC is the licensing representative for UK and more than 150 other colleges, universities, bowl games and conferences across the nation.

As the licensing representative, CLC is responsible for protecting and promoting UK's trademarks.

C.M. Newton, UK director of Athletics, is concerned.

"We are serious about sending a strong message during our Final Four appearance that counterfeiting will not be tolerated," Newton said.

"The University and CLC are committed to protecting licensees, retailers and consumers."

This concern stems from the revenue UK loses because of unlicensed sales each year. The University receives a share of the profits made from licensed products bearing its trademarks.

Consumers should not be wary of the merchandise being sold at the stands on Euclid Avenue this week. These vendors offer legitimate merchandise that they acquired through a special permit.

CLC staff will remain in Kentucky throughout the week, looking for vendors across the state who may try to take advantage of the UK men's basketball team's success in the NCAA Tournament.

This weekend, CLC personnel also will be in New Jersey, the site of the Final Four.

Any vendor caught selling unlicensed merchandise will face prosecution.

Derek Eiler, director of University Services for CLC, said there are no penalties for those people who may have purchased the counterfeit merchandise.

Nevertheless, consumers are encouraged to look for the label that identifies products as being officially licensed.

The manufacturer's name and trademarks should appear on the garment as well.

If any these requirements are missing, consumers should contact the UK Public Relations Department at 257-3303.

Estuary 13

I had no choice but to let her pass with a tip of the cap. Rather well, thank you. She took her perfume trail inside with her mother, and the boy toddled after. If we knew the consequence before setting out, we would never act. I'd been denuded by a hope-hearted gal picking petals for an answer. Upon serving my purpose I'd be pitched aside, and where once I extended toward Apollo's golden helion, my bare stem was to be left among the lichen, the roots of wildgrass, and the sand. I had no ears to receive her thoughts. Unsure we were alike. I had been closed for the season. My face had color, the ground was warm. I opened now to her.

I was moving one step behind Pumala. Eyes closed, my chin at the treeline, I collected knowledge. On the cleared ground before their bright sun home the exercise continued. Anyone taking notice would be overwhelmed.

Estuary 12

As he left Pumala invited me to spend tomorrow with his family. There would be no work, only the festival. I slept a pale sleep, hyperaware of my knotted body, of the bones on the sides of my knees pressing together, and the unsupported curve of my neck. My dreams were manic, as memorable as last year's car commercials. Much of my life was the same.

Malu was at my door with tea and sticky rice when I woke. He set the tape recorder on the table and suggested we do its translating in the afternoon after we hiked to some ruins of note for which he'd gathered directions during the storytelling. I declined. I spoke to Pumala, I told him, and would be occupied for the day. I left it at that, affecting nonchalance. Malu was troubled. I assumed he did not wish to lose my employ. I gave him a notebook and sent him to his home to translate the tapes, agreeing to meet with him later that afternoon. Pumala has the favor of an elder, Malu said. Is every old man in your village as robust? I replied.

A boy arrived to bring me to Pumala. A number of villagers greeted me on the way, the first time they did not keep to their business as I passed. There was cleaning, sewing, wood-gathering, the hanging of decorations, pigment-mixing, the trying on of colorful beaded garments. Where once I felt apart, now I felt a part. I gave my smile freely. It was returned by the children and the men.

Pumala stood in front of his home doing stretches and movements graceful and abrupt. It was early and cool, the morning sun not yet above the surrounding canopy. He greeted me warmly and introduced me to my leader, his young son. I confessed I was not in much better shape than I was at the conclusion of our match. Pumala insisted I join him in his workout, that it would do me much good. I'd never been one for exertion, and was a bit worried it would entail sparring, but I consented. I was surprised. Copying Pumala's movements buoyed my spirits. Like the soreness and pain of the preceding night when I became acutely aware of my body, this same awareness radiated now from my core, sending sonar into the jungle. I seemed to gain strength.

"My wife and daughter," Pumala said. "Say hello to Mr. Roché."

My eyes gained focus and I froze. Approaching up the path with a middle aged woman was the young lady from yesterday, the one with the hibiscus in her hair. She balanced a wicker basket under her arm on one perfect delicate china hip. His wife nodded with hunched shoulders but the girl spoke. "Good morning, sir, how are you today?"

My heart stopped.

Estuary 11

Pumala said, Many years ago a man lived in a city surrounded on three sides by walls. The open side faced the sea. The city, let us call it Kamthpa, feared no attack from this direction because its bay was filled with sandbars and sharp coral. It was a prosperous city with merchants who built wonderous temples and a seat of government. The man, let us call him Ika, was a swineherd by trade. He raised a family blessed with an abundance of sons. When he and his wife were advanced in age she began to show. Most unfortunate, this displeased the ones above, and the birth took both mother and child. The family of Ika came to him then in his sorrow. He learned nothing from the passing of his wife and soon his love awakened in his cousin. He sent his children out of his home to lay with her. The morning next some of his swine were missing. They had broken from their pen and gone to the river. The misfortune of Ika was a full belly for the crocodiles that prowled its muddy reeds. Ika repaired the pen, but the morning next some of his swine got into the market vegetable patch. Many could look forward to hunger that winter. The swine had never been able to escape before, and now it was twice in a row. The ones above sent evil spirits into the swine. This was confirmed some days later when an infant disappeared from the open doorway of a neighbor. The men arrived to count the swine of Ika, but he claimed their number was unknown to him now. Prints were found. The swine was tracked into the jungle and its belly slit. The relief that comes with proof was no salve for their anger. Ika was shunned. His children were marked, his cousin took another. Again the swine broke free. This time they ran through his home and destroyed it. Each day new ships appeared on the horizon. The boats of the city navigated the bay to deliver spice and retrieve the wealth of the world. You should go to those ships, the people of the city told Ika. Go, find a new home in the world. Ika sold his clothes for paper and rope. He sat on his stoop for many days, drawing a map of the city. Its detail was fine, every building, footpath, garden carefully rendered. At times he was seen pacing the distances between nothing, it seemed. Once he knelt upon the roof of a neighbor, gazing on the south wall of the city. The evening next Ika went into his pen and slaughtered his remaining swine, the few who had not escaped. He woke his eldest son to help hang them in the smoke house. Then, with the map tucked into the band of his tunic, he gathered the rope and went over the south wall. Ika lived until he became infirm or he died of exposure within a week. Either way, he passed his days outside the city he carried with him. This is what Pumala said.

Estuary 10

I took the tea from Pumala, my first thought there was something wrong with it, but I set my face and sat up. It was warm and earthy and I drank it down, leaving the last sip of pestled powder in the bottom, my face flush, skritching between my shoulder blades on the stone wall behind me. I pushed my notebooks away from the kerosene lamp and turned it up. With that I heard music, a heavy drum and flute emitting distant sounds from some Jurassic maw. Pumala backed away. His smile was like a dropped deck of cards. Draped over his shoulders there was a garland of leaves, each one a kite-shaped plate. I expected, if Pumala turned around, to see them in twin rows growing from his back.

"Congratulations on your victory," I said. "I'd have given you a better fight but the doctor says I'm not allowed to lift anything bigger than a rail car. Your skills are nothing to sneeze at. You know what's one of your best features? You have a healthy grip. I bet you could fling an epileptic sperm whale."

"Are you feeling okay, Mr. Roché?" Pumala asked.

"Delightful. Now that my organs are compacted, I can be a donor for a dwarf."

"Your challenge was a great honor. It made me happy. After the matches we tell the tales of battle. We do not make war like the fathers of our fathers did, but the children of my children will know this day. When it is my turn I will stand before the village and tell them."

"I too was honored," I said. Politeness spoke the words but longing gave them weight. I'd be asked about this trip over pretzel sticks in the break room. I'd have ten minutes to convey, what? It was hopeless.

Pumala tilted his head. "The tales are in the air, now. They arrest even the creatures in the jungle. The earth and sky, which can never know the other's touch, are once a year linked by words. The words of the history of our people. In this time a man may ascend to heaven as easy as he walks to the river to bathe. In the same way, a fickle chattering spirit may journey to the world of man. The tale I have concerns this. It is of a herd of swine possessed by spirits. Malu bade me bring it to you."

"I thought Malu was the only one who spoke my language," I said.

"Though we live far from what is modern, the river is our highway, and our village is one stop along it," Pumala said. "Malu has his ways."

On writer's block

Apologies, there is a delay in the continuation of Estuary. This space would remain unoccupied, as it is my desire to provide exclusive, timely installments of the story at hand, but I decided, at the risk of committing two of the more egregious writerly sins, those of being pedantic and taking oneself too seriously, to discuss the writer's block I've caught like a cold on an airplane. In the story the unnamed narrator is among a tribe in Borneo where only one other person speaks English, his translator Malu. This limits things. My options are three: I can work with description, interior monologue, and two person conversation. But Malu has proven himself untrustworthy in the narrator's eyes. The conversations are now limited to games, parries (ho! hark! dodge! turn! parry! thrust! spin!), one-ups-manship, and the like. None of which is of any interest to me personally. Watching it in the golden age of Hollywood films, where it was predominant, is fine, but it's not for this story. I decided, in the last installment's cliffhanger, to reveal that another character speaks English, the man who just defeated the narrator in a martial arts match, Pumala. Now we've got something, and with a little conflict already built in. Malu can pursue his own agenda while remaining at my disposal, and the narrator has someone else to talk to.

Which brings us to the block. Pumala acquired the language somehow. It would be redundant to say he got to study abroad like Malu did. Pumala's story is.. what. Historically English was spread in southeast Asia by missionaries, the christians, but in the last few decades the muslims have gained power in these parts of Indonesia. Religion is too complex to bring into this story, and frankly it's too depressing for this writer to spend time on. The simplest explanation is Pumala picked up English from the teevee, but that brings in the onslaught of Western media and cultural hegemony. Also not for this story, also depressing. Another explanation is no explanation at all. Calvino would simply introduce the character and get on with it, sketching his traits as he went, relying on his masterful command of internal logic. I'm.. not that confident yet, I suppose. It's probably my left brain that wants to compartmentalize everything before the story can move on. Result?

Block. Pumala has a story that fits into the larger story. I'm not sure what, yet, but I'll keep working on it this weekend. I hope to have the next installment of Estuary soon. I don't want to repeat what happened with the Butterfly Lanai, where I got stuck and lost interest, or more likely lost interest and then got stuck. I love the short form of the single blog post. It frees my imagination. My technique is to sit down and ask myself, okay, what's in there today? This accounts for the sillier posts such as the William Blake/Napoleon Dynamite pastiche "Gosh." But my point is, I'm trying for a long piece this time. I know there's something to Estuary, and I hope to discover it soon.

My buddy Rob Kelly posts DVD-style commentary with each of his pieces that I enjoy and that I feel adds to the experience. I beg your indulgence to read this post the same way.

Estuary 9

Shame coughed spittle on my brow, I was sure everyone could see it, but it was the childish desire to please that kept me at attention as the next match concluded. The winner was a young man with speed and a long reach. He stayed in the center of us. Pumala reappeared, his horsehair eyebrows leveled in concentration, his criss-cross tattoos absorbing the shadows in the firelight. I had the idea to walk past them and on to the lodge, with deliberation, marking their celebration with my modern nonchalance. I held onto the idea and repeated it to myself with variations.

"This is the last one tonight," Malu told me. "After comes the storytellers. I will bring your notebook and recorder."

"Leave the notebook and take the recorder yourself, Malu," I said. "Report to me in the morning, with breakfast, eggs if you have them. I will be retiring directly."

My bed was like a stubborn geologic plate inching imperceptibly. As soon as I began to doze it crumpled and bucked and I shot awake. Turning side to side did little to abet my discomfort. It was late. Laughter and conversation reached my ears, but in its strange tongue it melded with the gibberish calling from the jungle, meaning nothing, agitating my isolation. I was betrayed and humiliated before the entire village by the only person who spoke my language. By lacking their language I was stripped of who I was. My identity was determined the village: I was a clown. But I picked myself up and bore it, at the least. I wondered if I were injured in the match and what a diagnosis from a doctor in these parts would consist of. There was treatment to be had in Kuala Lampur. If I felt more than bruised and sore in the morning, I'd arrange to return.

Someone was standing over me. "Here is some root tea," Pumala said.

Estuary 8

Day one of the village festival brought me to the stance of a capricious knee hug. Before the fires were lit and the matches began, I met Pumala. He smiled a lot but was uncommunicative. He was older than I, and a couple inches shorter, but he had thirty pounds on me and muscles like they'd been plucked from a butcher's meat locker. His long hair was beaded into one fat ponytail that bobbed on a treestump neck. I attempted one block that Malu showed me, and when it failed the blow of pain caused me to forget the rest. I went limp, caught in a hold. Pumala's hands on my shoulders, stomach acid driving on a Spartan charge into the back of my throat, and then myself the plate at a Grecian celebration. The spectators began to sing.

Someone helped me to my feet. Afraid it wasn't over I asked for a shield and an insurance policy. I was led to the side. A bit rudely, I thought, my torso became homesick for the ground and tried throw itself upon it.

Malu leaned into me. "It is important that you stand," he said.

The villagers finished their song and the next match began. I realized I was supported by a man I no longer trusted.