New Year's Traditions

   
   


     For many, the month of January is filled with New Years Resolutions -- extra time spent at the gym, better eating habits, and more time spent with family -- but for me, it has always been a month of books. As a little girl, there was nothing better than unwrapping my presents Christmas morning and receiving enough books to tide me through the winter break. With a fresh stack of crisp books sitting on my bedside table, and three weeks of no homework, I was invincible. I road a raft with Huck and Jim, explored planets with St. Exupery, and fell in love alongside Jane. Years later, not much has changed. In fact, at the risk of exposing my inner-nerd, each New Years Day, starting at midnight, I read my very first book of the year from start to finish as everyone else settlers into their beds.
    This year, I read books of all sorts--my first Grisham mystery (don't tell any of my bookish friends), some Nouwen to work through the challenging spiritual crises death brought my family this year, and of course, no year would be complete without my Virginia Woolf. However, my latest book, The Other Wes Moore, deserves its own attention. After finishing this book, I cried a little and wrote a letter to the author (a rarity despite my bibliophilia). Wes Moore, the author, is a Rhodes Scholar, combat veteran, White House Fellow, and a business leader in New York. He also was raised in Baltimore surrounded often by the tragedy that poverty, substance use, and violence bring to communities. Not too far away, a man the same age, with the same name also grew up. However, this Wes Moore is serving a life sentence in prison for the armed robbery and murder of an officer in February of 2000.
     In light of the recent tragedies and tensions surrounding race politics, poverty, criminalization, and the safety of our police force, this book really struck a chord with me. Moore's main question throughout the novel is why did he end up in a place of privilege while "the other Wes Moore" is behind bars? Without placing the blame completely on education, poverty, substance use, mentors, genetics, or environment, Moore does a brilliant job of describing the complexity in which our urban youth live. While he shares "stories" from both  his own life and "the other Wes", he is sure to explain, "I don't want readers to ever forget the high stakes of these stories--and of all of our stories: that life and death, freedom and bondage, hang in the balance of every action we take" (xiv).
    He describes his childhood as one of turbulence. His father died in his presence, his mother working endlessly to make sure he was sheltered as much as he could be. Moore describes entering his neighborhood as "being assaulted" (48).  Low expectations over-shadowed much of his community and Moore describes the joy with which he overcame such expectations. In the end, he notes that his mentors, his mom's firm belief in education and moving out of poverty, and fate are all to blame for his success. In fact, the subtitle, One Name, Two Fates speaks to the strong weight he places on fate's role in his life and the life of the other Wes. The word "fate" in itself implies some kind of serendipity, lack of control, or perhaps predetermined. This was truly the sense I got from reading his comparison of his own life and the lives of the thousands of other children that will never rise out of the poverty that assaults them.
    While fate is uncontrollable, I was touched by the true power of kindness, resilience, and friendship played in the outcomes of both Wes Moore's lives and their futures. I was inspired by the chance that in my own future, I could imagine a world in which we have better methods, practices, education systems, and programming that speaks to the children the way the author of this book was spoken to. In my own lifetime, we can find ways to improve the resilience of youth, the empowerment of women, and decrease the violence and criminalization found in larger numbers in communities of color and poverty. There could be no greater New Years resolution!

The Research Behind Compassion

      

“We have the choice to use the gift of our life to make the world a better place--or not to bother”
-Jane Goodall

    With a blog focused on compassion, I came to the realization that I have yet to directly write about it. So what is compassion and why is it important? Compassion is the feeling of caring for and wanting to help others who are suffering. The tricky part is our society has made compassion a trait rather than a skill. Someone does something kind, or is more sensitive to someone else's suffering, and we say, "they have such an incredible gift of compassion." However, research supports that compassion is not a God-given value but rather a cultivated skill which places each of us at an interesting crux; will we choose to cultivate compassion?

    Perhaps the best examples are those individuals that have already made the choices, and by most standards, have succeeded in such cultivation. Take for instance, Dr. Richard Davidson, the Director of the Center for Investigating Healthy Minds. In 1992, he was encouraged by the Dali Lama to integrate his rich understanding of neuroscience with creating a kinder more compassionate world. Since then, Dr. Davidson has become the leader in compassion research. His findings have indicated that through meditation training, engagement, generosity, and the hope of nurturing well-being in ourselves and others, we can grow in compassion exponentially. Perhaps even more interestingly, is that as our actions change, entire brain regions respond that increase i our ability to be empathetic and to experience more positive emotions. 

    Or what about the public figures we consider outliers that allowed compassion to define nearly all their actions? Mother Teresa, William Wilberforce, Nelson Mandela, Albert Einstein, Mahatma Gandhi, Jane Goodall, Malala Yousafzai -- all of these individuals are standouts for their ability to feel the suffering of others and to do something about that suffering. At the same time, each of them has been referenced speaking about the incredible amount of effort it took to reach the level of compassion they have for others. Take for instance, Albert Einstein, who said, "Our task must be to free ourselves by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty." Einstein describes being more compassionate as a "task"; if it was a task for one of the most intelligent men to ever live, consider what it means for us.

    It is in the struggle to become more compassionate, the tenacity it takes to work through the challenges we face, and the incredible truth that being compassionate is tough, that I find most inspiring. Compassion is a process-oriented ability. What wonderful power it is to know that to be more compassionate is simply a choice!

Dear White People

Last week, Taylor and I went to watch "Dear White People" in theaters. The film was the winner of the 2014 Sundance Film Festival Special Jury Award for Breakthrough Talent and is a funny, satirical conversation surrounding racial politics in a predominately white and affluent college. Interestingly, on the face of it, "Dear White People" was a direct conversation with privileged whiteness but perhaps even more so, the film asked how blacks find acceptance among other blacks despite the many different challenges they may face related to assimilation. 

Don't get me wrong, as a white woman of privilege, the film made me think quite a bit. As the one of the only two white people in the theatre (with the other being Taylor), I couldn't help but grow a little embarrassed and shocked at the ways that white culture can largely ignore movies that are specifically crafted to uncover the privilege that we take for granted. Not to mention, the humbleness that overcame me as I realized how often and easy it is for a white woman of privilege to put their foot in their mouth when discussing race. 

However, the ways in which "Dear White People" addressed the enormous challenges of the affluent black middle class was the most startling. The film spoke to the ways that my generation's black community is perhaps confronting new problems: assimilation vs culture, mobility vs loyalty. I laughed and felt uncomfortable the whole way through which in a wonderfully metaphysical way captures the ways that most of us deal with race and politics now. While I was impressed and probably could only ever understand 1/8th of what my black counterparts did from the film, there are other ways where I have tried to be a firm ally for the black individuals in my community and other racial minorities. 

To start with, I have recognized that I come from a place of privilege in which often times the best thing for me to do is to shut my mouth and have a good listen. As a white, educated woman, it is my responsibility to be sensitive to the needs of my community, especially those that have a history of disenfranchisement. Touching upon this, is this concept of whiteness. What is whiteness and how do we develop a culture of whiteness without regressing to the Jim Crow South? A new project titled The Whiteness Project is one way of starting to look at the ways in which whites identify today while also being deeply concerned with the racial tensions that underline whiteness as a concept. 

All-in-all, the message of uncomfortableness is an important one. I encourage each of you to check out the film and reflect on where you personally fit into the dynamic that it sets up. I know I for one will continue to be thinking long and hard as I piece together where I fall and the ways in which I can help create the most equity. 

Imprisoned Because of a Volleyball Match

Sign the petition here. 

In June, Ghoncheh Ghavami, 25 year-old, dual Iranian and British citizen was arrested along with a dozen other women as they tried to enter a stadium to watch the Iranian national men's team play volleyball. She was subsequently placed in solitary confinement in Tehran's Evin Jail, which has a reputation for holding political prisoners and journalists. 

The Iranian government has banned women from football games since 1979 and has since extended the ban to volleyball since 2012 claiming that the government hopes to protect women from the "lewd behavior of male fans." Amnesty International has called for an Urgent Action for Ghoncheh as they believe she has been put under psychological pressure due to the multiple threats she has received by prison guards and public officials in addition to her unjust confinement. 

Due to current political relationships between the UK Government and Iran, it seems that the UK has been thus far unwilling to help her and relieve the suffering of her family. Her family is hoping that with the pressure of the global community placed upon the UK that she will be released to be with her family once more. 

As a volleyball enthusiast myself, I hope to reach out to all of those who have yet to hear Ghonchech's story. Commit yourself to being part of the community that advocates for the rights of women and make volleyball a safe place for spectators globally!

Brittany Maynard

     

Brittany Maynard

Brittany Maynard, a 29 year old, teacher, wife, and daughter that was terminally ill with cancer, chose to end her life in Portland, Oregon by utilizing the Death with Dignity Act last Saturday night. Patients that choose to utilize the Death with Dignity Act take a fatal dose of barbiturates, prescribed by their doctor, when their suffering becomes too great to bear. As a hospice volunteer and a Catholic I have heard a spectrum of arguments and opinions in which individuals try to place the Death with Dignity Act somewhere on a moral spectrum.

To me however, Brittany Maynard is a hero because of the courage she displayed while showing the world the true challenges within the death and dying process. As a hospice volunteer, I have had the experience of seeing some of the most dignified deaths. However, I have also had the challenging experience of seeing individuals pass with no friends or family members and in debilitating pain. I believe Brittany's story speaks to those dying in loneliness. Brittany hoped to bring awareness to something most of us choose to ignore each day--death.

In a perfect world, I choose to believe that patients would not choose to remedy the death and dying process with the Death with Dignity Act because they would be treated with the upmost compassion by our society, they would be dignified with a supportive hospice or palliative care rather than barbiturates, and they would be held in love by all those that surround them. However, I also recognize that the rates of individuals dying in hospitals rather than in the support of hospice care is increasing, I have seen first hand with my Papa's death and my research as an undergraduate that the restricted funding for hospice has caused hospice care workers to devote less time to patients and their families, and that the fear of death is being promoted by our societal misunderstandings of death being a scary, horrible event.

For those that have grown disgruntled with Brittany Maynard's choice, I understand the uncomfortableness that accompanies someone willing to take their own life in what many deem an "unnatural way". However, I encourage you to consider the ways in which your actions promote individuals in that situation to lack choices. Does death as a concept make you uncomfortable? Do you promote compassion and love to those living on the margins of society? Would you be willing to accompany a stranger, a friend, or a family member on the challenging and unforgiving road of death and dying. These are all questions that accompany a dignified death that excludes the use of the Death with Dignity Act. Too many people are dying in group foster homes, with no access to friends or family members, too many people are dying too early because of systemic issues that are awaiting our effort in changing.

I challenge you to consider what death looks like for Americans in 2014. Is it something you are satisfied with? I for one am not and am dedicated to changing the ways that our society views death, accompanies the dying, and creates policies that promote compassion for patients and their families. So for this reason, moral arguments aside, Brittany Maynard is a hero. She took an issue that tends to fall into a category of black or white and asked us to see the grey in-between. The Brittany Maynard Fund has fittingly been set up to support Compassion and Choices. As an advocate for compassion and with the hope that the lives of those that are in the death and dying process can be dramatically improved, I encourage you to read through her website with an open eye and heart.

Adopted Families

Maiyan on our very first day together.

   
    The last few months have brought a lot of changes in my life. I moved back to San Diego to be closer to my family but at the expense of leaving behind many friends that have become family in Portland, a beautiful city, and fulfilling volunteer opportunities. In the midst of all this change, I have reflected a lot on the meaningfulness that the relationships in Portland brought to my life in the last four years. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the love and support I received and continue to even after the move.
   Aside from all the wonderful friendships I made in college, and the nurturing environment my professors offered me, one of the greatest blessings in my life has been the family I nannied for. I still remember being invited to interview to watch 4 year-old Maiyan. Sheila, his mom, invited me into the house and I quickly learned the power that a loving mom held. Her questions were refined, focused, and she left no room for ambiguity; Sheila was on a mission to find a fit for her family that was for the long haul. Despite the intensity of Sheila, I remember finding her assertiveness endearing and I knew that I was meeting a woman that in many ways I could look up to.
    A few days later, I was invited to trial spending time with Maiyan and his sister Aliyah. We walked to the frozen yogurt shop and shared dessert and a lot of laughter. I watched a shy little guy turn into a goofy comedian as the sugar hit his tongue. After that day, I began spending time with Maiyan each week and as the weeks progressed, I knew that this would be a family that would always be a part of my life. Over the last few years, I have fallen into the arms of a family in a way I never imagined. They were a part of birthday celebrations when I couldn't return to San Diego, Sheila and Jason (Maiyan's dad) became mentors and advocated for me as I moved from student to professional, and the girls and Maiyan brought me joys I have only known when spending time around my own siblings.
    While a lot of the changes of leaving Portland are reminders of the blessings I had while I was there, being further away from this family is also a reminder that the concept of family is flexible. It takes a special family like Sheila and Jason's but I learned that it is very possible to be humbly accepted as a true member of a family even when you start in the position of stranger. I continue to be empowered by their example here in San Diego and am excited to see what distance does for strengthening the beautiful relationship we already have, as I know it will!

Juneteenth

    

 On June 19^th 1865, African American slaves in Galveston Texas learned that slavery had been abolished in the United States. The news of the end of slavery reached the Texan citizens last of all the states a whole two and a half years after the first slaves were freed. June 19^th came to be called Juneteenth and has since been celebrated in commemoration of African American freedom and emphasizes education and achievement. On the first day of celebration, citizens ran into the streets celebrating their freedom, they enjoyed picnics, and many pickup baseball games distinguished the event that marked the end of their time as slaves.

     While it is striking to me that up until only a few years ago, I had never heard of Juneteenth in a history class or in elementary school, what still shocks me most about Juneteenth is the ability for the slaves in Texas to have such important information withheld from them for such a long time. In the age of immediate communication, tweets, facebooks, texting, and dare I say the word, selfie, it is hard to imagine a world where information isn’t at our finger tips.

     But with greater reflection, I think some parallels can continue to be drawn. It is estimated that about 100 million Americans have no way of accessing internet at home. Whether it is a result of living in a rural area where access doesn’t exist, or the cost of a computer and internet service, being disconnected seems to be a function of being poor. And the implications of not having access to internet in our age are huge. Consider job applications, taking classes, or the amount of time the average person spends googling whatever small questions they may have (not to mention the fact that “googling” is a verb many of us feel comfortable with). The fact of the matter is, many of our most impoverished citizens live in a place where they are behind the rest of us in knowing what is going on in our world.

     This is not to say that the average person would have to wait two and a half years as they did in the 1860s but who are we kidding? Today two hours can be a life time. Our time is one defined by digital social movements and networking cites becoming platforms for reform. How is it that we have allowed the voiceless to remain muted when we know the repercussions? Bill Gates said, “the internet is becoming the town square for the global village of tomorrow” and I would go so far as to argue that by limiting that access to our most impoverished we have eliminated their say in participating in our town square. 

Nonfiction and Social Justice

     

We learn early in grade school that nonfiction means a true story while fiction is made up. But odds are, we have all read a memoir or a historical biography and come to realize that nonfiction really means that our stories are as true and accurate as possible for the author. In essence, it means that nonfiction is deeply concerned with matters of memory and perception as they reconstruct what they view as truth on the pages of a novel.

     After being stunned by Katherine Boo's beautiful first novel, Behind the Beautiful Forevers, a nonfiction narrative about the families in Mumbai, India and the cycle of poverty that prevents upward mobility, I began to think more about the impressive way that our perceptions can impact issues of social justice.
In the novel, Boo explains the intricate ways that the community of Annawadi is woven together. Like many novels of its kind, it comes back to themes of education, poverty, the justice system, and the role of women and children in impoverished families. In this way, Boo’s novel is able to bring a piece of reality that many of us will never understand personally and allows us to get to know pieces of it.

     Take for instance the challenges that have become public in Nigeria with Boko Haram terrorizing the women, children, and families that have been killed or lost loved ones. Unfortunately, we know that events like these are not outliers they are happening everywhere and at great costs. Truths as difficult as this, make me feel hopeless in reconciling the difficult terrors that people are facing and hopeless because I know that it is difficult for me to be a part of a solution that would be helpful for the many that are suffering.  

     However, Katherine Boo’s novel was a reminder to me that while I may not have any control over the events that happen across the globe, through writing and expressing in the most truthful way the events that many Americans may not know about, I can help promote justice. Katherine Boo has become an expert at weaving together the memories and perceptions of many people into one story that becomes a tangible piece for people thousands of miles away from where they occur. So while it is difficult to not feel hopeless about a change that may rectify the pain felt by so many, I will continue to live out my commitment to social justice by sharing people’s stories who may be voiceless with the utmost narrative truth that I can muster.

Little Prinz Book

The Little Prinz book is now available for purchase. All proceeds go to the children at Little Prinz. To learn more about the Children's Home, check out our website! The children are very proud of their pictures and are eager to share them all with you.

Familia ni Nyumbani "Family is Home" By: The Children of Little Prinz, Kenya 

Uncle Chris

Each morning as I press the snooze button to continue sleeping for a few minutes more, I know in the back of my mind that sleep will not come. Kanga, my 27 pound, inherited, feline cousin has been classically conditioned to Pavlovian standards—the alarm sounds, and Kanga comes running to the door meowing for breakfast. Likewise, when I return from work, before I can take off my shoes, Kanga begins circling my feet mewling incessantly. Most people would consider this obnoxious and trust me, there are early-morning moments when this is true for me as well but, for the most part, each time Kanga reminds me of his presence I feel a little warmer in my heart and I can’t help but smiling. This is because Kanga has been the very best gift to remember a gift that is no longer with us, my Uncle Chris.

The last time I spent time with Uncle Chris was in October of 2013. I took the train to Montana to spend a few days with my Grandma Gail and the rest of my family that lives in Montana. For most of our visits, it embarrasses me to say that Uncle Chris went ignored. He was always loved and important to our family but in a lot of ways we took for granted his kindness and gentleness while we were busy with the more “complicated things in life”.

On this visit in October, I surprised Uncle Chris on Sunday as he didn’t know I would be visiting and sat right beside him at church. Being the friendly man he was, he quickly turned to me to welcome me to his church and introduce himself. As he realized we were more familiar than he had thought, a big smile flashed across his face and he began to laugh with excitement. His laugh is memorable broken into loud bursts of ha’s and head bent back as if he knew more than the rest of us how important it was to relish in the joy laughter brought along.

Later that day, my family went to lunch and my Uncle Chris shared his route to work as he walked under the tunnel and across the field to get to Lowe’s. He had pride in the things he did without considering what others might think of him. He simply lived to do his best and be proud of whatever that might look like. And how rare is that? I think this is perhaps the most admirable quality about my Uncle Chris.

Rather than the pride that most of us hold for achievements that we believe make us better than others or lofty goals that we have finally conquered, Uncle Chris celebrated the small achievements alongside the bigger ones. He would rest his elbow on my shoulder and celebrate that I made a good arm rest. He would sleep on the couch during every family reunion rather than the beds all the rest of us had and smile because he had a tv.  

In essence, Uncle Chris found joy everywhere he went. He found joy in the beautiful world that surrounded him, in his home, and he found joy in individuals. And wow! What a feeling when he found joy in me. He was present and engaged in whatever I had to share and he was eager to know more. There was never a phone in front of him while he texted and talked. There was never a worry that interrupted because the time he was spending with me was precious. Unfortunately, I didn’t really understand how precious my time with him was until I didn’t have him around.

My very last memory of Uncle Chris is just a noise. While Aunt Laura, Grandma, and I chatted upstairs, Uncle Chris had escaped to the basement to watch a Seahawks game. From two flights of stairs away we heard a loud and resounding roar of excitement.  Apparently, the Seahawks had done something pretty special. And in this moment of reflecting on the gentle man my Uncle was, I am reminded that perhaps Kanga’s meows in the early mornings are little reflections of the joy that Uncle Chris left behind with us. It is true, that my Uncle didn’t have a life that most people would deem esteemed. But the truth is, in the most unconventional ways, he reminded us all that having only the necessities, making the choice to be happy, loving unconditionally, and practicing kindness always are the true moments that we most meet love in life. 

Artists Bring Activism Alive

Yue Minjun

“I’m actually trying to make sense of the world. 
There’s nothing cynical or absurd in what I do.” 
-Yue Minjun

Most of us are familiar with the “tankman” that stood up to the Chinese tanks on June 5, 1989, the day after the Tiananmen Square Massacre. As we draw closer to a day to remember this man that has remained seemingly anonymous, I began to reflect on the immense power that the young activists had on China.

In China, June 4^th is referred to as the “June 4^th Incident” implying that the events that day were a chance occurrence. However, the “incident” could more accurately be referred to as the June 4^th Democracy Movement. University students began mourning the death of Hu Yaobang, a liberal reformer, by protesting in Tiananmen Square in May.  Students hoped to expose the corrupted government and argued for democratic ideals such as freedom of speech, press, and worker’s control over industry.  At the peak of the protest, it is estimated that a million people were assembled in the Square. It wasn’t long before this protest became a massacre. On June 4^th, Chinese militants used force to break up the protest killing many (because China banned foreign press we may never know how many died) students and innocent bystanders.

Execution, 1995

The Chinese government condemned the protests as a counter-revolutionary riot and continued to prohibit all forms of discussion or remembrance of the events since. And so, the responsibility of remembering, even in the face of imprisonment and threats has fallen upon the artists of China. Yue Minjun, a Beijing artist most commonly known for oil paintings and sculptures depicting himself frozen in time smiling painted Execution in 1995. By 2007, his painting had become the most expensive Chinese contemporary art work ever sold at 5.9 million US dollars.

Soethby’s, a global art business that serves “the most discerning clients” (i.e. wealthy art collectors) stated that Yue’s Execution is “among the most historically important paintings of the Chinese avant-garde ever to appear at auction”. While Yue has stated that the painting should not be viewed as depicting what happened at Tiananmen Square, most critics argue that because of the politically sensitive nature of his work, he has no choice but to deny its strong inevitable connection with the Massacre of 1989. In addition, Yue’s classification as a cynical realist-an artist that describes the living status with a cynicism and mocking ridicule art attitude, using self-opinion to understand political and commercial realms-again places him in the activist’s seat as an artist.

This is not the first time activism has fallen into the hands of artists. As a book-worm, I am more familiar with authors that have woven activism between their lines. Poets like Thoreau, and authors of the Harlem Renaissance, the Bloomsbury Group, and even in present day, Junot Diaz all wrote/write about the injustices they observed around them. However, more foreign to me, are the painters and sculptors that made similar stands. When I began to research Yue Minjun’s role in activism, I found that there were a few other paintings that were eerie in similarities.

El tres de Mayo de 1808

In Francisco Goya’s painting, El tres de mayo de 1808 en Madrid, Goya depicts Napoleon’s armies during the occupation of 1808 in the Peninsular War. Just as Yue’s painting shows the victims as powerless, terrorized, and peaceful, Goya shows the innocent dead in a heap as the others have no defense to the raised guns of the French. In the late 1800's, Edouard Manet painted a series of paintings titled, The Execution of Emperor Maximilian. Again, there is an unnerving similarity between the paintings of Minjun and Goya. The firing squad, positioned almost identically to Goya and Minjun’s militants aims at the short-lived emperor.

The Execution of Emperor Maximilian

With no claims to be an art critic, I was most struck by similarities between the paintings but also, the courage of the artists behind them. Despite political ridicule and the sensitive subjects they were tackling, these artists forged on because they believed that sharing the image was more important than remaining silent. If nothing else, this seems to be a symbolic truth: as individuals we know far too much to remain silent. I believe we must all find our own mediums whether it be a paint brush, a pen, or profession and break the silence of injustice. 

Yuri Kochiyama

     

Yuri Kochiyama, the first time I heard her name was in BlueScholar’s song which gives tribute to her legacy. After last week’s loss due to the death of Dr. Maya Angleou, losing another courageous heroine of our time has reignited my passion for social justice and the dedication to dignifying every human being.

      It seems like the articles published about Yuri throughout the day have done a good job at summarizing her biographical information. She was born in 1921 and spent most of her life in San Pedro, California. However, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and fear overwhelmed logic in the United States, Yuri, her family, and about 100,000 Japanese-Americans were forced to relocate to internment camps. Yuri’s family’s experience was particularly traumatic because her father was jailed by the FBI and was so sick when he was returned to his family that he died the very next day. While in the internment camp, Yuri met her husband who eventually served in the 442^nd Regimental Combat Team (worth reading about).

     The young couple was married after WWII and started their family in NYC in the projects surrounded by other low-income families (and most minorities as well). There, she began holding weekly open houses for activists to engage and contribute to social justice. Her advocacy became even more radical as she became involved in the Black Panthers where she fought for the Civil Rights Movement. And perhaps the achievement she is most known for was when her and her husband pushed for reparations and a formal government apology for Japanese-American internees through the Civil Liberties Act.

     So here we have a woman that fought for what she knew was right and waited for the rest of the world to catch up with her. The majority of reports I have read today have been quick to acknowledge her involvement with Malcom X, and her time at the internment camp, but I would argue that by focusing on these small pieces of the person that made her the heroine she was, they’ve missed the mark.

     To me, Yuri Kochiyama’s legacy will live on because not only was she a minority woman that was treated inhumanely and with cruelty but also the simple truth that she was a woman and still knew she had a voice. Not only that, she was a mother that taught her children that they had a voice. She was energized by the hope for the future and she didn’t ruminate on the hatred that surrounded her and those she supported. In short, despite being at the bottom of the totem pole, she was resilient and her resiliency was able to be the torch that lit the fire for millions of others to follow in lighting their candle toward racial and gender equality.

     A piece of our history has been missing from the text books since the time history began. Minority populations, the  marginalized, the women, the “other”. To me, Yuri took that history book and exposed its faults. Her living example is proof that one person with compassion, a critical understanding of the systems that most accept, and a zest for life can change the world in incredible ways. So today I pay tribute to a woman that regardless of her involvement with the Black Panthers, or having been in an internment camp, was courageous, radical, and did the world good in her own right. I hope her and Dr. Angelou are looking down on the future activists of our world with kind eyes and hope for our future.

Let's Talk About Meth

Meth—a stimulant drug kind of like amphetamines that makes you feel good, gives you energy, keeps you awake and then sky rockets your blood pressure and heart rate, gives you skin sores, meth mouth, causes cognitive decline, and makes you look old and often sickly. According to the 2012 Monitoring the Future study, a NIDA funded survey of teens in grades 8, 10, and 12, 1% of 8^th and 10^th graders, and 1.1% of 12^th graders had abused meth at least once in the past year. That doesn’t sound like a lot but after working for 5 months at the Juvenile Delinquency Center, specifically in a residential drug and alcohol treatment unit, I can tell you that 1% is enough to morph the lives of too many youth.

Typically the unit had about 15 kids ranging from 12 to 17 years old at any given time. Many of the children had been through the program once before, or twice. Nearly all of the children reported having seen meth growing up in their homes, a history of chronic homelessness, domestic violence, poverty, and poor attendance at school. In a conversation with one exceptionally intelligent youth (he taught himself calculus on the computer in his free time), I was told it was better to have a roof to sleep under and friends to take care of you at the cost of using meth then to be all by yourself and homeless.  With all the scientific evidence we have that points to the importance of peer groups and social acceptance, it was difficult to suggest this young man was in the wrong.

To add further complexity, what we know about the teenage brain suggests that it develops unevenly starting in the back and moving towards the front. Because the prefrontal cortex (the very front of your cortex and in charge of judgment) has yet to be fully developed, impulses are nearly impossible to control and risky behaviors are ultimately the consequence. Meanwhile, the amygdala (in charge of emotions) and the nucleus acumbens (motivation) are developing more quickly than the prefrontal cortex. Therefore, while the teenage brain begins to reel with emotion and be highly motivated to work towards whatever they deem important, there is no regulator to find what is appropriate or safe.

So what does this all mean for the kids I got to know? For starters, it means that just as a result of normal development, teenagers are at a deficit which is often compounded for children by poverty, violence, poor parenting, limited mentors, and lack of education. It means that to understand how to bring the 1% of teenagers using meth to 0%, we need to educate ourselves more on how the brain works and understand that children at risk often times play a smaller role in their addiction that the judicial system would like to admit. We label these children as delinquents, force them to live in isolation for 6 months, and expect them to be done with drugs forever. How does this line up with what we know scientifically?

Even more so, decreasing teenage drug use is not limited to stronger rehabilitation research. We need to reverse cycles of poverty and violence that plague our most marginalized citizens. In this way, issues of homelessness, adult drug addiction, food insecurity, the social isolation of homosexual youth, poor education requirements, and the expensive cost of living are exceptionally related to the children that are using at such a young age. So to the reader that finds their actions are unrelated to youth sitting in a concrete room at the delinquency center, your actions today can influence them greatly. In the words of Margaret Mead, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” Today is the day for you to become a member of that group of thoughtful committed citizens.

Ever Heard of Mary Seacole?

Mary Seacole

Yesterday, the hospital celebrated Florence Nightingale. For most of us, Florence’s name rings a bell as she is attributed with founding nursing as a profession and the creator of the pie chart. A Victorian heroine, she set up and ran a hospital in Scutari during the Crimean War, organized an association of nurses, and made strides in improving hospital care. Celebrated for leaving her life of luxury and working in the trenches with the soldiers, Nightingale is often a symbol of unconditional empathy and care for those she served.

While I am a long ways from being a historian, I do know that the 1800’s was victim to horrible race relations. It was a time in Europe that while black citizens may have been free, they had few civic rights. Meanwhile in the US, the North and South were at war with slavery being a key tenant of the struggle. Just last week, I finished a novel by Lois Leveene, The Secrets’ of Mary Bowser, which is a fictional narrative about the historically true heroine, Mary Bowser. Leveene pulls deeply from historical records to piece together what may have been reflective of the life of Mary Bowser, a woman that began her life as a slave, was educated, set free, and later became a spy pretending to be a servant for the Confederate President as she fed information back to Lincoln’s administration. So how is all of this connected?

With Mary Bowser in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder, was Florence really alone in the founding of nursing as a profession? Turns out, while Florence should be applauded for the good she did, she too continues to collect the fame that arguably should be attributed to Mary Seacole, a black woman that nursed patients alongside Florence Nigtingale in the Crimean War but was forgotten until only 20 years ago.

Mary Seacole, similar to Florence Nightingale, had no professional training but was equipped with healing knowledge because of her Jamaican mother. After the War Office denied her request to help nurse the dying soldiers, Mary Seacole sold all of her belongings to pay for an independent trip towards the front lines where she too nursed the soldiers on the battlefield and set up a hospital. In short, Mary’s career rivals that of Florence Nightingale’s despite the tremendous adversity Mary faced as a mixed race woman. After the war, Mary returned to England in ill health and destitute. During this time, she published her memoirs, “The WonderfulAdventures of Mrs. Seacole in Many Lands” (a free downloadable book on amazon!) which is attributed to being one of the first autobiographies written by a black woman of mixed race.

Perhaps my history textbooks had a missing chapter, but I think it is safe to assume that the majority of us have yet to learn about Mary Seacole, or as she was lovingly referred to, Mother Seacole. Perhaps it is easy to say that Mother Seacole flew under the radar because of the time period she lived within, that if it was today she would be given the credit she was due. But more difficult is the sobering truth that even today, despite the efforts of historians and sociologists to revive her name, Mary Seacole and others like her are forgotten in celebration and conversation.

It is hard to not draw comparisons between the two women. Despite both of their efforts towards social justice and health, it doesn’t take an academic to understand that while Florence did leave a home of luxury for the front lines, Mary Seacole left a life of hardship with the courage to change the world despite her social position and what could be more heroic or courageous than that? For me, Mary Seacole’s life story is an inspiration to continue to work towards the good no matter your position but also, that the voices of minority men and women have yet to be given the credit they deserve in both the past and the present. I believe that by sharing the stories of heroines like Mary Bowser and Mary Seacole, we are making steps towards a more equitable future. With that being said, spend five minutes of your day sharing Mary Seacole’s story with someone you know, read her book, or Google search her picture. In educating ourselves about the shameful secrets of the past, we are paving a world of justice for our future!

Let the Next Chapter Commence!

Happy Graduates and Dr. Baillet

I spent this last weekend reflecting on the gift my education has been as I celebrated Commencement with the rest of my UP class of 2014. I find myself so fortunate to look back on the last four years with a heart filled with gratitude. Despite the excitement, I couldn't help but feeling a great loss as well. Looking around at the crowd of caps and gowns I realized that my chapter here was closing and with it the free time spent with friends, nights roaming dorm rooms, and professors that mentored me towards adulthood.  

Even as a child I was good about having a plan for the future. When I was nine I decided I wanted to be a psychologist and it is almost laughable that my nine-year-old plan has more or less begun to pan out just the way I had hoped. But as gifted as I am at planning for the future, I am often quick to forget to reminisce on the joys the past brought. So today, I am taking a break to recollect those simple joys that marked my college years, the lessons learned, and the little moments that made all the difference.

1. Gratitude- Positive psychology research has found time and time again that the secret to happiness is not so much of a secret. We all know it feels good when someone is grateful for something we have done; college taught me that the reciprocal is true too. Expressing gratitude is the #1 lesson learned in my time at UP. There is nothing more powerful than sharing with those that support you that their support means something. Gratitude lets you notice the beautiful people, things, and moments that often go unnoticed. Gratitude introduced me to evening walks in the slug garden, Saturday mornings at the Down Town Chapel, and sharing a meal with good friends.
2. Power of a Letter- If gratitude is the ultimate lesson, the letter is its medium. College taught me to always have a box of blank notes on the ready to send a thank you for a professor spending extra time coaching me through a class, for a roommate with a bought of homesickness, a Valentine for my grandmas, or a “just because”.
3. See ya laters- Perhaps one of the most difficult lessons will be saying goodbye to the friends that have formed the person I have become. I am so blessed that many of my friends I met at the airport on my first day continue to be my very closest companions. Hiding in the midnight adventures, Disney movie sleepovers, neurobehavioral all-nighters, and Commons brunch on a Saturday is the poignant truth that at some point, we all move on to jobs with new cities and miles separating us. The pain of saying goodbye is one of the most beautiful sufferings life can bring. Henry Nouwen said, “The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” These are the friends I have begun to say goodbye to as they move abroad, begin their careers in the airforce, or back home where visits will be less frequent. It is in the pain of the physical distance that will separate these intimate friends that there is also a visible beauty of the strength our friendships have formed.
4. Teachers that meant more than that- UP is filled with good professors but the ones I will remember are those that moved beyond a teacher and became a mentor, friend, and trusted advisor. The moments of kindness that you can’t write on a professor’s eval are what made the class time worth it.
5. Service-Recent research found that serotonin (the neurotransmitter that makes you happy among other things) is used more efficiently by people who have just engaged in an act of kindness.  Service has shaped the person I am becoming and given me eyes to see a world of great suffering but moments of kindness and love. Service extends beyond the positive biological attributes of happiness and creates a world moving towards peace and justice. Service brought me out of myself and taught me to walk with humbleness and compassion. Service brought me friends from all walks of life and without service, I am certain that many of my experiences would have been devoid of meaning. Service connected classwork to my reality.
6. Fundamental Attribution Error-is the tendency to emphasis internal characteristics to explain someone else’s behavior rather than external factors. This means that when the jerk cut you off on the freeway, it is because he is an insensitive narcissist instead of perhaps considering that he is late to the biggest job interview of his life and he’s been unemployed for two years and trying to raise a family of three kids. When I took the time to resist against this very human error, I found I was happier, and I could make the people I was around happier.
7. Good Food and Good Sleep- they’re important. Enough said.
8. A Family on Thanksgiving and a Home to go Home to-The reality of choosing a college that is 992 miles away from home is that I spent Thanksgiving away from home. It also meant that when grandparents grew sick or siblings were born odds are I would have to send my love through a phone call or a letter. Despite the challenge of feeling distant from the people I love most I was blessed to have families that brought me into their homes and treated me like one of their own.  At the same time, I learned to appreciate the vacations spent back home soaking up all the nighttime snuggles of my siblings, hikes with my mom and aunt, long runs with my yellow lab, crafting with my grandma, and movie nights with the whole family.
9. Family that Visits-College is hard not just because of the academics and new social territories but because for lots of us family is far away. One of the most wonderful gifts friends and family gave me over the last four years was coming to visit. It is so special to share the city that you live, your home, and your friends with those that you care about back home. I will never forget spending the last night in the dorms with my mom in the bunk underneath me, having my sister and brother come visit to celebrate my 21^st birthday, enjoying the worst rainstorm of all my time in Portland with my cousin Eric at Autzen Stadium where it “never rains”, and touring a high school friend’s grandmother’s house where she use to feed the soldiers of WWII. In short, life is sweeter when you can share it with those you love!
10. A Good Book- When all else fails, a good book and a long day in bed transformed any rainy day into a day that felt like a beach day in OB. In college, I discovered my love for Virginia Woolf and her Bloomsbury counterparts, Paulo Freire, pushed my way through Vonnegut, and memorized the first few lines of The Canterbury Tales. Each of these  were able to draw me out and bring me somewhere else for a short respite.

All this to say that joy doesn't just happen; we have to choose joy. Before leaving for Portland four years ago my Auntie Kim reminded me that we have a gift everyday but we choose whether we will accept it. The gift of happiness is always ours for the taking and with it comes joy. Joy is a gift I am happy to have accepted numerous times during my time on the Bluff. Choosing happiness lead me to be more flexible, empathetic, creative, and resilient. I’ve learned to laugh at myself a little more, and to do things that feel good. I enjoy nature more than I ever had before--I take time to watch the birds feeding out my window, wait for the flowers to bloom, soak up the sun while my dog rolls in the grass. So as this book closes and a new volume begins, I find comfort is sitting with the good times that pulled me through and look forward to the moments in the future where I will choose happiness again.

Read Me Some Tolstoy

“Read me some Tolstoy” four words I might have dreamed being asked but never in my wildest dreams did I actually think someone would. The truth is, I had been working up to this moment for quite some time. As a kid, on road trips, I was the obnoxious ten-year-old that would insist that the rest of the car listened while I read to them through the winding roads of the 101. And I wasn’t just hoping for an audience, they needed to be captive. My mom was often the first to remind me that she wanted to enjoy her ride too and to my vexation, I would be muted in the back seat with the exception of my quiet murmuring about the lack of sophistication surrounding me in the car.   

Unfortunately, my talents have continued to be stifled despite my dramatic readings of precious literature. Just last month, I found out that Taylor, my boyfriend, had never read Jane Eyre and so me, being a thoughtful woman,  agreed to read to him aloud so that he could have the full experience. To my chagrin, Taylor fell asleep within 8 pages. And so, again, my book was closed to the sounds of my soliloquy to a vacant audience. It seemed that no one could appreciate the leather bound beauty that sat atop my bedside table for the next two weeks while it collected dust. For this reason, I thought that my opportunity to read aloud must be forever tucked away saved for exceptions , exceptions that subdued my creativity, like when young children wanted me to read Hop on Pop or Brown Bear, Brown Bear.

But as Tolstoy says, “the two most powerful warriors are patience and time”, a few days ago the opportunity of a lifetime finally fell at my footsteps. My hospice patient—smart, well-educated, and painfully quiet—sat opposite me in a lazy-boy. For two months I have visited for about 4 hours each week and have been instructed to quietly study at the dining room table until it is time for me to leave. So when I arrived, without hesitation I checked that the patient had a glass of water, felt warm and comfortable, and then settled into my corner getting ready for four hours of silence. After two hours I heard a stern voice behind me. Directing me towards him, my patient pointed to the cat condo he used as a book shelf and ordered, “read me some Tolstoy”.

 Until this moment my life may have been unfulfilled but I am certain that years of reading in back seats of cars and the disappointments of my listeners drifting off to sleep only made this moment sweeter. As I closed Tolstoy’s Collected Short Stories, my patient looked up at me and smiling said “now, now you are very good, a very good orator; pleasant to my ears.” Nothing else could have made up for the years of distress in the beginnings of my career.