Sexting among teens has become a dangerous trend.

Emma Mary Woodrich is a teen sexter.

Woodrich, 17, thinks of sexting as a hobby, not as something that could have serious legal consequences.

Sexting, or sending nude or semi-nude photos via cell phone or online, is a recent trend among teens and can result in serious legal consequences.

Woodrich is one of the lucky sexters.

“I’ve only been caught sexting one time when my mother found dirty messages on my phone, and I only got yelled at,” said the Chicago native. “I’ve never been caught by anyone else.”

Other teens haven’t been so lucky.

On January 15, the first sexting case went to court in Wyoming County, Pa. Three teen girls faced child pornography charges when they sent photos of themselves topless and wearing bras to two male classmates.

The photos didn’t surface until three months later, when one student’s phone was confiscated at school.

The three teen girls who sent the photos, all of whom were 14 or 15 years old, faced charges of creating, disseminating and possessing child pornography. The 16- and 17-year-old males who received the photos faced charges of possession of child pornography.

The Wyoming County District Attorney ordered the girls to take an education class on the dangers of sexting or else face felony charges. This set off a firestorm of controversy, as the girls’ parents claimed the ruling violated their Constitutional rights and sued the prosecution.

On March 17, the 3rd Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in the students’ favor, stating that the DA violated both the students’ First and Fourteenth Amendment rights by requiring them to take the class or be prosecuted.

But the courts declined to rule on the issue of sexting and whether it qualifies as child pornography or is protected under the First Amendment.

Why sexting?

Sexting, a common hobby embraced by the technology-infused Generation Z-ers, born between the mid-1990s to the early 2000s, has serious legal risks. In some states, teens convicted of sexting could be charged with a felony, face jail time or have to register as sex offenders for up to 10 years.

But that doesn’t stop them from continuing to send sexually charged photos to their peers.

“I think sexting has become such a huge trend because it’s really easy to do and also kind of fun,” Woodrich said. She began sexting when she was 16 years old. She said she sent sexts to boys she knew from school.

According to a study by the National Campaign to Prevent Teen and Unplanned Pregnancy, one in five teens has sent a nude or semi-nude photo of himself or herself via cell phone or e-mail, or posted photos on the Internet or on social networking sites such as Facebook.

While 28-year-old Grahm Grabiec isn’t a minor, he admits to sexting and said not knowing where the photos may end up is “part of the thrill.”

“I started sexting probably two years ago,” said Grabiec, of Pittsburgh, Pa. “I sext less now than I did a year ago, but I still do occasionally. I find it arousing.” He said he sends sexts to women he dates or is friends with but not to any one person, like a girlfriend.

Grabiec said he makes sure to steer clear of minors when sending or receiving sexually charged photos.

“I don’t mess with minors, and I am of age myself,” he said. “I think it is a crime if it involves minors, and not a hobby, but a pastime for consenting adults.”

But the truth is, Grabiec may not even know who is receiving his photos or whose photos he’s receiving. Grabiec is a member of a sexting group on Facebook, a group that boasts more than 1,000 members and has countless cell phone numbers posted on the its homepage. Many of the group’s members are minors.

Grabiec said several factors contribute to the popularity of sexting – the promiscuity of today’s society, low self esteem and “looser morals.” He said he has never been caught sending risqué photos but he acknowledges that sexting, even as an adult, is not without its risks.

“I was never caught, but surely some photos of me have been forwarded to people without my consent,” he said.

Sexting has definitely emerged as a serious issue among minors, said Pennsylvania State Representative Seth Grove, R-Dover Township, sponsor of his state’s sexting bill, which passed in April.

“It’s a huge issue. It’s national. I wouldn’t doubt that it’s in every single high school in every district,” he said. “Think back to high school: If a guy gets a picture of the hottest girl in the school, they’re gonna forward it on. And vice versa — if a girl gets a picture of the hottest guy, she’s going to do the same thing. They’re not thinking the long-term repercussions of it.”

Grissom has played cello at private parties, nursing homes and hospitals, and for Mayor Michael Bloomberg. He was even an opening act for David Bowie.
But he prefers the audience at Pennsylvania Station.

“The thing about playing in the subway is you have to figure out how to connect with your audience,” said Grissom, 48, a full-time musician who lives on the Upper West Side. “I love the fact that I get to create the stage. The potential is there; I just have to find it.”

While subway musicians view themselves as playing outside the box, they have a hierarchy all their own. Musicians such as Grissom, who are members of Music Under New York, an organized group of subway musicians formed in 1985, represent the top of the pile — both literally and figuratively — as they play on the coveted mezzanine, high above the tracks and trains. Other musicians who are not registered with MUNY represent the middle of the group, playing on the platform and competing with the roar of passing trains and hoping a passerby will stop and listen for a few seconds before boarding a train. And those who represent the bottom of the totem pole are the musicians who play on the trains as they travel from station to station, keeping an eye out for police officers and hoping they escape a ticket should they get caught.

Up on the mezzanine, Grissom plays the Cajun cello, a new twist on an old classic. The Cajun cello has a bit of Southern twang with a Cajun influence, a mixture of his Texas and Louisiana roots, he said. It sounds similar to fiddle tunes on the violin.

“I learned how to play fiddle tunes on a cello in Texas,” he said. An upside down navy blue Yankee cap laid on the station floor as he played, an assortment of bills and coins placed inside.

Grissom declines to say just how much he makes in one day of playing in the subway, but he does say he supports his wife Fran, a stay-at-home mom, and his daughter Jane, an undergraduate student at New York University, solely with his music — playing at private gigs, parties and in the subway.

“In many ways, the money is decent, but it’s not why you do it,” he said. “But the money, it makes a difference. I have a family to support.”

The payoffs often come in other ways, making connections and playing private parties or events, selling CDs or simply getting his name out there, Grissom said.

But subway musician isn’t his only identity. He teaches a rock string music course at Beacon Heights one day a week, instructs improvisation seminars to classical musicians and teaches seminars for teachers on how to make classical music more accessible to students.

To some, it may seem odd that a man who received his master’s degree from Hunter College and studied at Juilliard and the Pratt Institute plays music underground.

“People perceive street performers as a low-level profession,” he said. “People will say, ‘Why aren’t you in an orchestra?’ They equate success with being in an orchestra. And I say, ‘Do I look like an orchestra guy?’ ”

He admits he’s a bit of a free spirit. He wears his curly blonde hair in a long ponytail, wears round wire-rimmed glasses and a gold hoop in his left earlobe. He doesn’t have a cell phone or e-mail account and is hesitant to use the Internet.

When Grissom plays, he dresses the part in a multicolored polka dot shirt, blue-and-white Oxford-style shoes and a silver bow tie. A stack of rubber bracelets circles his left wrist. Even his homemade cello is dressed for the occasion, a miniature Santa hat sitting jauntily at the top of its neck.

While some may not associate being a subway musician to being successful, to Grissom it is just that.

“Success is doing what I want to do when I want to do it,” he said. “Playing in the subway is great because when you want to try out something new, you get immediate feedback from the audience. You can’t do that in an orchestra.”

But he still jokes about performing in a bottom-of-the-totem-pole venue.

“It’s like Reagan’s trickle down theory. I’m not even gutter trash,” he said, pointing upward to the street level. “I’m lower than gutter trash.”

But Grissom doesn’t just play in the subway, hoping for donations. He has nine CDs on sale for $15 each when he performs. He keeps a trove of business cards on hand in hopes of landing freelance gigs, and he averages about 250 performances annually, he said.

Grissom started performing in subway stations in 1983 and is one of the charter members of MUNY. Currently, MUNY has about 100 musicians who perform in 25 locations throughout the subway system.

“The goal of the program is to encourage the use of our transit system and improve the mass-transit environment,” said Lydia Bradshaw, manager of the Arts for Transit Project and Music Under New York. “If you’re traveling through a station on your daily commute and come across a musical performer, it can be uplifting, can be a cultural experience. It can uplift your day, your mood, can be something new to you — a new kind of musical experience.”

But Grissom admits capturing the attention of an audience of commuters isn’t always easy.

“Basically, you’re dealing with a non-captive audience,” he said. “They’re not here for me. They’re here to get from Point A to Point B. I have maybe 20 to 25 seconds to catch their attention.”

MUNY subway musicians such as Grissom are identifiable by the Music Under New York banners displayed nearby when they are performing. To become a member of the group, musicians must audition for a panel of judges comprising MTA officials, professional musicians and other MUNY members. The program also organizes annual scheduled music performances and has a registry of musicians on its Web site.

“When the public sees a performer and weren’t able to jot down their number, they can call us and we can hook them up in case they want to hire them,” Bradshaw said.

While being registered with MUNY has its benefits, not all subway musicians buy into the idea, including Gio Andollo, 25, who calls himself a devout Christian and works as a music instructor at I.S. 230 in Queens.

“There’s something in my spirit that is really opposed to it,” said Andollo, who plays on the platform of the Delaney and Essex station on the Lower East Side. “I don’t feel like I should have to ask permission to express myself and enrich the lives of other people around me. It just seems like a way to marginalize people who maybe aren’t doing things the conventional way.”

A soft-spoken man with a slight build, Andollo plays an eclectic mix of folk music and punk on the platform. He plays the acoustic guitar and harmonica, and provides vocals for each song.

Andollo moved to New York City from Orlando, Fla., three months ago to join a flagship branch of the Orlando-based church Trinity Grace.

“People tend to have an understanding that religion (plays) a fundamental sort of role to you,” he said. “That’s not my lifestyle. In terms of rituals, I think of lot of those in Christianity are valuable, but a lot of them aren’t.”

Before he found himself playing music under the city streets, Andollo worked for AmeriCorps, a non-profit volunteer based agency, tutoring at a Florida high school. It was during this time he decided he wanted to become a street performer.

He cites his musical influences as Bob Dylan, punk group Against Me! and The Beatles. While The Beatles’ song “All You Need is Love” is his motto for life, Andollo’s folksy style is more reminiscent of Dylan.

“(Performing) makes me want to create a spirit of peace in our city,” Andollo said. “So I go out and sing about love and peace.”

As a new subway musician, the most he’s made is $7 over several hours. He’s having trouble making rent and paying bills at his Harlem apartment, he said.

“I am having a very difficult time surviving,” he said. “I can’t pay my rent with what I make here.” Andollo often finds himself competing with other musicians and street evangelists. He’s even had some negative reactions from passersby.

“I don’t know why,” he said. “I think they probably see it as an intrusion on what they’re doing, which I guess is just walking by.”

But in true street performer fashion, he keeps playing.

For Angel Cruz, 32, playing in the subway is simply a stop on the train to a better life. While Cruz, of Buskwick, Brooklyn, represents the bottom of the hierarchy of subway musicians, he actually prefers to play on the trains because it’s a more captive audience, he said.

Cruz is the father of seven and has another child on the way. He plays the harmonica on the trains across the city, performing lively Christmas carols and holding a white Styrofoam cup for donations.

“I like playing on the train, cheering people up and playing my harmonica,” Cruz said.

He hopes to one day earn his GED and get an associate’s degree from ASA College in Brooklyn.

“I was thinking of channeling my (energy), getting my degree, focusing on something else,” he said.

Ten years ago, Cruz saw a $7 harmonica for sale in a convenience store and bought it on a whim.

“It’s a portable instrument,” he said. “When I came across it, it was sparkling like a diamond in the sky, so I picked it up.” Cruz then taught himself to play with no lessons or previous musical experience.

“I’ve been told that I’m talented and play really well,” he said. His profits agree — he said he’s made up to $350 in just a few hours.

Performing and soliciting music on the train is actually illegal, according to MUNY standards. But that doesn’t stop Cruz, who isn’t a member of the organization.

“I’ve never gotten ticketed or anything,” he said of his interaction with the New York Police Department. “I have been stopped. (The police) weren’t rude or abusive or anything. They just said it’s not legal to (play on the train), and I could get a ticket. They checked my ID to see if I had any warrants, patted me down.”

The NYPD deputy commissioner of public information declined to comment on their policy when dealing with subway musicians.

Despite police intervention, Cruz continues playing on the trains, weaving in and out of passengers, his fingers moving like lighting across the harmonica, his cheeks puffing in and out rhythmically.

Cruz has always been an entrepreneur. Not only does he support his entire family through subway performing, but he also bought a shaved ice truck and sells shaved ice to kids in Brooklyn.

“I’ve always been trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents,” he said, pressing the harmonica to his lips as he resumed playing.

But Leonard had no way of knowing that these rocks would poison his family.

Leonard Nez

“I never knew the risk I put myself in by working for the uranium,” he said in his native Navajo language, as translated by his daughter Seraphina. “I know I returned home to my family contaminated with the uranium dust. I know I brought it home to my children. There were times I brought home rocks that were uranium, and I would put it on my windowsill for my kids to see the work I was doing. But I was unaware of the risk.“

Since then, Leonard and his wife Helen have lost seven of their 11 children — all before they reached the age of 36.

Six died from Navajo Neuropathy, a rare disease caused by exposure to radiation that primarily affects Navajo children. The disease attacks the peripheral nervous system. Symptoms include the shriveling of hands and feet, muscular weakness, stunted growth, infection and corneal ulcers. Forty percent of children affected die before they reach their 20s. The seventh child died from a miscarriage.

Many Navajo children were afflicted with the disease as a result of exposure to high levels of uranium in the air and water in and around their own homes.

From the 1940s to the 1980s, nearly 4 million tons of uranium ore was mined from Navajo land as part of the United States’ effort to develop a nuclear bomb during the Cold War.

When the miners left, uranium tailings and contaminated water and air were left behind on tribal land. Like the Nezes, many Navajos were unaware of the health risks caused by exposure.

Helen, 71, and Leonard, 74, lost their first child in 1968.

“(Dorenta) never walked; she had unusual puffiness in her face, her cheeks,” Helen said through her daughter Seraphina. “And she was very thin in her extremities. Her abdominal area — her stomach — had enlarged.”

Dorenta was just 3 years old when she died.

John was born in 1967 and died in 1970; Claudia was born in 1970 and died 1972; Euphemia was born in 1975 and died in 1978.

Years later, Cedar died at the age of 36, followed by Theresa, who died at the age of 26 in 1996.

All died of Navajo Neuropathy.

“All of the symptoms were identical,” Helen said. “Today, I still agonize and think about the past. To have six children die of the same symptoms and not know what it is. … One doctor in Albuquerque said, ‘Well, if you live in some sort of contaminated area, that might be the cause.’ ”

The Nezes’ home still sits half a mile from the mouth of the abandoned uranium mine.

And the Navajo government officials say the issue is not theirs to resolve.

“This is a federal government issue,” said Patrick Sandoval, chief of staff at the office of the Navajo president and vice president. “People can always do more in every effort. The federal government should have left uranium alone. It shouldn’t have been bothered. The Navajo people didn’t know what was happening when (the miners) came in. For our part, a bigger effort could be done, but we are doing the best we can with what we have.”

Gary Garrison, public officer at the Bureau of Indian Affairs, said the BIA is not responsible either.

“The Bureau of Indian Affairs is not involved with providing outreach to the communities on this particular issue, funds for cleanup, or health care to residents of the Navajo Nation,” he said. “Those areas are being handled by other tribal and federal agencies responsible for carrying out those actions.”

As for federal government efforts, programs to clean up the contaminated areas are in place.

The Environmental Protection Agency began working to solve the problem of contaminated homes in Navajo Nation in 1994 with the Superfund program, which has provided $13 million to assess contaminated areas and develop a plan of action. In 2007, the Superfund Program finished a comprehensive atlas of each contaminated site and the level of contamination.

Since then, four yards and one home in Church Rock have been cleaned up at a cost of $2 million, paid for by the U.S. government.

In 2007, the EPA initiated the Five-Year Plan in conjunction with the BIA, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, Indian Health Services and the Department of Energy. These groups also worked closely with the Navajo EPA.

The Five-Year Plan lays out a procedure to assess the severity of the contamination and a plan of action to address it. It was the first coordinated effort of federal and local groups to deal with the problem. One of the first initiatives was to require the owner of the Church Rock mine to conduct a cleanup.

Regardless, these programs came too late for the Nezes.

Helen remembers the uranium mining all too well.

“I do recall the blasting,” she said. “I recall the dust filling my dishes. We didn’t have laundry close by. Sometimes I washed my children’s clothes with (my husband’s) contaminated clothes.”

When their children first became sick, Helen and Leonard visited doctor after doctor, searching for answers.

Instead, they were faced with accusations from local doctors.

“The indication was, ‘Is there incest?’ ” Helen said. “ ‘Is your husband related to you? Is he your brother, your uncle? Is that the reason your children have these symptoms?’ They never apologize, only the speculation of incest.”

Further complicating matters, Leonard’s involvement with the mine was off the books. Miners were paid in goods and food for their families. They never received either paychecks or cash for their work. Now, there is no record whatsoever of Leonard’s time in the uranium mines.

“Working for the uranium, I was only given a piece of white slip, a piece of paper, to take to the local store to purchase food and other things,” Leonard said.

With no record of his work history, there is little hope for the Nezes to gain compensation for the loss of their children.

“My heart is broken and I blame the government,” Leonard said. “I think back now, if I didn’t expose my children to the uranium, I could have had a big family. Now I am surviving only four children. This is my biggest regret, to work for the uranium.”

Chris Nez, 44, is one of Leonard’s surviving children.

He is angered at the way the Navajo Nation is treated by the federal government.

“This has been going on for quite some time,” he said. “One thing that really bothers me is we say ‘our land,’ but technically it’s not our land, this so-called Navajo Reservation. We do not own anything on it at all. Not even the land. All we got is probably three inches of topsoil. If there’s any oil, if there’s any kind of water, it belongs to the government. And yet, they contaminated the whole area. And now they’re just playing hush-hush.”

The legacy of Navajo Neuropathy spans generations in the Nez family. Helen’s great-grandson died in June of the same disease that claimed six of his aunts and uncles.

Even 17-year-old Floyd James Baldwin, Helen and Leonard’s grandson, sees what uranium has done to his family and to Navajo tribal lands.

“Well, growing up, I saw some pretty weird things,” he said. “When I was a child … getting my diaper changed next to my uncle — my own uncle, who’s a full-grown man. And I was just a little kid. I didn’t know it was wrong or anything. But as I grew up, I noticed that’s not normal. That doesn’t happen.” Loss of kidney function is another side effect of Navajo Neuropathy.

Floyd worries about the same thing happening to him. Still, he can’t imagine leaving the reservation.

“I think about (the effects of uranium on me) every time I drink anything,” he said. “(But) this is where my family’s at, and we’ve always been here. I can’t just leave this place.”

Teddy Nez's home was near a uranium mine.

CHURCH ROCK, New Mexico — Teddy Nez’s home sits 500 feet from the mouth of abandoned uranium mine.

Since 1982, Nez and his family have been breathing in uranium particles and drinking uranium-contaminated water. They didn’t know the land that surrounded their home in Church Rock, N.M. – located on the 27,000 square-mile Navajo Reservation – was slowly killing them.

“We just assumed this was the way people lived,” Nez, 65, said. “But we came to find out the human risk factor.”

Nez has colon cancer, which he believes was caused by uranium contamination. From roughly the 1940s to the 1980s, the federal government contracted private mining companies to blast uranium ore out of the rocky terrain of Navajo Nation for the development of nuclear weapons during the Cold War as part of the top-secret Manhattan Project.

During that time, nearly 4 million tons of the radioactive ore were mined from the area.

Decades later, the deadly health risks of uranium mining are starting to materialize. Workers who mined the rock are being diagnosed with cancer, respiratory problems, liver disease and more.

Perhaps most troubling is the effect on young children, who are prone to developing Navajo Neuropathy, a rare degenerative disease of the peripheral nervous system caused by breathing in uranium particles in the air and drinking water contaminated by the deadly metal. Symptoms include the shriveling of hands and feet, muscular weakness, corneal ulcers, delayed walking, infections and stunted growth.

The disease is primarily diagnosed in children in their first year of life – and 40 percent of these children die before they reach their 20s. There is no cure.

Nez said his symptoms began with an itchy rash in 1995. The rash turned into open sores that wouldn’t go away.

“I went to the doctor; he said it was just a rash and gave me ointment,” he said. “I use the ointment, but when it’s gone, the rash is still there.”

Nez soon realized he wasn’t the only one suffering from this rash. His neighbors had similar symptoms.

“We ask (the doctors), how do we treat it? And there’s no answer,” he said.

Nez was diagnosed with diabetes, then colon cancer in 2002. Both are said to be caused by exposure to high levels of radiation.

“At the beginning, I was afraid, scared,” Nez said of his cancer diagnosis. Today, he says a Navajo healing ceremony cured his colon cancer.

“I feel I am 100 percent cured,” he said. “Doctors tell me I still have cancer because I have not been treated by Western medicine.”

The L.A. Times reported in 2006 that cancer rates among the Navajos, once thought to be immune to cancer, doubled from the late 1970s to the early 1990s.

According to the EPA, there are four primary ways the public can be exposed to the dangers of these radioactive materials: using uranium-contaminated rock as construction material, drinking uranium-contaminated water, breathing in uranium particles and being in the vicinity of the gamma radiation found in uranium.

Uranium mill tailings, leftover material from mining, are a radioactive, sand-like material that pose a variety of risks to anyone working or living in the vicinity of the mines, the EPA said.

Although Nez never worked as a uranium miner, years of living so close to the mines put him at serious risk of exposure and contamination.

The mine in Church Rock near Nez’s home is the biggest of the nearly 500 mines in Navajo Nation, said Lillie Lane, senior public information officer for the Navajo EPA.

The area around the Nez home was tested for radiation — and it was found to have 120 times the national amount of acceptable radiation.

“We lived with it since 1982,” Nez said. “I thought it was just a regular way of living.”

Teddy Nez's home.

Nez said his children and grandchildren played in the land around his home, land that is teeming with deadly radiation.

While medical experts guess that approximately half the Navajo population has suffered some sort of health problem as a result of uranium exposure, specific percentages of those who are sick and what ails them are not easily determined. Most Navajos do not have access to health care, and even those who do rarely seek treatment.

In 2007, as part of the government’s five-year plan to clean up uranium-contaminated homes, Nez and his family were relocated to an apartment in nearby Gallup, N.M., so that the Church Rock mining site could be cleaned up.

Today at the site, bulldozers haul loads of uranium-contaminated dirt, and a single worker washes the area with water from a fire hose.

Nez and his family plan to move back into their home Dec. 23.

Nez has since joined the uranium activist movement and is now the president of the Red Water Pond Road Community, working to educate his fellow Navajos about the dangers of uranium contamination.

And he is angry.

“Some of my brothers say that the Indians are expendable,” Nez said. “(The government) can just use us as guinea pigs for anything they come up with. We need to be listened to.”

Anna Rondon, a local uranium activist, wants medical treatment and uncontaminated living quarters for the Navajo people.

According to Rondon, Southwest Research was monitoring the uranium problem in Navajo Country as early at 1971. At the time, Indian Health Services said the radon levels were too low to pose a health risk, she said.

“I just didn’t believe it,” Rondon said. “This is why I sought out other experts who had experience working with radiation.”

According to Lane, the issue gained national attention with the Waxman Congressional Hearings in 2007, led by Rep. Henry Waxman (D-Calif., 30th District). The hearings, which examined the negative health and environmental effects of uranium mining on the reservation, shed light on the plight of the Navajo people for the first time.

Now, the Navajo EPA, the national EPA, the Abandoned Mines Land Program and the United States Army Corps are collaborating to tackle the enormous task of cleaning up the radioactive waste, Lane said.

In the 1980s, the group mapped out the areas with the highest contamination. They are working on cleaning up those areas first, Lane said. Over the years, various governmental agencies have worked to tear down and rebuild homes built with radioactive rock. However, these efforts have never been a centralized effort – a reoccurring problem in the cleanup process.

Lane said that mapping and data collection are a necessary part of the process, which takes time.

“We got a handle on what’s out there,” Lane said. “It takes a lot of money to clean up water, and it’s going to take a lot of money to clean up the old mines.”

It’s only in the last two years that any serious cleanup has gotten underway.

“The problem with uranium mines and mining is that it involves a lot of communities,” Lane said. The wide scope of the problem has slowed down the process, she said.

But 40 years is a long time to wait.

“They knew (the danger),” Nez said of the federal government. “All they were interested in was money. It’s like what’s been happening to the native people since 1492. We have just been pushed aside.”

While Rondon agrees that some progress is being made, she says it has stalled over the years.

“(Rebuilding) is going on,” Rondon said. “But not as much as it should. They’re always making the excuse that they don’t have the funds. But it’s been almost 40 years of waiting.”

But Lane said the Navajo EPA is doing what it can with the resources available.

“I think the (Navajo) EPA is doing as much as they can given the funding they’re given,” she said. “I think the government does not realize how big the problem is … because we’re so remote and our nation is so big.”

Rondon adds that “institutionalized racism” is a major barrier to the cleanup and relocation of Navajos away from contaminated land.

“Public policies either work in your favor or work against you, depending on the color of your skin,” she said.

Perhaps the most concrete example of “institutionalized racism” was in 1979 when there was a massive uranium spill in Church Rock, Ariz., on Navajo land – the largest peacetime release of radiation in history. A dam holding back thousands of gallons of uranium-contaminated water burst, and 94 million gallons of radioactive water was released into the Rio Puerco. This massive spill occurred the same year as the Three Mile Island accident in Pennsylvania, which was cleaned up almost immediately. But 40 years later, the Navajos are still waiting.

The Navajos’ spiritual connection to the land, which is as sacred to them as Jerusalem is to the Jews, Christians and Muslims, compounds the problem of cleanup.

“We must do (cleanup) in a sacred manner,” Rondon said. “This industry has stepped on us so much. All we really have is our spirituality.”

Most Navajos won’t leave the reservation, even if it’s slowly killing them.

“We’ve been here for seven generations,” Nez said. “We’re not leaving. We’re connected to Mother Nature. That’s how it always was, and that’s how it’s always going to be.”

As a uranium activist, Rondon understands the danger of uranium; as a Navajo, she recognizes her people’s unbreakable ties to the land.

“It’s not that easy for us,” Rondon said. “We’re really connected to it. We can’t just get up and leave. We have such a deep connection to the land, the earth. It’s like, (if) we go somewhere else, (we) die.”

Freelance makeup artist Christy Frustaci applies eyeshadow to Shahana Mahajan at the L’Oreal ovarian cancer research fundraiser at Walgreens on Sept. 17. Photo by Rachel Morgan.

Eye shadow, blush and powder are used to educated women about the disease.

For celebrity makeup artist Collier Strong and his team, the battle against ovarian cancer is personal.

“I have a dear friend in hospice with ovarian cancer as we speak,” said Strong, who has been the makeup artist for Eva Longoria Parker, Kerry Washington and Diane Keaton. “I also have three sisters that are healthy. It’s the least I can do to lend my expertise and talent to something that will raise funds for ovarian cancer.”

He and a team of freelance makeup artists hosted a day of free makeovers at Walgreens at 42nd Street and Broadway yesterday in honor of Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month.

From 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., customers got free mini makeovers and consultations from trained professionals.

They could also share their own stories of how ovarian cancer had touched their lives.

Shahana Mahajan, of Jersey City, knows how important early detection is when, it comes to cancer survival rates.

“My husband’s sister died a couple years ago from ovarian cancer,” she said as a makeup artist applied shimmery, gray eye shadow to her lids. “If she would have known earlier, things may have turned out differently. This is an important cause for me.”

Mahajan, a professor at Hunter College of the City University of New York, also works at the New York University Langone Medical Center as a research scientist.

“The thing with cancer is, if you detect it early, a lot of times it is curable,” she said. “If not, there’s really not much you can do about it.”

According to the American Cancer Society, if ovarian cancer is detected and treated before it has spread outside of the ovary, there is a 93 percent survival rate.

But the ACS said that less than 20 percent of ovarian cancer cases are found at this stage.

That’s why L’Oréal Paris, Strong and a team of trained makeup artists have teamed up to raise awareness of the disease that often slips into the shadows of more publicized types of the disease, such as breast cancer.

“I think it’s great to bring awareness,” said Christy Frustaci, a freelance makeup artist contracted by L’Oréal Paris for the event. “If you’re a woman, then it’s something you should think about. I think it’s great that L’Oreal does this.”

In addition to hosting events such as Friday’s mini makeover sessions, L’Oréal Paris has launched the Color of Hope Makeup Collection to raise money for ovarian cancer research. With the purchase of every Color of Hope item, the company will donate $1 to the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund.

In 2009, the ACS estimates that 21,550 new cases of ovarian cancer will be diagnosed. Of those cases, 14,600 will result in death.

Danisha Beltre, coordinator for public relations and strategic philanthropy for L’Oréal Paris, echoes Mahakam — awareness, which leads to early detection, is key.

“The key word here is awareness,” Beltre said. “Especially with a disease like ovarian cancer. The symptoms are relatively everyday symptoms. We, as women, need to be in tune with our bodies. A lot of times we are so busy taking care of everyone else — our children, husbands, families — that we forget to take care of ourselves.”

This is especially important for a cancer that currently does not have an early detection screening method — symptoms are the only indicators. Symptoms of ovarian cancer include abdominal pain, difficulty eating, feeling prematurely full, frequent urges to urinate and bloating.

Beltre has seen what happens when these symptoms are overlooked.

“My grandmother died two years ago from ovarian cancer,” she said. “The symptoms were unclear. They were everyday symptoms that women often have. By the time (it was detected), it was incurable.”