Since children, most have been warned that too much sugar – especially in soda – causes cavities. Recent studies, however, prove that too much sugar-laden beverages may cause an even bigger risk: cancer.

Last month, University of Minnesota published a study in the journal Cancer Epidemiology, Biomarkers and Prevention, suggesting that people who drink as few as two soft drinks a week face almost double the risk of pancreatic cancer.

(The study, which examined 60,000 people in Singapore over 14 years, found that regular soft drink consumers were 87 percent more likely to develop cancer, even after accounting for things like age, obesity and cigarette smoking. It did not apply to diet soft drinks or fruit juices).

Consider this. Now consider that it is estimated that roughly 50 gallons of soda is consumed per person per year in America.

Not only does soda increase one’s risk of cancer, but many studies prove that obesity is also greatly amplified.

According to CDC surveys (1976-80 and 2003-06), the prevalence of obesity in children has dramatically increased: for children aged 25 years, prevalence increased from 5 to 12.4 percent; for those aged 6 to 11 years, prevalence increased from 6.5 to 17 percent; and for those aged 12 to 19 years, prevalence increased from 5 to 17.6 percent.

Last fall, the Obama administration announced a plan to ban candy and sweetened beverages from schools and Michelle Obama started a campaign against childhood obesity.

Recently, though, a growing number of public health advocates are pushing for an even more aggressive action that would affect children and adults: a tax on soda (the tax would include soft drinks, energy drinks, sports beverages and many juices and iced teas, but not sugar-free diet drinks).

According to them, this would not only curb obesity, but help pay for health care reform in general. The Joint Committee on Taxation calculated that a 3-cent tax on each 12-ounce sugared soda would raise $51.6 billion over a decade.

Already, small excise taxes on soda are in place in Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia, Washington and West Virginia, and Chicago imposes a 3 percent retail tax on soft drinks. Soda taxes were proposed in at least 12 other states in 2009, though none were approved.

In addition, Mississippi is considering legislation that would tax the syrup used to sweeten soda; the mayor of Philadelphia is considering a tax on soda and other sugar-sweetened drinks, and Gov. David Paterson of New York has indicated that he will recommend a penny-per-ounce tax on sugared beverages in his 2011 budget.

Advocates of this tax note that sugared beverages are the No. 1 cause of “empty” calories in the American diet. According to government surveys, they represent 7 percent of the average person’s calorie intake and up to 10 percent for children and teenagers. Many argue that a soda tax would reduce consumption and pay for anti-obesity campaigns.

Others site the public war against tobacco: since the increased tax on cigarettes, Americans smoke at half the rate they once did, half of all smokers have quit, and the tobacco companies finance strong antismoking campaigns. They believe that a similar outcome will result with a soda tax.

Even though it is good to acknowledge that obesity is a problem, specifically childhood obesity, a variety of behavioral changes need to be implemented into society to achieve a healthy balance – eliminating one food from the diet cannot do it.

For example, if soda consumption were to drop because of a tax, a drop in obesity is not necessarily guaranteed. Simply pricing one product higher would lead to unknown effects on total dietary consumption: people may stop spending on one food and eat more of another.

When it comes to losing weight, all calories count, regardless of the food source.

The bottom line is that a tax isn’t going to make anybody healthier it’s not going to make a dent in a problem as serious as obesity. And it’s not going to solve the complexities of the health care system, either.

Originally published Sunday, March 8, 2010

Manhattan’s a good place to be lonely.

That’s because – even amongst the vast throng of blurry faces – most people are alone here. Most nurture some compulsion to forget this fact. They work and shop to forget. And eat too. They do things too much to forget: drinking and smoking, snorting, popping and praying, working out and searching for happy places beneath strangers’ sheets.

I never really considered any of this until my status went from “couple” to “single” last month.

“What happened,” was the primary concern of most my “NYC” and “home” friends. After performing the difficult task of explaining that not all things are meant to be, their following reassurance was usually, “Don’t worry. We’ll find you someone else.”

But it is difficult for me to move on when I’m not even moved out (due to the recession, Mark and I are still roommates).

In order to maintain a friendship and sense of equilibrium in our apartment, Mark and I had been giving each other privacy at home while continuing to go out together with mutual friends on weekends.

This worked for a while.

And then, a few weeks ago the three of us (our roommate Sebastian, Mark and I) were out playing beer pong at the only bar in Manhattan offering dollar pints. Perhaps somewhere between drunkenness and loneliness Mark bought another girl beer and proceeded to talk with her.

In retrospect, the act was innocent. But at that moment, my breath caught in my chest and sent my heart fluttering as though a tiny bird had been trapped inside my ribs. I left the bar immediately, alone. And when I arrived to my apartment, began hyperventilating, shaking and crying.

Something finally broke inside me: for the first time in 4 years, I was totally alone (it didn’t help that I was in one of the largest cities in the world, away from my family, my best friends and mentors).

I told my fairly new NYC friends about my panic attack. Many, again, suggested going out with some “great guy I just had to meet.”

Desperately seeking to forget the lonesomeness I felt, I gave in.

So I went out with a few people for coffee or drinks (“non-dates” … I told each person I was still too heartbroken to be dating; that I just wanted a friend). But in every encounter, the chemistry – for either friendship or romance – was off. And even though I am still confident with our decision to break up, a recurring thought ran through my head: you’re not Mark.

These “non-dates” just made me more anxious, lost – lonely.

Then this week, a couple I recently befriended – Tory and Sean – offered me something that no one else had: they went out of town and asked me to stay at their apartment on the Upper East Side.

“It’ll do you good to be alone,” they justified. They deemed that time away from Mark was the only way to heal.

Already feeling incredibly alone, I was apprehensive. But again, gave in.

Remarkably, I found the solitude intoxicating.

On my first night there I lay on the wooden living room floor for hours, letting the murky orange pool of city glow coming through the windows bathe me. I listened to two guys outside yelling at each other in Russian, someone practicing stormy flamboyant cello somewhere, and people laughing at television a floor above me.

There was not a single person in the world that could see me or ask me what I was doing or tell me to do anything else. And I felt as if at any moment the apartment might detach itself from the building like a luminous soap bubble and drift off into the night, bobbing gently above the taxis and skyscrapers and stars.

Manhattan’s a good place for shopping, and food, and drinking and strangers’ sheets. But I don’t want to forget. I want more solitude so I can remember and let go.

Originally published Sunday, Feb. 28 2010 in the Observer

During World War II, while American men were off at the front, the government created Rosie the Riveter, with her flexed muscle and “We Can Do It” motto to encourage women into the work force. Today, women are marching into the workplace in even larger numbers and taking a sledgehammer to the remaining glass ceilings.

Women’s economic empowerment is arguably the largest social change of our times. Just a generation ago, women were customarily confined to menial jobs – they were expected to abandon their careers once they got married and had children (as the television drama “Mad Men” demonstrates so well). Today, however, women make up almost half of American workers (49.9 percent in October) and earn almost 60 percent of university degrees.

But if the empowerment of women was the great change during the past 50 years, dealing with social “repercussions” may be one of the great challenges for the next 50.

I have been noticing that women – anywhere from their mid 20s to early 40s – often feel they are caught in a tangle of commitments: career, marriage, and children. Many believe they must choose, specifically, between having a career or children. Stats show that skilled women who prosper in high-pressure jobs during their 20s often leave in dramatic numbers during their 30s when they decide to start families. Similarly, unskilled women tend to get stuck in poorly paid jobs with “hand-to-mouth” child-care arrangements.

In both scenarios, because scores of women no longer want to fill the shoes of “Suzy Homemaker” (due to either financial or personal reasons), two-income households have become the norm.

Many American children have been paying the price for this revolution (a report by UNICEF in 2007 on children in rich countries found that America had some of the lowest scores for “well-being”).

This comes as no surprise.

By Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development standards, America’s public spending on family support is quite low (it spends only 0.5 percent of its gross domestic product on public support for childcare compared with 1.3 percent in France and 2.7 percent in Denmark). America provides no statutory paid leave for mothers and only 12 weeks unpaid.

Several other countries go to great lengths to make sure there’s little discord for women and men who want a career and a family:

• Austria, the Czech Republic, Finland and Hungary provide up to 3 years of paid leave for mothers.

• Germany has introduced a “parent’s salary” (Elterngeld) to encourage mothers to stay at home.

• Iceland and other Scandinavian countries add increasing financial incentives for fathers to spend more time rearing children.

Millions of American families, however, still struggle with insufficient childcare facilities and a school day that bears no relationship to working lives. The American government needs to start considering other countries that are attempting to address the loss of female talent and difficulty of combining work with children. A few examples:

-Many elite companies across the Atlantic are rethinking their promotion practices. For example, Addleshaw Goddard, a law firm in London where a female friend of mine is employed, has created the role of legal director as an alternative to partnerships for women who want to combine work and motherhood.

-Working from home is also a growing option. More than 90 percent of companies in Germany and Sweden allow flexible online working schedules.

-Perhaps we should divide the working week in new ways – many of my family members in France are judged on annual rather than weekly hours, or allowed to come in early or stay late.

-And finally, current American welfare states were designed during the time when women had almost no options besides being Suzy Homemaker. The government needs to modify these operations so that they align with contemporary families. German schools, for instance, close at midday. American schools could follow suit by having shorter school days and summer holidays so that parents could juggle their commitments more easily.

Whatever option he chooses, Barack Obama needs to start measuring up to his campaign rhetoric about “real family values.” If “We (women) Can Do It,” then he can too.

Originally published Sunday, Feb. 21, 2010 in the Observer

Are you a tall, fair-skinned, healthy and educated woman? Well! Then you’re a “prime candidate” to earn thousands of dollars!

This proposal caught my attention last February when I came across a Facebook ad that read: “Women, want to make $6,000 in one month? Donate your eggs!” Because I was a typical poor college student, I was incredibly intrigued, yet concerned about potential psychological and physical repercussions.

So, for the past year I have been researching/weighing the pros and cons of changing my body from a playground into a factory.

When I moved to New York City, still poor and still a college student, egg donation once again entered my mind. When I came across a clinic last month willing to pay $10,000 per donation (women could potentially donate up to six times), I immediately filled out an online application “just to see.”

I received a friendly email from the coordinator a few hours after I’d sent in my application and photos. She wanted to talk to me at my earliest convenience.

During my in-person interview the next day, she expressed “some concern” that cancer runs in my family. However, she alluded that because I am college educated, fair-skinned, have blue eyes, am in shape and artistic, I was still a “prime candidate.”

“Will the drugs administered to me increase my chances of cancer because it’s already in my family,” I asked.

“There’s no proof that one has anything to do with the other,” she replied.

The interview was going swimmingly – I could feel that $10,000 check in my grasp. And then the final question was asked: “Has anyone in your family ever been 20 pounds or more overweight?” Confused, I answered that there were a few people that could fit that profile. Her excited face changed instantly.

“And why didn’t you indicate this on your form,” she interrogated me sternly, as if I had been wasting her time.

I apologized and admitted that it never crossed my mind.

Being rebuffed so suddenly, so brashly due to one aesthetic “flaw” in my genes – especially since the potential “cancer gene” was acceptable – made me reflect on this market differently.

Before my interview, I had discussed the process with a mentoring professor from SUNY Fredonia. She asked me to consider that “egg donation” was a euphemism for a contemporary form of eugenics.

Initially, I was stunned. Eugenics faded out after World War II … there was no way it could be legally executed today.

But she argued that even though egg donation marketing is different from earlier eugenic practices, there is still a debate that lingering ideological threads between 20th century eugenics and 21st century forms of reproductive and genetic technologies exist.

After my experience, I reflected on advertisements for donors and consumers, the extensive screening and application process, and the overall superior criteria that egg donors must satisfy – it was true that only the “cream of the crop” were allowed to “donate” their genes.

Despite the fact that there is very little proof that a donor’s “most coveted assets” – traits such as intelligence, artistic talent, and compassion – are genetically transmitted and inheritable, the ads for egg donors continue to list such qualities.

I found it additionally curious that unlike in most industrialized nations – Canada, Australia and countries in Europe – the marketplace for female genes is currently unregulated in the United States (in most countries, it is illegal to profit from egg donation).

In effect, such ads are promising parents miracle babies for large sums of money.

Even though egg donation is marketed toward women’s heartstrings to “help another woman conceive,” it would appear that this appeal is deceiving. Endorsed as a humanitarian service, the truth is that capitalism flourishes under this evolutionary experiment that uses genetic engineering, gene manipulation, and – eugenic selection.

Originally published Sunday, Feb. 14, 2010 in the Observer

The Princess and the Frog Disney band-aids cover many of my fingertips. It started last week. I bought them because they were purple and pretty. They conceal the ugliness underneath.

I do this when I’m overwhelmed: bite my nails until they’re a bloody mess. The state of my fingers has always mirrored my emotions.

“No bite,” Mark would say to me during exam week, before a job interview or when I wrote. He’d playfully slap my hand.

But he hasn’t done this. Not since four Mondays ago when we decided four years of “us” wasn’t meant to last a lifetime.

While two years were spent living across the street from one another during college at SUNY Fredonia, we have been fighting to maintain a long-distance relationship for the last two – he in Syracuse performing with his band, me in Dunkirk finishing my Masters.

When I moved to New York City in August to pursue my writing and more school, I came alone accompanied only by the hope that he would eventually join me. I had been living in Queens for four months when the call I’d been waiting for finally came:

“I want to be with you,” Mark said over the phone.

Because of a financial and emotional deficit in both our lives, we’d decided that sharing an apartment was a satisfactory restoration.

Excitement was the initial emotion to fill me after we moved his belongings into my already cramped 12’x 9’ bedroom – we got to see each other every day, eat meals with one another and live “normal” lives together.

But like smoldering embers burning below the surface, impossible to extinguish, a new sensation began to fume inside me: something wasn’t right.

Differing political, social and economical convictions seemed minor at first. We made jokes and brushed things aside. But it quickly became apparent that “small things” easily turn into big issues.

The decision was amicable and mutual.

“Everyone will say it’s because we moved in together,” I said that Monday.

They could think that. But we know better.

“I think living with one another is what kept us together longer,” Mark justified and nuzzled his nose into my hair like always. I agreed.

“We’re just two very different people on two very different paths,” he said.

I think I’ve known this for a while. And I think he has too.

We held each other for what felt like seconds all day – my back against his chest, head in my wet pillow, and his arm around my midriff.

Break ups in New York City – especially when two people live together – are similar, yet unlike breaking up anywhere else. Because Mark is still searching for a full-time job in a locale that is persistently laying off people, we must remain roommates until he can afford his own place.

This could be a few more weeks.

Or a few more months.

For four weeks now I’ve casually, yet continually, skimmed over the bedroom. I notice silly things: the dresser that does not belong to me, dirty socks crumpled on my floor that are not mine, Irish Spring antiperspirant made “just for men.”

Even though we still share this room, I realized that that Monday was the last day it was “our room.”

I’m almost out of band-aids. I hope CVS has more purple ones to decorate the damage underneath.