Blanche was a rescue dog before there were rescue dogs. No, we didn’t get her from a special organization. We weren’t screened and deemed fit to handle her care. We didn’t buy her and the privilege of picking up her poop or washing the fleas out of her illustrious fur. We just found her, wandering our neighborhood, looking scared and needing a meal, a bath, and a bed. Funny, we don’t often invite people who posses these same pathetic qualities into our homes, but there is something disarming about an animal in this state that’s altogether alarming in a human.

My parents, being the humanitarians that they are, agreed the right thing to do was feed and wash the dog, let it rest, and then take it to an animal shelter where someone could adopt her. After all, they were already running a household of five, with a son who had a penchant for reptiles. Blanche didn’t seem to fit in the family picture. So one hot afternoon in Katy, Texas, we corralled a truck-owning neighbor and hosed the pup that would become known as Blanche down repeatedly with the full intention of sending her smelling of lilac right into the arms of her new family. Somewhere between lather, rinse, and repeat, my sister and I fell in love with the mutt.

We sent Amber in to give her most pathetic puppy eyes to our Dad and ask to keep Blanche. Like any red-blooded, American male faced with a little girl begging for something, my Dad caved. Blanche was ours, fleas and all. For fourteen years. She was a little dog, and they live a long time, mental health not withstanding. Despite all the love and care that we gave Blanche, which included birthday parties complete with cupcakes and pointy hats, she never really recovered from whatever horror her previous owners had put her through. She cowered when you went to pet her, bit new and old friends alike, and generally tried to avoid people. I recall my Mom buying her a faux leather jacket once, with a matching hat that had ear holes and an elastic chinstrap. This was really more of an ironic gift, poking fun of her biker-tough mentality, than an actual attempt to please Blanche or make her look presentable.

A lot has changed since the dog-owning days of my youth. Besides dog clothes making a fierce comeback, there are now dog car seats, dog diets, and my personal favorite, dog flu vaccines. One advertisement in a magazine devoted to none other than man’s best friend, pictured a sad looking puppy lying on the couch. The script below read: The only thing worse than having the flu is not being able to tell anyone about it. I happen to disagree. I think being manipulated to pay money for an animal to be preemptively injected with a strain of a human virus that is non-life-threatening and quite possibly doesn’t even affect canines, is a worse fate than suffering the seasonal flu in silence.

While walking around the neighborhood, I noticed the latest trend in pet ownership: Fence windows. It’s no longer enough to have a well-groomed backyard full of tennis balls. Today’s pet requires visibility. Some people only go the trouble of making dog-height level eye slits. Others screen in entire rectangles, allowing the dog to view the street activity with a wide lens. Our current family dog, Elvis, enjoys the aforementioned luxury. He also sleeps in his own bed at night with sheets and pillow. Although they both came to our house as strays, it’s not really fair to compare the temperaments of Elvis and Blanche.

Elvis was clearly the object of great affection and concern at his previous residence. His delightful disposition has prompted us to concoct many a tale of his escape or release into our neighborhood. Our favorite version has Elvis as a fraternity house dog who was dropped off unharmed by a the girlfriend/fiancé/wife of a fratastic dude who never took the time to untrain Elvis from sleeping on the sofa, getting in bed with you, or eating your ice-cream. Knowing he wouldn’t willingly part with the dog, she took matters into her own hands.

The very fact that we fantasize about our dog’s previous life shows the degree to which he has become part of the family. And we wouldn’t let our own kind sleep outside or live a life of wood-paneled imprisonment. Thus the burgeoning sector of luxury items for dogs. I don’t know if it’s because people are having fewer children now, or because they are waiting longer to start a family, or because we have more expendable income than before, but dogs are now a legitimate part of the economic sector. Although they don’t work themselves, they certainly know how to bring in the big bucks.

It’s been a year of borshch and bucket baths, Ukrainian and Russian, snow, flowers, sun, and falling leaves. It’s been a year of independence, serious and often painful growth, increased confidence, and grit. It’s also been 365 days since I hugged my parents, ate an enchilada, drove a car, went shopping with my sister, or stepped foot on American soil. I know I’ve experienced a lot in the past year, but I’ve also missed so much, like the births of a new little cousin and Riley’s niece, my dad’s knee surgery, and my sister’s baptism. Although I’m thankful for the ways I can stay connected, there’s still a huge feeling of distance from my family, my friends, and my country. It’s almost like there are oceans between us. Oh wait….

Of course, I know it is inevitable that when I return to America I will find myself missing parts of Ukraine. My school, my neighbors, my friends, and my community are so much a part of my life now that it’s hard to imagine not seeing them everyday. Volunteers have a tendency to go one of two ways—they either love everything about Ukraine and are really critical of the US, or it’s the complete opposite. But there is no perfect country. America gets some things wrong, as does Ukraine. So in a nod to honesty and fairness, I made a Top 10 List of the “Best of Both Worlds” to commemorate this auspicious occasion.

1. Organic Food—in Ukraine this is just called “food.” Everybody has their own garden roughly the size of football field and after work as a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, a hairdresser, or a grocer; they go home and harvest their crop. My friend Svitlana is always amused with my lack of farming knowledge. “Do you know what that plant is?” she asks, hoping I will come through for once. I go for a Ukrainian staple, “Beets?” I was wrong. “It’s potatoes!” she says laughing. That would’ve been my next guess.

I never learned what food looks like coming up out of the ground. Besides corn, I’m totally inept at identifying stalks. While I was initially skeptical of the wonder of natural food products, I’m officially a believer. You know that when you eat a slice of bread in America, it sticks together where you bit out of it, leaving a sort of seal? Bread’s not supposed to that. And it also shouldn’t last for weeks. We put a good deal of chemicals in the dough to make it do all those things. It’s kind of a hassle to buy bread every other day, but it’s a small sacrifice to make considering the difference in taste and texture. Don’t even get me started on organic eggs. The yolk is orange. It stains stuff. And it is amazing.

The list goes on, homemade juice from nothing more than apples, plums and a dash of sugar (which, by the way, could never be confused with salt here, as the granules are totally different in size and shape), milk that turns into sour cream and later butter, ketchup and mayonnaise that put our versions to shame—even their condiments taste better. I do miss the convenience of the American kitchen (and the American life, for the matter), but the quality and freshness of Ukrainian food is something we could—and should—take a cue from. No, we can’t all become farmers, but we can make more of an effort to know what’s in our food and where it came from.

2. Patience—This has definitely been one of the most painful lessons in Ukraine. Waiting. On practically everything. Nothing happens overnight here. Or at least nothing that you want to happen does. I wake up to the water or the gas turned off, but not to a repairman at the door. Although at first every unknown detail set my heart aflutter, I think with each uncertainty I’m becoming less anxious. After having no water in June, I keep about 80 liters of water stored in bottle and jars in my apartment now, a fifty percent increase from my previous reservoir. So when the water was switched off all last week, I was still able to wash dishes, clothes, and my own body. Getting anxious doesn’t make anything happen more quickly, however being prepared makes it more bearable.

Ukrainians have plenty of practice at being patient. But this virtue is not uniquely theirs. In “Three Cups of Tea,” co-author Greg Mortenson calls patience “the most important lesson I’ve ever learned.” Mortenson builds schools in Pakistan and Afghanistan to educate children, especially girls, in rural areas. “We Americans think you have to accomplish everything so quickly. We’re the country of thirty-minute power lunches and two-minute football drills. Our leaders thought their ‘shock and awe’ campaign could end the war in Iraq before it even started,” (p150). There’s no telling what calamities, personal or professional, we could avoid with a little more patience.

3. A Healthy Dependence on Family—What strikes me most about the difference between how Americans and Ukrainians relate to their families is the complete lack of stigma in Ukraine of being too attached to your mom. Case in point, a ring-tone that sings, “My mom is calling.” I am not even kidding. It says that in a tiny child’s voice. Loudly, over and over again. “Who’s calling? It’s your mom, your wonderful mom is calling, answer, answer, because your mom is calling.” Can you imagine this tone selling once in America? Yet it is a crowd favorite here. I’ve heard it on everyone ranging from 10 years old to 35. I couldn’t believe when I heard it go off in an 8th grade class and no one laughed.

They aren’t ashamed that their moms call them. And they call often. They announce it to the world, with pride. “Yeah, that’s right, Mom’s calling. Jealous?” they seem to say as the smugly take the call. It’s a running joke in America when someone gets a call that it’s probably just their mom. This is one of the many cases where American humor doesn’t translate to Ukraine. While I think the idea of everyone talking to their mom five or six times a day is a bit much, I do believe that Ukrainians understand more about what it means to be a family than Americans do sometimes. There shouldn’t be shame in taking care of each other, of knowing when you need any kind of help, and when you are in a position to give it to do so willingly and sacrificially. I think American families could stand to trust each other more, to depend on each other for more.

A key difference in Ukrainian culture is that children are raised to be dependent on their parents. A good child is one who returns home after college and takes care of the house, the garden, and the aging parents. I’m not suggesting that American society stop raising its children to be independent, but I do think there is a middle ground our lives would be richer for finding.

4. The European Workweek—OK, if I’m honest with myself and you, faithful reader, I must admit that I’d take the European Workweek over organic food for the rest of my life. The amount of free time you have while still working “fulltime” is nothing short of magical. Granted, life processes take a lot longer here. I can easily spend a whole day washing one load of laundry and cooking three square meals. But I can do that in my pajamas listening to Coldplay. A full schedule for a secondary school teacher in Ukraine is 18 hours, with one day a week completely free. You are also only at school for your lessons, if you don’t have a class until 3rd period, you stroll in the door at 10:30 a.m.

While I only have firsthand knowledge of an educator’s schedule, my friends here in other professions have a good bit of free time as well. Instead of a tipped scale, there’s an actual work-life balance. I still can’t get my mind around the fact that if you work 40 hours a week in America, that’s considered a really good schedule. And only two weeks for vacation? The whole year? Yikes. You get 31 days here, standard, and some professions get more. This doesn’t include the 25 national holidays.

5. Toasts—I don’t think I’ve ever shared just how different the drinking culture is in Ukraine. It’s quite the production. Like most aspects of life here, it’s a group activity. And merely being together doesn’t cut it. You have to drink every sip together, and with a toast no less. There are rules though, and it isn’t as arduous as it might seem.

The first toast is always to “the meeting” whether it’s friends meeting after work, or to celebrate a birthday or one of many holidays, the first toast goes to the occasion. The second toast is to “us” or to friends in general. It’s a play on words in Ukrainian and doesn’t translate in English. The third toast is always to women and love. There are several anecdotes shared the men usually stand while they are told and as they toast the women. I won’t translate the anecdotes here as I consider this a family show. The fourth toast is supposed to be to men, but by your fourth shot of vodka it become less important what the toasts are for exactly.From then on it’s pretty much a free-for-all of glass raising. I’ve heard toasts to America, to Borshch, and to vodka itself. The important thing is not to forget to make a toast, never mind the reason. And of course never to drink alone.

The fun part about this group mentality is that everyone gets the same amount of tipsy at the same time. There’s not the one guy who pounded the bottle and is making everyone else uncomfortable, nor is there the guy who doesn’t drink and is making everyone else a different kind of uncomfortable. Everyone’s in it together. While I don’t want to take the tradition back entirely, (I am looking forward to vacation from vodka) I do like the idea of making toasts to mark holidays and as a show of appreciation for friends.

6. Trust—No matter what isolated complaints you may have about government or law enforcement in the US, overall we trust them to do their jobs. Corruption, bribes, extortion, these are things we are shocked to discover, things that are publically shamed. In Ukraine, they are sadly still a way of doing business. To find an honest politician or police officer is the exception, not the rule.

One of my friends is in the process of “buying” her house. Even though they built it themselves and own it, they don’t technically have an address or official papers from the local government. In order to receive mail and have official standing in the community, they have to go through a process of forms and signatures. And bribes. Sitting on her kitchen table there was a pile of goodies including chocolates, cognac, vodka, gourmet coffee, and lace napkins. “Whoa,” I said smiling, “What’s all this for?” It was really an innocent question. I assumed she had a party or a friend’s birthday coming up. She pursed her lips. “What is it called when you give someone something for doing something for you?” she asked. “ A payment?” I offered. “No, no,” she said. “When it isn’t legal. Something below the table.” It hit me, “Oh, you mean a bribe,” I said a little embarrassed. “Yes! That’s it. How do you spell it,” she asked as she grabbed paper from the cabinet, and proceeded to label the stash in perfect cursive penmanship “Bribes.”

There is a recent advertising campaign with billboards proclaiming, “Don’t take bribes.” This moral directive goes without saying in America. It’s not that people don’t still use bribes. They most certainly do. But at least they are forced behind closed doors and live in fear of being caught. It’s not something you’d say, leave out labeled on the kitchen table.

7. Unnecessarily large beds—Yeah, I said it. They are unnecessary. That doesn’t mean they are any less enjoyable. Beds are like practically everything else in the former Soviet Union: space efficient and utilitarian. Low to the ground, slightly smaller than a regulation double bed, with no springboards or pillow-top mattresses. There aren’t even fitted sheets. The package with my T-shirt sheets remains my favorite and most-used.

While we’re on the topic of largess, how about the plate size in America? It is HUGE. My friend Natalya has family in New York and they mailed her some fancy paper plates that she brought to a summer picnic. We thought they were platters. We seriously started piling all the fruit on one and the bread on another until she told us they were our plates. It was bigger than my face, and none of my food touched. If you think our shock at the size is funny, you should have seen us when she tried to throw them away after the meal…

8. Chairs with backs—Oh, how I miss the back. Stools and benches reign supreme here, especially in the kitchen. If you are lucky enough to own chairs with backs, you only break them out for special occasions when you are eating in the living room. Daily furniture is almost always backless, and the few chairs that might have backs and are in regular use are often turned at an angle to fit in a small space, rendering the back useless. Maybe this and the bed thing contributed to my slipped disc…

9. Reliability—I think this is the ying to the patience yang. I am glad for the patience I have acquired here, but I miss the reliability of American life. Not just in running water or electricity, but in every sphere of life: business meetings, social gatherings and politics. If we set a date for an election, it will take place on that day. If you have a meeting that’s going to start at 10, it does. There’s a calming power in the predictable, one that allows you to plan for the future, to set goals and meet them, and to improve your quality of life. Flexibility is still important, even when you have the well-oiled wheels of America turning right on schedule, but having predictability will be a welcomed change of pace when I return home.

10. Individualism—I miss this most of all. Individualism exists in Ukraine, only it’s highly suspect and often shunned. Parents don’t question their children, “If your whole class jumps off a bridge, are you going to follow them?” The conversation is more likely to go, “Your class jumped off a bridge today, and just where were you?”

Doing what everyone else does was a survival mechanism in the Soviet Union. All being a creative artist, a critical writer, or an original thinker got you back then was a one-way ticket to Siberia. One of my older colleagues passed me a tattered English handbook of grammar during a meeting. It had been her father’s, before he was sent to Siberia under suspicion of being an intellectual. She wanted to share it with me, and tell me what kind of man he was. “He said the only place you can really be yourself is in your mind. They can take everything else away, they can hold everything else against you, but what you keep inside is really yours, it’s really free,” she said through teary eyes.

So this is the legacy of Ukraine, centuries of war and subjugation, leaving its citizenry understandably hesitant to stand out from the crowd. And here I am, the girl who for years wore clothes inside out, refused to comb the back of her hair, and carried bird bones in her pocket. I felt the need to be an individual in America, so you can only imagine how here I long to wear my tennis shoes to run errands, smile at strangers, and encourage my students to speak freely in class and help me pick topics for our lessons. All of these practices break the Soviet mold and make people nervous.

I go through spells where I get all gussied up before I leave the house even if I’m only running to the post office across the street, or I walk through town with a stone-cold expression that matches the stare of my peers. But more often than not, I hate myself for playing along. More than fitted sheets, large plates and chairs that aren’t stools, I miss the wealth of encouragement to be myself that is ingrained in the American psyche.

Give me a break.

If she really wanted to spare Bristol, she would’ve left her at home. At 17, she’s clearly old enough to fend for herself. But no, Palin decided to stick her on stage, five-months pregnant with a baby on her hip. How dare the bloggers comment! How dare they question this preposterous sight!

With no explanation from Palin, the inquisitive mind was left to its own devices. Instead of asking why Palin chose to hide the fact that her daughter was pregnant, let’s blame voters for trying to put the pieces together themselves. It wasn’t the ideal way to get to the bottom of things. But what choice did they have? After the mainstream media dropped the ball on the Edwards affair, the Tabloid genre got a little credibility boost. And you can’t fault the bloggers entirely. They were in the baby ballpark.

And now Palin is using this whole baby-blogger-shenanigan to blast the media. As she said in her RNC speech, “Here’s a little news flash for those reporters and commentators: I’m not going to Washington to seek their good opinion. I’m going to Washington to serve the people of this great country.”

Here’s a news flash for Palin: Journalists are actually part of society. I know it’s shocking, but we vote, too. So you are seeking our good opinion, along with everyone one else’s. Why else would you fly in Bristol’s baby’s daddy for the RNC? He wasn’t a necessary part of the family for your introductory speech, but once the dirty little secret was out, suddenly he was needed. While Palin tells the media to back-off her family, there’s a photo-op for McCain and Levi on the tarmac.

Talk about mixed signals.

The most ironic part of this whole saga is not Palin’s support of abstinence-only education, (which comes in a close second in my book), but her statements about Bristol’s “decision” to have the baby. According to Palin, there shouldn’t be a choice to make. She’s for bringing babies into this world in the case of rape and incest. But please, give her daughter some privacy. If it were up to Palin, the government would unilaterally make that decision for women everywhere. Now that’s a parallel worth drawing.

Honestly, I’ll be happy if I never have to write about the mating habits of the Palins ever again. But the choice is hers. Stop sticking your pregnant daughter in my face and I’ll stop writing about it. Deal?

A typical family moment for Brent, 28, Amber, 25, Mom, Dad, and Me, 22

This year, the passing of Labor Day marked more than the end of white shoes or summer vacation. It marked my last month in the states. Since graduation in May, I’ve been to New Mexico, Louisiana, and Waco. I am now nestled in my hometown of Katy, where I will reside until I leave for Ukraine Sept 25.

Far from my typical activities, this summer has been filled with new memories. Besides going to jail with my grandmother, I went swimming with two octogenarians, fed alligators, rode a rice combine, drove an assortment of farming equipment, and taught my grandpa how to play computer solitaire. And that was just in Louisiana.

In Waco, I lived with a darling family of five and worked at the Baylor Line. In between interviews and stories, I learned to crochet (sort of), heard tales of Sergey Bubka, and got the feel for magazine life. In-between work hours, I quasi-nannied three children ages 3ish, 6ish and 8ish. Who taught me that it’s fun to be chased by someone you love, standing on the table is a good way to get attention, and clothes are overrated.

Since I’ve been home I’ve found myself doing things I almost never did growing up. Like going on walks with my parents or doing chores voluntarily. Leaving the country has strange effects on people. Of course, some of my changed behavior could be attributed to increased maturity. But let’s not get carried away.

I love my family dearly. I consider it a blessing that my family isn’t contained in one house, one state, or even one country. My travels have yielded unlikely friendships and broadened my understanding of the world. But the experience cuts both ways. I have learned that to go also means to leave.

When I think about the relationships forged over two summers in South America, I hurt for the friends I may never see again. But I’m so thankful for the time we spent together and the way they shaped who I am today. Our lives are enriched by communion with others, and I can’t wait to learn from and give to a new community in Ukraine.

One of my favorite all-time books is C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves. In it, Lewis says, “The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.” So out into the East I go: willfully-vulnerable, anxiously-awaiting new friends, and with a deep and abiding love for all the family I know today.

After nearly two years of weekly mentoring an at-risk teen, I had hoped for a more climactic closure. We’d been to the museum, the bookstore, the campus recreation center, the mall, the zoo, the park, and the bowling alley. We’d worked on homework, read books, painted, watched American Idol, and cooked dinner. And in between it all, we’d really gotten to know each other.

I watched her deal with things way beyond her maturity level, like her dad going to prison and the death of a classmate. In turn, I, a 22-year-old college student and far from a trained social worker, dealt with issues far beyond my own maturity level. I counseled her when she got caught with drugs and convinced her to tell the truth. I listened as she told me that her mom was going to jail. I empathized with the injustice of her poor school system and lack of good options. I threw her a birthday party in a local park. I bought her shoes for a cousin’s wedding. I taught her how to play racquetball. I told her she could be anything she wanted to be. I was fiercely dedicated to her.

And so, for our last Tuesday night together, I had asked her what she wanted to do. I told her it could be anything within reason. She chose a manicure. I was thrilled. Sure, it was bit pricey, but the memory of us sitting side-by-side at a nail salon, getting pampered like a couple of yuppies would be worth it. It also showed maturity, I thought. It wasn’t a trip to an amusement park or to a movie. It was an activity for adults.

I pulled up to her house about 6 o’clock. I knew right away she wasn’t there. Her grandma’s truck was gone. The gate was padlocked. She had forgotten. I let out an ironic chuckle.

This type of behavior had been common in the beginning. I actually think it was a test of hers. She wouldn’t return my calls or show up for our meetings for weeks. I kept calling. I kept showing up. Finally, she warmed up to me and revealed that her last handful of mentors hadn’t lasted a month. She wanted to make sure I was in it for the long haul. She didn’t say that exactly, but I could tell what she meant. But not this time. The test was over. She simply forgot. I was hurt. Really hurt.

I had been looking forward to our last outing together. I felt proud that we had stuck together for so long, despite our vast differences. She liked rap music and spoke an English I needed an urban dictionary to understand. I liked acoustical ballads and was an English major. She liked to sing. I played sports. She wore professional wrestling t-shirts. I shopped at the Gap. But we had become friends, and I genuinely enjoyed hanging out with her each week. She had carved a sizable part of my life out, and I liked it.

Sitting outside her house, with the credit card bill from her birthday party expenses in my wallet, and the radio tuned to her favorite station, I felt totally dissed. Then, remembering her grandma had recently given her a cell phone, I felt a glimmer of hope. She picked up—a good sign. She had forgotten, but was audibly shaken-up about it. Somehow that made me feel better. She had just picked up a friend, and they were coming over here to hang out. She wanted to know if she could come, too.

Taking my mentee and her friends out to dinner and the mall had become fairly common over the years. I was always happy to include them. It was fun to see their interactions and their faces when I asked questions like, “What do want to be when you grow up?” and “What’s your favorite subject in school?” But this time was supposed to be just us. We had planned it for weeks. Plus, manicures were expensive. I’d only just graduated from college and was making minimum wage at a part-time job before the Peace Corps. My exclusion of others was well-intentioned on a number of levels. “Sure, I said. Of course your friend can come.”

Meanwhile, my head was a blur with mental math computations. Considering my current financial situation, I really couldn’t spring for three manicures. I felt like dropping her friend off at the corner, but the semi-adult in me knew what I had to do. I was honest with them. Well, not about wanting to ditch her friend, but about the money situation. “I don’t have enough money for all us to get manicures, but I’d really like you two to get one. What do you say?” They both smiled huge smiles, the ones where all the teeth show and you get those little crinkles around your eyes. Her friend ran her fingers through her hair. “We are gonna be throwed at school tomorrow!” she exclaimed.

As I entered the nail salon with my youthful friends, the stares started. Ordinarily we attract a glance or two, but our triad trumped them all. The girls went to an alternative middle school for kids who’ve been kicked out of public schools. They were in their uniforms, which consisted of khaki pants, blue t-shirts, and white shoes. Honestly, it kind of had a prison feel to it. And there I was, Bermuda shorts and a crew-neck shirt from Banana Republic. I sighed. Time to put some shine on these trouble-making fingers. I helped the girls pick out colors, and, having brought my camera, documented the whole experience. They giggled and batted their eyelashes, as proud as peacocks. Walking out of the nail salon, I decided that was the best way I could spend my money, handsdown. 

After dropping off the girls at her house, hugging my mentee, and instructing her to be good and call often, I got into my car and burst into tears. Sure, I was going to miss her, but what I was really crying about was the injustice of it all. My mentee and I live in two different Americas. I live in the one where my parents raised me lovingly, and I got to go on summer vacation at the beach. I went to a good school and had teachers who cared about me. I played on sports teams and had slumber parties with my friends. I got accepted to college and graduated with honors. I had a bright future.

She lives in the America where her parents gave her a name, and then walked away. She lives on food stamps and Medicaid. Her school barely passes state assessments. She’s never been to the beach, or seen snow, or even spent a Christmas with her parents. Go to college? She’s in the 7th grade for the third year in a row.  I cried because I wanted to do more than slap a nice, shiny coat of polish over her life, but couldn’t. Our last meeting didn’t go as planned.

Teenage pregnancies can be curtailed through birth control, and, I would argue, through more comprehensive sex education. My mantra is echoed by those left of center, but I am still amused that the so-called “family values” proponents find it to be heresy. How would preventing the birth of children into families ill-equipped to care for them be immoral? The shortcomings of abstinence only education are well documented—so much so that this post feels a bit like a broken record. But as long as teens are rebellious and promiscuous, which is unlikely to change anytime soon, it will remain true.

I really don’t care if the Massachusetts teens made a pact or not. In nine months it won’t matter how or why they conceived. You can blame the media or Hollywood or their parents, but I’m going to blame conservatives. Their fear of sex education and contraceptives is the perfect combination for teenage pregnancy. And when these kids have kids, the same conservative policies that led to their births will begrudge them welfare and discriminate against them in the workforce. And thus the cycle of poverty continues. A lack of education, a lack of resources, and an abundance of hormones later, the next generation in this tragedy faces a bleak, but not unfamiliar fate.

As scary as it may be, we have to start trusting our children. We have to tell them the truth about sex. We can’t just tell them what’s behind door number one and expect them never to go knocking on any others. And, if they make choices we don’t agree with, we shouldn’t respond by withholding information or contraceptives. Openly and passionately disagree with them, but don’t take a poor choice and make a baby out of it.