Misc: August 2009 Archives

A study in the latest issue of Economics & Human Biology (abstract available online) notes that women -- especially Caucasian women -- who receive government assistance for food tend to weigh more than women who do not.

The study, conducted by Jay Zagorsky of Ohio State University and Patricia Smith of the University of Michigan-Dearborn, used data from the National Longitudinal Survey of Youth, which has questioned the same group of Americans since 1979.

Results suggest that the typical female food stamp participant's BMI (Body Mass Index) is indeed more than 1 unit higher than someone with the same socioeconomic characteristics who is not in the program. For the average American woman, who is 5 ft 4 in. (1.63 m) tall, this means an increase in weight of 5.8 pounds (2.6 kg). While this association does not prove that the Food Stamp Program causes weight gain, it does suggest that program changes to encourage the consumption of high-nutrient, low-calorie foods should be considered.

Interestingly enough, men who receive such government assistance do not tend to have a greater BMI than men who did no receive such assistance. In addition, while women of color who receive assistance tend to carry more weight than those who do not, the difference between those who do and don't is smaller among that group than it is for Caucasian women. Across the board, however, people who received government assistance to purchase food saw their BMI increase at an increased rate when compared to those who did not.

Researchers can't draw a direct link between the use of food stamps, which are now provided in the form of a debit card, but they did speculate as to why the relationship exists. For instance, the average amount provided to those studied was under $100 per month, an amount that would likely not be enough to purchase high-quality foods for a month. In order to stretch that amount as far as possible, it is theorized that many selected "junk foods."

There was also concern about the fact that monies were placed on the food stamp debit cards for disbursement only once per month. Researchers believed this could lead to binge eating/dieting -- consuming large amounts of food at one point during the month and eating much less prior to the next scheduled disbursement.

The study recommends that those provided government assistance for food be provided incentives for purchasing higher quality foods such as fresh fruits and vegetables. In addition, the researchers recommend that such assistance be provided in conjunction with classes or training sessions on nutrition. 

Busy today, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to give a quick link to the Geek Feminist Blog's excellent post on "Ten Tips for Getting More Women Speakers."

While the advice is geared toward technological conferences, there is a great deal of information that can be cross-fitted into any seminar/conference/lecture series that is being planned.

If you are putting together a conference in Iowa, be sure to check with the Iowa Commission on the Status of Women for not only their expertise, but their networking ability. They can direct you to amazing women in all walks of life.

Never forget: It is important for young people considering a field of study or career to be presented with positive role models of both genders.

I have written previously about my brother, Jimmy Lee Campbell, who was drafted into the Army during the Vietnam War and died of wounds he received in battle there.

Just last weekend my children and I had opportunity to visit the Moving Wall, a traveling half-size replica of the Vietnam Memorial, when it was on display near the Hoover Museum in West Branch. Since I've never had opportunity to visit either the memorial in Washington, D.C., and have often purposefully not visited the traveling memorial, I was very apprehensive as to how I would react when confronted by yet more tangible evidence that my family suffered such a loss.

My brother died on Feb. 11, 1970. I had not quite yet reached my second birthday and, because of that, I have no direct memories of him. What I do remember very well, however, is growing up within a family stricken with the grief of his loss. The bits of memorabilia that parents pass on to their sons and daughters as they age and move out on their own never needed to leave our home. Senior pictures, letterman jackets and sweaters, various electronics and school yearbooks just sat around us. They weren't often touched or used, but kept as memorials of sorts for him and his memory.

I guess the easiest way to explain the emotions I carry about my brother's death is to say that I have "grief by proxy." I carry the stories my mother and father have told. I carry the pieces I've picked up from my brothers, sisters and other extended family members. I also carry the few things that have been told to me by the men who served with my brother in Vietnam. None of these are quite my own, but they are all I have to explain why, when my family laughs at reunions, we are all keenly aware that something is missing.

I didn't feel apprehensive about visiting the Moving Wall because of it being a tombstone of sorts for all those who had died. I grew up traveling from cemetery to cemetery at least once a month as my mother and father placed flower arrangements on relatives' markers. We not only held our family history in high regard, but, being rural people, we were provided daily understanding of the circle of life.

When I was younger, I think I felt an uneasy mix of both pride and frustration. On one hand, I understood the incredible gift my family provided to the armed services. On the other hand, my entire life was tinged by something I neither understood nor had any control over. In many ways, the entire situation was as much unfair as it was unfathomable. Why should I have to be the kid who had parents with pieces missing? Why did our family celebrations always have to be done in the shadow of such a terrific loss?

For all of these reasons and more (that I won't bore you with here), whenever there was an opportunity for me to visit the traveling memorial, I found reasons not to go. I kept telling myself that the first time I saw the memorial that I should see the "real thing," and that the smaller version couldn't and wouldn't be as powerful.

I was wrong.

We first approached the wall on our way to restrooms at the other end of the park. I knew once I was before the wall, I wouldn't enjoy being interrupted for a potty break, so I took the children there first.

As we walked quickly by for that first time, the blackness and length of the structure were my first impressions. The names, slight on each end and building in the middle, resembled a huge dash -- something a writer would use to signify text that isn't necessary to convey a message. It got me thinking how many times I had quoted someone and used '...' or '--' to leave out segments. Most often this is done due to space requirements, and, most often, it is those statements replaced by a dash that are the ones that stick with me as a journalist.

I knew basically where my brother's name would be -- on panel 14, although I wasn't sure if it was on the west or east side. We passed roses on the ground, small American flags, notes and poetry left by others who had already visited as we made our way to panel 14 east. I was fairly sure this was not the right section, so we passed more displays as we moved further down the wall to 14 west.

Ironically enough, my brother's name didn't pop out to me. Instead, the first name I spotted was that of a cousin who had died just shortly before Jimmy. I also don't have any direct memories of Eddie, just the sadness that was left behind when he died. Each time I set flowers at my brother's grave, however, I (just like my mother and father) always bring flowers for Eddie's grave too. Their headstones, military-issued I believe, each feature photos of them wearing their uniforms. I often wonder if those pictures are accurate representations of who they were and what they really looked like. They both look so serious and grim in those photographs that it sort of makes me sad to know that they are likely all future generations will have to remember them.

Although we searched up and down the panel, we couldn't locate Jimmy's name. Because I knew the children were getting restless, I enlisted the help of the veterans under a nearby tent to help me find his name on the wall.

One moment I was walking across soft grass with a slip of paper, and the next I was staring at one small area of a massive wall. Just one tiny wound among all the death blows. Without my realizing it, my eyes filled with tears as a quick slideshow of my parents' grief bounced in front of me.

Mom and dad holding one another next to Jimmy's grave.

Mom cleaning out the cedar chest and unexpectedly finding one of Jimmy's things she had saved.

Veterans, their own eyes filled with tears, mussing my hair at memorial events too numerous to count.

How my mother cried and fumed when she discovered that I had gone with friends to see the movie "Good Morning, Vietnam." (War movies of any type were strictly forbidden in our household.)

As we walked away to investigate the booths around the museum that had been set up for Hooverball festival, I recalled some of my borrowed memories so that my oldest daughter could add them to her own vision of life within our family. She stopped me in the middle of one and placed a hand on my arm, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I just didn't expect the emotions."

"Well, he was your brother after all."

She's right, you know. The fact that I have no direct memories of me with him doesn't and won't ever change the fact that I know deep within that someone is missing. There should have been birthday parties. There should have been family reunions. There should have been nieces and nephews for my children to play with and learn from. There should have been so much more than white letters on a glossy black background.

When we left West Branch and drove back roads toward home, I faintly heard a familiar tune on the radio. When I turned it up I recognized the Simon and Garfunkle song, "Cecilia."

My brother's sweetheart before he was drafted into Vietnam was a girl named Cecilia. As family history goes, I supposedly sang that song to her when I was a little girl. The memory made me smile, but it was also painful, so I switched the station.

My ears were then greeted with a Garth Brooks' song, "Callin' Baton Rouge," which we often refer to as "Samantha's song." I sang it to my daughter before (and since) she was born, especially the line that goes: "Hello, Samantha dear, I hope you're feeling fine. It won't be long until I'm with you all the time."

Samantha, my now-9-year-old daughter, was born on Feb. 11, 2000 -- exactly thirty years to the day from when my brother Jimmy died in Vietnam. Because she was our first child after three horrific losses, she was an immediate healing force within our family. The day I realized the significance of her birthdate in relation to my brother was when she was about two years old and snuggling into my chest as I visited Jimmy's grave in Oklahoma. I felt an immense peace that day, and I felt the same while I hummed along with Garth Brooks in the car.