Water The Roots
We spend most of our lives watering our leaves . . .
but we rarely stop to water the roots.
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Liad (Israel)
The reason for our “chutzpah”
When one travels while being an Israeli Jew, there are some questions you must be prepared to
be asked repeatedly almost every single time you get to know a new fellow traveler: your views regarding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the peace process (or lack of it), the recent high profile anti-Semitic incident, and, more often than not, your country’s infrastructure and the quality of life in it, to name a few.
Though three months of backpacking have made me proficient in responding to any of those topics thoroughly, there’s one other Israeli tribute that I would like to take the time to discuss: the “in your face” attitude, commonly known as chutzpa.
I’m almost positive that every one of you who has met an Israeli person was shocked (sometimes even appalled) by our bluntness. We say what we think, in many cases without being asked to share our opinions and with zero respect for personal space.
To an outsider, this behavior may seem vulgar and invasive, but the way we see it, it’s perfectly normal.
We have a saying here—“All of Israel vouch for one another”— meaning we all see ourselves responsible to help each other through difficulties. If that’s the point of departure, is it any wonder that everyone else’s business is my own as well?
It may be overwhelming to imagine complete strangers allowing themselves to force their ways into your life, but take a minute and think of how many times you’ve seen a person crying alone on a bench in the park without anyone trying to reach them. In my country, it won’t happen. For some reason, when you’re in need, there are always helping hands surrounding you.
After the usual Q & A session, I always responded with a question of my own: “Do you miss home?” Obviously, the vast majority did miss home to some extent. Some missed their friends, some missed their families, but no one who wasn’t Israeli said they missed their country. When I asked specifically, “Do you miss France / Germany / the US?” and so on, I was still answered with “I miss the people I have waiting for me there, not the place itself.”
We miss the place itself, we miss hearing Hebrew spoken on the street, we miss the cranky old lady on the bus yelling that you’re talking too loudly. The way we see it, it’s an immense and substantial part of our home’s identity.
Very few Israelis I know consider emigrating and settling in a different country, and it’s definitely not because life here is a walk in the park. This country has many enemies and we’re required to serve in the military for three years without any payment, everything is extremely expensive (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, Israel’s two metropolitan areas are also two of the world’s ten most expensive cities to live in, both ranking higher than NYC) and the list goes on.
I believe that it’s that very same chutzpah, that feeling that we all share one destiny together, is the reason we’re all not planning on getting out of here. People have always looked for and relied on the feeling of “togetherness” and that’s the sole thing this country has never had a shortage of.
So the next time an Israeli person sticks their nose where it doesn’t belong, it’s not because we’re trying to meddle, it’s because we care.
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Mitch
Dear Desiree:
“Water the Roots” is an appropriate metaphor. It compares us to trees that are nurtured by the environment, getting both water and food from the soil and spreading seed so that new trees can grow in the vicinity. The analogy is not perfect, but close enough. The main difference is that we are more mobile and are able to plant our trees and get nurtured in different places as well as spread seeds for trees in those new places.
My name is Mitchell Locks. I am Jewish, an American citizen born in Chicago, Illinois in 1922, a Ph.D. in Economics from the University of Chicago, a former professor at Oklahoma State University as well as a former statistician in the aerospace industry and retired for almost all of the past 25 years. I also worked in the computer industry in some of my early years.
My most immediate roots go back to the Ashkenazi Jewish community of Eastern Europe, my father from the vicinity of Kiev in the Ukraine and my mother from Belarus, both areas then a part of greater Russia sunder the control of the Czar. Both my mother and father arrived in America at the turn of the 20th century in the great migration of Jews from eastern Europe that occurred at that time. My mother and father met in a night school for new immigrants, married, and had three children, the last of which was me.
I know relatively little about my father’s family because he was the only one in his close-in family to come here, most likely to escape service in the Russian army. My paternal grandmother died in birthing my father, her first and only child. His father remarried, so that my father was brought up by a caring stepmother and became the older brother of his 6 stepsisters. We had some limited contact with his stepmother and stepsisters after World War II, who at that time were all living in Moscow, through letters, several international telephone calls and some relief packages, but that contact was not maintained.
By contrast my mother’s family came in its entirety within a period of a year or so, my grandfather and grandmother, all 11 of their children, plus my grandfather’s 13 siblings and their families and my grandmother’s brother and his family, as well as my great grandmother whom we knew as der bubby Hirosha. The reason for the big hurry of so many related people making the trip at nearly the same time is that there had been a pogrom in their town. My great-uncle Morris Raginsky, a gentle giant, killed a pogromchick with his bare hands and escaped town; the rest of the family(ies) followed as soon as possible. All of them came to Chicago initially, so that I knew all of my uncles, aunts and first cousins on that side of the family, as well as many great uncles and great aunts, first cousins of my mother and even some second cousins, their children.
I had an older brother, Herman, and still have an older sister, Debbie. Herman died at the age of 58, but Debbie, thankfully, is still around at the age of 94, with her faculties intact (she has a computer and communicates on the internet) living alone but with enough help to take care of things she can no longer handle by herself. We kids had many great memories, particularly of our maternal family. Three times a year, Passover, Rosh Hashanah and Chanukah we would all gather at zadie and bubby’s house, together with our uncles, aunts and 14 first cousins for holiday celebrations. The Chanukah get-together was particularly noteable. Each grandchild received a silver dollar (99% pure silver in those days) from zadie and a kiss as well as a kiss for bubby, followed by either a quarter, dime or buffalo nickel, or sometimes a 5-cent package of chewing gum, from an uncle.
The holiday celebrations of the Ragins family continued after the death of our grandparents in the 1930’s, first with my mother and father hosting annual Chanukah parties where the delicacy was my mother’s Russian-style blinis lathered with all of the sour cream and melted butter your heart could handle and later, with the first cousins spreading out all over the United States, with annual get-togethers at that time of the year at a restaurant in Chicago. Remarkably, these Chanukah parties of the Ragins family with the first cousins and their respective families were held until about three years ago complete with Chanukah Gelt for the children and remembrances of zadie and bubby who started it all.
Speaking about “roots” there is a Ragins family tree that traces a significant portion of our ancestry back to the middle of the 18th century. This tree shows that there were marriages of first cousins to first cousins, or uncles with nieces, as is permitted under Jewish law, but is not always legal today under the laws of the states of the USA. When we (my wife Rochelle, our daughter Ronna and I) moved to the Southern California area in 1959 there were a number of second cousins here, who had formed a cousins club that in effect became our extended family pro tem. I expanded the family tree to include the common ancestors of all of the members of the cousins club living in this area so that we could all see how we were related to one another. Another version of the tree was a later expansion put together by a cousin, Hertsell Conway, in Chicago. The tree is now maintained electronically by a third cousin, Marcia Rapp, who lives in Kiryat Arbe in Israel.
The foregoing has all been about my historic roots. Now for a new set of roots. This can be traced to 1936 when my foresighted future in-laws did the greatest favor anyone ever did for me by bringing their 14-year old daughter, Rochelle, and her brother and sister to Chicago from Lithuania, in time to forestall the consequences of their all remaining in Europe. I knew Rochelle as a classmate in Hebrew High School and as a chavera in Habonim Labor Zionist youth. It took a little time to establish a serious relationship, but we were married in during World War II in 1943 when I was in the civilian reserve of the US Army taking specialized training in electronics. We had three months of marital bliss while I completed the training after which I was sent on active duty, which included a year and a half overseas, mostly in the Philippines.
I returned from the Army in January, 1946, initially to take graduate training in Economics at the University of Chicago, as well to welcome into the family near the end of that year our “baby boomer” and only child, Ronna. Rochelle and I were married a total of 61 years until she died in 2004. The years since my first teaching position at Duluth, Minnesota in 1949 can only be described as an “adventure.” We lived in four different states: Illinois, Minnesota, Oklahoma and California, in six different communities: Chicago; Duluth and St. Paul, Minnesota; Norman and Stillwater, Oklahoma; and Beverly Hills, California. These stays are not consecutive; they involved six different interstate transfers of our household goods, the last one back to California 25 years ago.
Now there are more sets of roots in our family due to trees that were planted in California by our daughter Ronna and her husband Rick Shpall who were married in 1973, They have three beautiful and talented daughters: Rebecca, Jessica and Elana; Rebecca and Jessica are both married, Rebecca to Ron Sandel and Jessica to Ezra Rosen, who is both a Ph.D. and a medical student. Rebecca is a practicing dermatologist and now also the mother of three boys: Jonah, 3 , Benji, 2, and Joshi, 2 months. Jessica is a practicing attorney and Elana is a medical student.
Having known and interacted with my great grandmother Hirosha who was born in 1840, I have lived long enough that our combined intersecting lifetimes covers parts of three centuries, the 19th , 20th . and 21st . If, by God’s will, any of my three great grandsons or their future siblings, if any, or future first cousins, if any and in due time, are fortunate enough to live as long as I have so far, that chain will reach another century, the 22nd .If you augment the tree at the other end with ancestors whose names are on the Ragins family tree, my “virtual” lifetime could potentially reach all the way back to the middle of the 18th century, making my “virtual” lifetime potentially 5 centuries. To “stretch” an example that has already been stretched a little too much, you could further augment the tree with 4+ millennia of Jewish history as recorded in the Hebrew Bible.
There are two more set of roots, Desiree, that I would like to say something about. The first of these is the common Jewish heritage that you and I and our respective families share, with about 14 million other people, that facilitated my friendship with you dad, even though we both come from different backgrounds. The second set of roots is the one planted by the founding fathers of this great and beautiful country that we both live in, due to the foresight of our parents and other ancestors. This being an election season, it is worth keeping in mind that it will remain as it has been so far with “government of the people, by the people and for the people” and “liberty and justice for all” only if its citizens vote intelligently in choosing their elected officials. This election appears to be the most critical one ever, even more so than the one in 1860 that preceded the war between the states. In my opinion the current administration is not doing the “right” thing to preserve the kind of country that you and I would want for our descendants.
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Desiree
“We’ve been Jews for 3,300 years, and Iranian for 2,500 years. It’s not something that leaves your identity quickly …”
That’s the response I had received from the former secretary general of the Iranian-American Jewish Federation when I asked him about what he saw as the future of the Iranian-Jewish identity. It’s a question that entered my mind again when Iran and Israel began dominating the news over the past weeks, and one that I returned to again this week, as Tel Aviv celebrated the holiday of Purim, a Persian-Jewish historical event dating back to the fourth century BCE.
The Iranian-Jewish identity I’ve experienced is a complicated one. Due to the persecution and exclusion their parents had faced before fleeing Iran, many second-generation members of the Iranian-Jewish diaspora in the U.S. have come to base their perceptions of Iran on the memories they inherited from their parents: stories of grandparents being arrested for owning bookstores with Hebrew books, and similar tales of religious prejudice against Jews.
For years, second-generation Iranian Jews like myself had no reason to feel a sense of solidarity with Iran; every mention of Iran in the media centered on the actions of a government we disapproved of, and a president who consistently made anti-semitic and anti-Israel remarks. How could foreign-born Iranian Jews—most of whom had never been able to even visit Iran—possibly feel a connection to Iran, and Iranians abroad?
Then the June 2009 election in Iran happened.
As thousands of protesters filled the streets of Tehran to denounce the fraudulent election and Ahmadinejad’s presidency, it became clear that his government did not necessarily represent the Iranian people. Despite their emotional and physical distance from Iran, second-generation Iranians suddenly found themselves following the lives of Iranians their age, via Twitter and Youtube, during the disturbing events of the June 2009 election aftermath. The people and the struggles many members of the Iranian-Jewish diaspora had left behind after the 1979 Revolution, and had been able to forget, began to resurface.
It was then that I realized something that I was sure most of my Iranian-Jewish peers realized, too. More than 60% of the population of Iran is under the age of 30, meaning that they were born after the 1979 Revolution. In other words, the youth protesters in Iran could have been me or any one of the members of my age cohort, had our parents not left Iran after the revolution thirty years ago.
And yet, most of the Iranian-American Jews I interviewed after the elections said they felt little to no connection with the protesters in Iran.
Over the course of twenty interviews, I came to realize that I was somewhat of an anomaly in terms of the strange affinity I felt with my Iranian identity, despite the fact that I have been unable to visit Iran and that I’ve heard similar tales of religious persecution from those who fled Iran after the 1979 Revolution. But I also know that these stories don’t characterize all Iranians, and are in most cases over 30 years outdated.
And so it’s sad to me when an entire population becomes reduced to negative memories and tied to a regime that many of them clearly don’t even support. You hear stories like the one about the grandfather who was arrested and imprisoned because he owned a bookstore with Hebrew books in it — but you don’t hear the end of the story. That while he was in jail, the prison guard had recognized him as the author of his third-grade math textbook, and had helped him escape. You don’t hear about the moments of humanity.
I think about what it means to be “Iranian” now, when any time the term is brought up it has an explicitly negative connotation. If you read about Iran in the news today, there’s no doubt that you’re reading about it in the context of nuclear weapons and sanctions. Recently, any time I’ve been asked about my Iranian identity, it’s usually been about whether I think Israel will attack Iran, as if my Iranian identity grants me some expert opinion.
But what’s worse than the perceptions created by the news coverage of Iran are the perceptions that entertainment media has intentionally sought to create. Tomorrow, March 11, is the long-dreaded premiere of “Shahs of Sunset,” Bravo TV’s new show portraying a highly unrepresentative sampling of wealthy Iranian-Americans as superficial, lavish and spoiled. It’s shameful that the show’s participants have allowed themselves, and their community, to be portrayed this way. But what’s even more shameful is what producer Ryan Seacrest has endeavored to do: commodify and exploit a product—really, a people—because he recognized a consumer market for it.
With all this, it’s easy (and sad) to see how an Iranian-Jew can grow up thinking of him or herself as a “self-loathing Persian,” as someone once put it. To be ashamed of his Iranian ethnic identity and the connotations it brings with it, both in terms of its political and cultural stereotypes. As one Iranian-Jewish university student I had interviewed admitted to me: “I disassociated myself from my Iranian identity a long time ago.”
It’s times like this where having an excuse to celebrate my Persian-Jewish cultural heritage, through Purim, is a welcome respite. I like thinking about what my Persian identity has given me access to: delicious Iranian cuisine and tea, poetry from literary masters like Rumi and Saadi, and Farsi, a language that is among the oldest in use today. I like thinking about how long the Persian-Jewish identity and its traditions have survived: over 2,500 years.
It’s just much harder to acknowledge that its future among Iranian Jews in the U.S., who grow ever more alienated by the representations of their Iranian identity, may not last much longer.
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Inbar (Israel)
A couple of days ago, a friend of mine told me there was something she wanted to tell me. After the usual “You’re pregnant?” and “So, getting married?” auto-responses from me, she told me she had recently decided to become a vegan. This unexpected transition occurred after she had watched some of the clips that are recently running around the internet, particularly on Facebook. She was appalled by the views to the point of nausea, after which came the contemplation that concluded in making a decision.
A big step for any person, no doubt, but this particular friend descends from a long and distinguished Argentinian family. And that’s the real problem.
You see, Argentinians are world-renowned for their carnivorism. For an Argentinian father, a gay son, as bad news as it gets for a Latin man, is still favorable over a vegetarian son. And don’t think that daughters get any discounts. So you can imagine her feeling between a rock and a hard place. In fact, at the time she told me that, I had learned that she had only confided in her brother. Her father hadn’t heard it yet.
It was obvious that she needed to unload, so I let her tell me about the entire process she was going through. Since I don’t share her views on either the pseudo-medical justification or the moral justification of becoming a vegan, I couldn’t help myself but occasionally respond to some of the points that she brought up.
I didn’t do it to start a discussion. Honestly. I respected her decision (like my volleyball coach always used to say about bad referees: “He has the right to be wrong”…) and I had no intention to convince her otherwise. I was just being a typical guy, unable to tell an “I’d like you to help me or tell me what you think” situation, which us guys tend to default into, from the famous, elusive and uncharted “I need you to shut up, listen and nod” situation. And to be honest, she wasn’t trying to convince (or convert, if you prefer) me either.
And suddenly, as my ADHD temporarily took over my train of thoughts, it hit me.
I realized what the single, most significant thing I disliked about religion was. Any religion. Be it Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Science or Apple (the latter two being my symbiotic religions). It was the obsessive, unapologetic, unforgiving urge to not only be certain that you are following the right way, but rather to try to convince others to desert the path they were taking and follow yours. Willfully at times, forcefully at others.
It’s not the only thing I don’t like about religion. There are a few more, such as the arrogance to believe that religion itself (or even the Bible alone) already has all the answers to all the questions, but that is all beside the point. It’s the “My way or the highway” attitude.
And suddenly it occurred to me that the fact that she was telling me about her transformation without trying to convince me to tag along was so unusual that it actually bothered me.
Looking back on various conversations I had throughout my life in Israel, it was starting to be evident that Israelis have this tendency to try to convince others to go their way. “Dude, you just HAVE to watch The Wire. I’m telling you, it’s the best TV show ever!” Or “We just came back from two weeks in Thailand. Man, you just HAVE to go there!” Or how about, “Man, this iPhone is amazing! You HAVE to get one! Throw that stupid Nokia already!”
I was trying to figure out why it is that we do that. Where the need to be trend-setters and leaders comes from. The best explanation I could come up with, as shallow as it may sound, is that by seeing people following our lead, we draw reassurances to the correctness of our choices and the social value that we carry. We’re actually trying to convince you to do something so WE can feel better, not so YOU can.
I have decided to put myself into observation mode for a couple of weeks. I will try to listen to conversations around me and to listen to conversations I’m in. I’m going to try to NOT engage myself in trying to convince people. I’ll try to just say “The Wire is a great TV show, I had an amazing time watching it” without adding “you HAVE to watch it if you haven’t already.”
Old habits die hard. I wonder how well I’ll do. And since I’m only starting tomorrow, I’ll conclude by saying that this is one of a few epiphanies I’ve had in my life, I think it’s a great idea and you all HAVE to give it a try.
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Collin
Ball So Hard: Iowa
Iowa. I once had to show a college-educated person from the east coast where the state of Iowa was on a map. I wouldn’t say this is the first time something like this has happened to me, but come on, how could you not know elementary geography?
I was born and raised in Iowa and went to college in Iowa. Now, I get the pleasure of working in Iowa. The state of Iowa and I have a love hate relationship. I love it because, well, it’s where I’m from and who doesn’t have a piece of their homeland in their heart? I love it because I can attend football games at my alma mater. I love it because the cost of living is low and the people are generally genuine. I love it because it’s an underdog and we don’t get any respect. To be honest, I could go on for quite a while.
However, at times I also hate Iowa. I hate it because there’s nothing to do here. I hate it because people say there are endless outdoor activities, yet I hit the “endless” part by the time I was 12 years old. I hate it because Iowans have a love affair with chain restaurants and it can be difficult to find good local eateries. I hate it because most people are fine with throwing on jeans and wearing their “Anderson Family Reunion 2007” sweatshirts. I don’t know, maybe I’m just not your typical Iowan.
For some background on my up bringing … I was born and raised in Davenport, which has a current population of around 100,000 people. This makes it the third largest city in Iowa behind Des Moines (state capital) and Cedar Rapids. I’m from an area called the Quad Cities which consists of Davenport, IA, Bettendorf, IA, Moline, IL, and Rock Island, IL. Metro-wide I believe the population is somewhere around 300K. I’ll admit this is not a large assembly of the masses, but it is contrary to what most people think living in a agricultural state is like. Most people (particularly those who live on the coasts) probably think I rode a tractor to school and have one stop light in my hometown.
This is what bugs me the most about being from and living in Iowa: stereotypes. Every time I go out of the midwest bubble, I like to rep Iowa hard. I’m not trying to convince people to live here — God knows I want out — but I just want people to understand this state is not all corn and pigs. People probably think I worked on a farm growing up. Nope, in fact I’m pretty sure I never stepped foot on a farm until I was in middle school for some class project. I grew up playing sports, swimming in the summer with my friends, boating … you know, normal stuff. However, I must acknowledge this is a rural state.
Because of my job I get the opportunity to travel extensively throughout Iowa, and yes, I agree these stereotypes that I hate so much do exist (isn’t there always some truth to stereotypes?). My work usually takes me to small towns, and whenever I walk into a restaurant for lunch or dinner with my colleagues, we usually get the 180 degree head turn from the locals with the look of “You ain’t from around here, is you?” on their faces.
But in order for these stereotypes to come to fruition, you have to dig pretty deep. So deep in fact it’s probably not worth your time. I guess what I am getting at is Iowa is not what you think it is.It’s a surprisingly politically progressive state, where people dress horribly, waddle as they walk, and have a common respect for each other.
My intentions are not to sit here and write how Iowans don’t (typically) conform to stereotypes; you can find that out on your own. And if you don’t, at least you’ll know after reading this fine piece of literary excellence (unless you checked out at “Ball So Hard: Iowa”). If I could leave you with once piece of wisdom, it would be: Iowa is a fun time, if you like to drink. With that said, I’m gonna finish this beer and head to the bars. What else is there to do on a Tuesday night?
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Sarah
Recycle thyself
Where resplendent & irreverent splurts of information a la paper go to die…
Today, as sometimes happens, taking the recycling and doling it out into its respective receptacles became an ontological inquiry. This inquiry emerged when I noticed myself gazing into the paper waste bins. In fascination, I recognized that prior visits to this place had never quite aroused the depths of my curiosity. Rather, my modus operandi had been to be hasty with dispensing with my very well-organized recycling.
It was the paper waste that had elicited my youthful wonderment. All the love notes that moms scribbled and stashed inside their children’s lunch boxes, all the phone messages written in quick slithering pen strokes. The pen pals’ letters that had been traversing land and sea for decades, the notices of jury duty, the report cards and 1040 corrections were all resting together.
I was watching this pile of papers as a loved one might in a waiting room prior to their beloved departure to the beyond. All the junk mail, which we now get in electronic information bits as well as hard copies in the mailbox, didn’t seem so pesky anymore. I wanted to lift it all out and make a sheet of paper as lengthy and wide as Port Townsend’s charming downtown, a quilt of words and whispers to fly about in the westerly winds.
Why was I so fascinated? What was the waste illuminating inside of me?
I thought of my last job as a teacher at a preschool, and how the children related to waste, from excrement to trash. Children are inherently enthralled by the waste their bodies produce. Many that I encountered went through stages of development where their descriptions and explorations of their own refuse was boldly funny and focused. They were saying, “That which comes from me is me and not me.” It was a threshold between self and other.
When it came to food waste on the other hand, they indicated their disgust with hand gestures and amusing sounds if I asked them to remove the metal utensil that they had left on their paper plate, resting neatly atop the garbage in the can. It wasn’t that the spoon or fork was covered in the chalky white dribbles of their milk leftovers; rather, it was its cohabitation with garbage which aroused their disgust. Their snorts or poopoo’s were shared without an iota of discretion, because most children don’t filter out the emotional content of their psyches.
My students were grossed out by the thought of garbage, because the taboo had been indoctrinated. The reality is that garbage is just another expression of life.
And yet, the why and how of the huge mounds and small islands of accumulated waste are very curious details. Having recycling picked up curbside is an expedited process, like many processes that afford us greater mobility and freedom of time. Seeing the cycle of waste is akin to noticing how fortunate we are to have glass bottles to sip from and plastic lids for hot drinks and newspapers to connect us to the local, national and international stories of love, triumph, destruction and renewal.
In a time where mass consumption of resources is standard operating procedure, becoming a discerning buyer is actually a very important distinction. I get inspired, though sometimes dog-tired, by all the choices that allow me to feel ethical in my decision-making processes. I do feel wildly ethical when I say no to garbage and yes to recycling, or no to someone’s bad behavior and yes to myself for clear communication. I aim to recycle my thoughts regularly.
I am thoroughly intrigued by humanity’s long term vision of its own recycling and waste-management. Do we have one, other than making smelly piles for miles? Does it matter if we recycle and attend to our own consumption and waste? Yes, it does matter, because we are building uninhabitable landscapes, ones we call landfills, that are empty of content and value. What will our grandkids do with all that styrofoam and chemical waste?
I am ready to have my mind blown open by the innovative solutions that will surely ensue.
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Casey
“This study room is so cool. I hope the one at Davis House is similarly conducive to writing and sitting and thinking and sleeping and everything I can imagine. Internetting and chalking the boards with designs and digging through old computer parts, feeding and watching fish and washing my hands in the sink and brushing all the dirt from the painted desks that’s fallen from the potted plants that lay scattered across the room.
This is a place like where I want to live. Old computer parts broke-down and tangled with the overgrown foliage, tumbling out from forgotten pots, cracked shards and dirt lay mixed with keyboards, monitors and cords over the painted wooden floors. Rickety furniture supports some of it at different heights, and set deeply into the brambles are worn-out cushion chairs, comfortable and perfect for sinking into, sinking away from the present and into the past.
Bookshelves rise up like skyscrapers above the scene, trying vainly to stay within reach of the reading chairs, and stacks of books crouch around the chairs, lost denizens from the bookshelves across the room. More plants hang from the ceiling and jagged painting sidle up the walls and dash across the ceiling. I’ll enter this room to forget everything else.”
Come the end of summer, in August, this passage from my journal will be two years old — and I’ll have known this study room, the one in Casa Zimbabwe, for more than two years. This place, this house for over a hundred students, this cooperative has become a home for me, and I know I’m not alone in this view.
Casa Zimbabwe is one of 19 houses run by the Berkeley Student Cooperatives. The 124 people who live in it are residents of the second largest house, and approximately ten percent of the population living in the BSC as a whole. This system of cooperatives is easily the largest in the United States, as I learned from attending the NASCO Institute (North American Students of Cooperation); the next largest being cooperative systems in Ann Arbor, Michigan and Austin, Texas.
To zoom back in, the study room in Casa Zimbabwe sits on top of one of the wings of the building, with double glass doors opening onto a roof with a panoramic view of the East Bay and San Francisco. In there I likely did the majority of the work for my classes, essentially where I earned my degree at UC Berkeley, a double-major in English and Scandinavian, a spot on the Dean’s list, and a graduation in four years despite two majors and a semester spent abroad.
All of these things are nice to look at on a resume, but the real things I’ll take away from my time in college vastly differ from the collection of words most suitable for presentation to potential employers. The study room and Casa Zimbabwe were where I lived for two semesters and two summers — with one semester in between spent at another of the BSC’s houses, a Julia Morgan building called Davis.
I won’t remember what I worked on in the evenings spent in the crowded study room with other members of the co-op (Czars), but I’ll remember those people I shared the workload with — how people would bring us up trays of cookies they made before joining us at the desks, or would remind everyone that dinner was about to be served, or simply sit up and draw our attention before heaving an enormous, exaggerated sigh and sending the entire room into giggles.
I’ll remember how on weekends we’d take breaks and go to lay out on the rooftop in the glowing sunshine, with a jar of iced tea or a cold beer. I’ll remember the beautiful mess of plants and electronics and books, dozing in the deteriorating chairs, and pleading with the printer to please, just work, just this once. Mostly, though, I’ll remember my home, Casa Zimbabwe, and all the extraordinary, wonderful people I got to share it with.
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Desiree
With one semester of classes over and two more to go, I’ve been thinking a lot about my experiences so far in Tel Aviv, which has also led me to think about the experiences I brought with me upon my arrival.
I arrived in Israel with a sort of naive optimism that has been a product of the life I’ve been fortunate enough to live so far. It’s my past positive experiences that have allowed me to approach this period of time in a similar light: as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to explore everything both around and within me.
And I’ve come to the not-so-profound realization that it’s the very mindsets we maintain, shaped by our past experiences, that in turn have a huge effect on the way that we encounter the new people, places and challenges we come into contact with. Our past experiences can instill an openness and optimism towards new ones.
Yet, this won’t always be the case, since life isn’t just a compilation of pleasant experiences. There are bound to be some bad ones, and that’s a natural part of the human experience. The danger seems to result from when we let these bad experiences reign over the attitudes and expectations we hold in the present and future, and how we come to view each progressive development in our lives.
Over the past four months, I’ve grown acutely aware of the number of people that have adopted a jaded state of mind, one that they might argue is realistic pessimism. Their mindsets have normally been the direct outcomes of difficult life experiences that have come to shape their embittered perspectives towards human nature, the prospects of finding solutions to decades-long conflicts, and the possibilities for fulfillment in work and relationships, among others.
The experiences that these people have faced have been painful, and very real. But it’s hard to watch someone who’s lost faith in something for good—themselves, life or others—whether they’re young or approaching old age. We’ve all experienced difficult moments at some point in our lives, although the frequency and magnitudes of these moments vary considerably from person to person. Despite the pain, these hardships become invaluable testaments to what we can overcome, and in many cases, become a part of who we are today.
To be sure, there’s no denying the incredible difficulty in keeping these experiences from gnawing away at the naive optimism we begin our lives with, or maybe never even had a chance to feel.
It’s so easy to be optimistic about my future while I’m living in my year-long Tel Aviv bubble, shielded from the pressure and competition of the job market. Yet, how would I feel if I had been back home instead, applying to job after job for months at a time, without any success? Would I be able to ignore the experience of rejection and the creeping sentiments of failure from the past months, and approach each job application with the same tenacity as the last?
I can be optimistic about meeting someone who’s right for me in the future, but would I be as optimistic if I had had negative experiences that had severely affected my view of guys, for the worst? If I had fallen madly in love with someone and been with them for years, only to realize that the relationship had been destructive for both of us, would I still remain optimistic about being able to do so again, and this time with the right person?
If I had watched a loved one die an untimely death, would I still be able to entertain the thought that there is some greater entity watching out for us, or some sort of reason in this world we live in? If the death had occurred as a result of human actions, would I be able to restore my faith in mankind?
There’s an immense amount of strength one needs in order to overcome struggles like these, whether big or small, and avoid becoming jaded. It’s why I’ve come to have so much respect for those that have taken life’s hardships, in whatever form they may come, and fought past the strongholds of pessimism; they still have hope, and a lot of it. They remain optimistic about life’s possibilities, embracing each new experience and place and person that comes their way, despite the fact that they may still have scars from the last.
The writers this week have all had experiences that could certainly be defined as hardships or struggles in some way. Kevin was suddenly told that he needed to get surgery in order to avoid paralysis; Rachel overcame years of body issues, and heard words from her boyfriend that a girl should never have to hear; Vinit grew through the obstacles of teaching in a low-income community; and Meredith has struggled with watching her sisters battle depression and self-destructive behavior.
These writers not only dealt with their challenges, but they also came out of them with restored faith, a renewed sense of self, opportunities for growth, and a crucial piece of knowledge that now guides their expectations of the future: that even if the past hasn’t been in their favor, or if everything isn’t currently okay … there’s still always the hope that it will be.
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Rachel
Confidence: Wear It Like Make Up
Over the years, I have struggled to maintain a healthy self confidence and body image. Society places demands on us that one could deem impossible. These strictures force us to be self-conscious and completely obsessive over our weight, our make up, our diets, our clothing—everything. Because of this obsessive compulsive behavior, we get so stressed and uptight about these things that we forget to take the time to appreciate ourselves and be happy with who we are.
At this point in my life, I can say that I am perfectly happy with myself. By that I mean the way I present myself, where I live, what I’m doing, etc. People sometimes ask me if I ever feel conceited when I say I think I’m pretty or when I say I have a curvy figure and wouldn’t have it any other way. This is complete crap. Why on earth should I apologize for being proud of who I am? Do I need to begin every introduction with, “Sorry to be conceited but…”? Society has actually made us feel BAD for liking what we see in the mirror.
I started my first diet at thirteen. What the hell could I have known at thirteen? I wanted to be popular, I wanted to be pretty, and in order to do so, I thought I had to be skinny. It was at this point that my dance teacher started making comments about me being fat and needing to lose weight. By the time I was starting high school, I was down to 99lbs. I thought I was happy at this point. Over the next few years I gained a little bit back, but was still skinnier than the thirteen-year-old version of my “baby fat” self.
At seventeen, I had my first serious boyfriend. It was my first relationship of a more physical nature and we were happy. Happy, of course, until six months later he deemed me too fat to date. This was the worst thing for my seventeen-year-old self to hear.
After I had finally conquered round one of body issues at thirteen, round two came swinging back like a revolving door. I plummeted again and tried to get back to 99lbs. This time, my body was too developed and had matured too much from its thirteen-year-old version to ever be able to get back to that weight. But when I finally got out of my funk, all was well again. Aside from the occasional snide comment from my dance teacher, I was okay. Still more self-conscious than before, but not as bad as it had gotten in the past.
As the end of my freshmen year of college loomed, I was a mess again. Everything they say about the freshmen fifteen came true. I don’t even remember how, but I noticed it in myself, each and every time I came home for a break. So, sophomore year I started dieting again. This diet gave me immediate results and people I never expected gave me compliments. I relished in the positive reaction and kept it going.
As senior year began, I went through another tumultuous intimate relationship in which the guy I was with said he hated my body, didn’t know how I’d ever had boyfriends, didn’t know who would ever be sexually attracted to me, yet continued to use it. And I continued to let him. No girl and woman should be told such things. No one should be allowed to say such things. And undoubtedly, no one should ever believe such things. After a death in my family, I began thinking about life and what I was doing with mine. How could I let this person say such terrible things to me, yet continue to be intimate with him? I saw myself in this horrible cycle that I refused to let rule my life from age thirteen until the end. It was a wake up call, so to speak.
It took a lot of self coaching and positive thinking to begin thinking about myself in a positive light. I think I battled the demons fairly well. At this point in time, a year later, I’ve got my head on straight. I don’t place myself into any strictures that society demands. I eat what I want, wear what I want, look how I want, behave as I want.
I don’t want to have to apologize for liking the way I look. I don’t want people to think I’m a conceited bitch for liking myself. I don’t appreciate society placing these strictures on the way we see beauty and life. Everyone is beautiful. There is something unique and beautiful in each and every one of us. Embrace the beauty, embrace the uniqueness, embrace confidence.
My wish for those reading is that they can look at this as their opportunity to be brave and to change their view of themselves. It’s amazing what the positivity can bring. It brings happiness, it brings contentedness, it brings life full circle. Find the courage in yourselves to wear your confidence like make up. Keep your head held high and smile, because in life, there is so much worth smiling about.
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Kevin
Throughout the past year and leading into this new one, I have often thought about the moments that have come and gone. However, this reflection has normally been about each individual moment, rather than the whole collection that has led to the chaos, fear and excitement that took place over 2011. At least until now …
As I graduated from Berkeley last May, I thought to myself: What do I have to show for myself in this world? Of course there was the obvious diploma, but I was searching for something not so tangible.
This search led me to truly reflect about what has happened in my life up to this point in time. The past year has been one that I will never forget for the best and worst reasons. It all started with me thoroughly enjoying my senior year. Making great relationships, doing well in school, and overall loving life in the Bay.
Then came one of the worst moments of the year. During my winter break, I went in for a doctor’s appointment for ongoing leg pain that I had had for about half a year or so. I had been stubborn going into the appointment, initially thinking it was a waste of time. I thought it was just going to be the doctor saying, “Stretch better, it’s normal, you need to wear better shoes.”
I was very wrong. The doctor took x-rays and determined that my spinal column was slowly slipping off the vertebrae at different parts. Essentially the top half was falling forward off of the bottom half. I will never forget how he said it. “You are going to require serious surgery as soon as possible to avoid paralysis. I am very sorry that this has to happen.”
Apparently the pain I had felt was due to the fact that my spinal column was so far forward that it was pinching a nerve. Here I was, a 21-year-old right about to go back to my last semester at school, being told that I may wake up and not have feeling in half of my body. I took the information as best as anyone can after being told they have to have their spine pulled back in place. I was actually more anxious and sad to have to tell my parents who were in the waiting room. I felt angry, sad, distraught and just uncertain of what was to come.
We acted immediately and found the man who saved my life: Dr. Jeffrey Wang at the UCLA spinal center. He made me feel much more at ease than the first doctor I had gone to. He explained that this rare condition (Spondylolisthesis — definitely a mouthful) happens to many people, and that I had youth in my favor. He explained that while there were many risks that could occur, he had performed this type of surgery many times, though mine was a little more complicated since my column was almost 90% off of the vertebrae at the time of discovery. I scheduled the surgery, talked to my professors, quit my job and left school.
I was and am so fortunate to have had such a great doctor. My condition was greatly reduced after my spine was fused and locked in place with 6 rods and screws, and a plastic cage was put in to prevent the condition from worsening again in the future. I’m not going to lie, having your spine pulled back is not the best feeling in the world. It took me about 6 days just to be able to stand for longer than 1 minute, 4 weeks to be able to walk again to the mailbox down the street, and 3 months to be able to walk long distances without a walker. I didn’t know how long it would take for a full recovery, but I took it day by day. All I truly wanted to do more than anything was graduate on time and have my life back.
I returned to Berkeley about 2 months into my recovery to finish my last semester. For those of you who may not know, Berkeley is a very hilly campus. But, with a lot of physical therapy during school, medication at times, help from my friends (Beatles reference, but true in this case!) and help from teachers, I was able to overcome the hills, obstacles and pain, and ultimately graduate in May.
By the end of the school year, I was able to swim long distances for extended periods of time and begin workouts in the gym. My other main goal was to be able to get the okay from the doctor to travel to Asia with some of my best friends for a Model United Nations/senior trip. By the time July came around, I was able to go on runs, bike rides, and play basketball with almost no more lingering pain. The x-rays further reinforced my habits as the results showed that bone had completely re-grown and accepted the screws that had been put in, which made my spine and back very strong and secure.
This news eventually led to one of the best moments of the year and in my life: my summer trip to China, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. If you asked me in early February if I would be able to go on long hikes or bike rides, I would have asked you if you were crazy in return. But contrary to this initial belief, my group of friends and I went on a 20-mile bike ride in Cambodian Monsoon weather, a very arduous climb of the Great Wall, and a small swim off of an island in Thailand. As everyone does say, traveling was one of the most amazing things ever.
I sit here today in Los Angeles interning for a law firm, and about to begin the next chapter in my life (potentially grad school or more traveling). Again, I ask myself what I have to show this world after graduation, and what I have to show now, after I have reflected on my personal collection of moments from the year. I did not write this article to gain pity or sympathy, but I really wish to convey what I believe is an intangible quality that everyone needs and can find. Mainly, that is empathy of others’ hardships.
Each day, I attempt to gain empathy from new experiences, and continue to objectively try to correct the faulty biases I have. No one is perfect (believe me, I am far from it), but I believe that through determination, empathy of hardships of any kind, and an appreciation for everything around you, we can start to better ourselves little by little. I truly do mean everything. I am so lucky that someone found my problem, so lucky to have great social networks, so lucky to be living in an area with beautiful weather, and so lucky that I have been spoiled by traveling to other places in the world.
Now, instead of being angry for what happened to me, or harboring a desire to go back in time to college to leave this transition phase, I relish the opportunity to gain more empathy from my future experiences, learn from my past ones, and take on whatever is coming next.
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Meredith
I’m the middle child in my family. I have two sisters. Being the middle child, I have watched my older sister and my younger sister go through a lot. I admire my older sister and what she has overcome. She struggled for years with a social anxiety disorder without knowing it. In college she really struggled at first and had to go through therapy and medication. My older sister was able to get better and handle her social anxiety with her college boyfriend, who is now her adoring husband, at her side. She is a strong woman paving her way in the world by getting her dissertation and starting a career as a professor at a college in the U.S.
Then, my senior year after the situation with my older sister, a tragic event caused my younger sister to begin her struggle. My little sister started cutting and by the end of my senior year she was not in a good place. Only, I was oblivious to it all, as was the rest of my family. In preparation for college and being away from home, my parents had me go to a therapist. They wanted to be sure that something similar to what had occurred with my older sister would not occur to me. Frustrated, I refused to say much and got out of therapy as quickly as possible. I was not my sister and I was fine.
During my freshman year, I got a call from my younger sister after class one day and she told me that she had been cutting for nearly a year. She confessed that I had seen the marks and asked her about them, but she had written them off as cat scratches. It broke me that she had been doing this to herself and I had done nothing about it. I blamed myself.
It became clear throughout my college years that things with my younger sister were different than they had been with my older sister. My family and I watched her go through cycles of depression, cutting, insomnia and medical issues. We witnessed her in an abusive relationship and tried our best to be there for her without pushing her away. The fear of losing her plagued me, but worse was the compulsion to never let my parents worry about me. In my mind they had too much stress to deal with; I would never put any more on them. I was jammed between two sisters that had needed my parents, so it seemed logical that I should let them spend their energy on them and not have them worry about me.
This caused me to put on a mask of strength, a façade of ‘I’m fine’ even if I wasn’t. I would hide how I felt and lie and act happy at my own expense to protect my family and make things easier for them. It worked. My friends and those around me always thought of me as the strong one; I was the one they could come to for help. I was always happy and would do anything for them. I would help everyone else, but not myself.
So my mask worked. I even went through bouts of depression, but my parents never knew about it. Every so often I get depressed and push my way through it, never letting anyone know. In my head, I tell myself that everyone around has their own problems so they don’t need to hear about mine, yet the little voice in my heart cries out for attention, for one person to call me out on my bluff.
It wasn’t until about eight months ago that it really started to take a toll on me. I’ve realized that I can support my younger sister and still be strong, but have moments where ‘I’m not fine.’ My struggle has been to let my emotions out and acknowledge that I need support and help every once in awhile. I don’t need to be fine, to be strong. I am working on that and through it all I am still struggling. Most recently, I was hit with the news of my younger sister coming home early from her study abroad due to depression. To be so far away and unable to be there has been truly hard. She is doing much better, but every day is different and I never know.
To put this down on paper is a big step for me. It’s so hard to be honest about this to myself let alone to others, but it’s a step in openly admitting it. One day I hope to say it out loud to myself and to others. I hope one day to have the strength and courage to say to a person if they ask me how I am, ‘I’m not okay’ or ‘I’m okay today’ and actually mean it. Hopefully…
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Vinit
I’ve recently been asking a lot of my colleagues in Teach For America to describe their experience thus far in one word. The results were somewhat expected—challenging, stressful, and rewarding came up often. I realized a few days ago that I hadn’t really applied this same standard of analysis to myself; if I could describe my Teach For America experience in one word, what would it be?
I really had no logical context for asking this question. At the time, I just thought I was engaging in the traditional friendly banter I normally engage in with my fellow corps members. But as I started to interrogate more and more corps members, I started to understand that I was doing this for a reason—a reason that, at the time, eluded me. It took me awhile, but I started to understand that I kept asking this question to other corps members because I didn’t want to confront the question myself.
I began to realize that the reason why I was avoiding the question was because I wanted to avoid any high-level, profound introspection on what my experience in the classroom has genuinely been like. I wanted to avoid this question out of an implicit fear that the first word that would come to mind would not necessarily carry positive connotations with it. And then the perfect word hit me. It was so awesomely all-encompassing of my experience and encapsulated precisely the type of growth I had experienced over the past two years. I think it more importantly debunked any lingering fears I had about engaging in this level of self-introspection.
Organic. It’s been organic. My experience in the classroom (and perhaps more specifically, my students themselves) have shown me that life is not a prescription—that we have much more control over the decisions we make and the values we espouse than we think. It’s taught me that the simpler things are, the more rich those things can be. It’s taught me that value and happiness in one’s life can only ultimately be derived from within, and any external pursuit of happiness is reductively futile.
Organic. I can’t even provide a logical reason why this word so elegantly describes my feelings towards these lessons learned, but at times I think it’s because these feelings were not developed by force. I never bothered to put myself up against a wall or look at myself in the mirror while asking what I had learned from the experience. These lessons learned had become internalized so naturally that they are now so much more meaningful.
And as I think about where my life will go from here, I take solace in the fact that this idea that life is not a prescription will always be with me and will quell my worries when things aren’t going the way I’ve planned. This organic experience has brought a new clarity of mind that I don’t think any other experience could have, and for that reason I am forever stronger, happier, and healthier.
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Desiree
I saw a quote circulating on Facebook this week that I really, really loved. It was by Ira Glass, producer of This American Life, and it read:
“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners. I wish someone had told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple of years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase; they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know that it’s normal … ”
There was something really comforting about his words. I don’t know about having “good taste,” what the “game” is or if I’m even “in” it, but I do know that I think a lot about what I’m doing with my own creative project, “Water The Roots.”
I wonder if all my incessant harassment of friends and acquaintances to get them to write a story is worth it for them. I’m constantly thinking about how I’ll get this project to where I want it to be: encompassing a range of age groups, geographic locations, ideologies and experiences, weaving them together to create a more enriched picture of our world. But how do you go about asking any of these people—when you know they must be busy with work, school and other commitments—to take the time that they could spend relaxing from all of that, and use it to write a post for someone else’s silly blog? I feel strange every time I do it.
But I end up bracing the rejections and asking anyways because —and yes, this is going to sound corny—I really do love the stories that come in through “Water the Roots.” Even so early in this project, they’ve had a huge impact on me.
I usually spend a lot of time in my own thoughts, so I love the chance to spend some time in someone else’s. I love reading about what other people have to say, to get that glimpse into their lives that I normally wouldn’t, and to learn from their experiences and perspectives no matter how removed they may be from my own. I love that people have felt comfortable enough, in the small space that “Water The Roots” has created on the web, to share their personal stories, thoughts and feelings.
I like that I can reach out to people I haven’t spoken to in two years— like Willi, someone I briefly worked with in Buenos Aires and who I remember always seemed to be smiling — and get the chance to read about their philosophy on life. I love that I can ask a good friend like Clare to write honestly and beautifully about her experience working in Ghana after graduation, or hear about the importance of following your passions from Michael, someone I’ve never even met. I love that all the stories on the site have come together to influence my time here in Tel Aviv, no matter how physically disconnected I may be from the people who write them.
And that’s when I think about how different I feel from when I first conceived the project this past summer. I was back home and alone in my room in Los Angeles, feeling very emotionally disconnected from all the people and the worlds I’d come into contact with in the past. People I’d grown used to seeing every day were now scattered across the U.S. and the world. Browsing through Facebook had done nothing to solve this. What had helped, though, was a series of email chains.
I was in a particularly low point at the time for various reasons, and I had reached out to my friends from Berkeley. When I heard back from each of them, their emails—which read like long, reflective stories—cued me in to the fact that they were struggling too, but with different things, ranging from illnesses in the family to severe unemployment defeatism. These were some of my closest friends, but I hadn’t known what they were facing until I had opened up about what I was going through myself.
It could have been that they didn’t want to come off as overly-negative in Skype or phone conversations. (Who does?) It could have been that there was no right chance to talk about it face-to-face, or the right space online—certainly not Facebook or Twitter. It could have been, like it was for me, that sometimes it just helps to sit down, think and write about it when nobody is looking at you.
And that brings me to the last part of why I love “Water The Roots.” I love writing my own stories, even though I’m fully aware that people (i.e my parents and a few friends) are looking, and of how they may make me sound. One reader had noted that my posts, though they look like I put time into them, seem to have a naive quality about them and reflect my “lack of life experience.” It’s not a secret; it’s something I think about each time I write.
Do I have anything worth saying?
That’s where the uncertainty that Ira Glass talked about kicks in, and the gap between my taste and what I’m producing every two weeks makes me self-conscious and uneasy.
But then I remember what “Water The Roots” is about, and what it’s not. It’s not about producing a masterpiece for the dwellers of the web to stare at in awe, not for me or any of the writers. It’s about doing what I mentioned above. It’s about thinking about what you want to say, and realizing that because you’ve taken that extra moment to think, a step that you normally wouldn’t have taken in an instant Facebook status update or Tweet, that it’s already more worth saying.
This post, more than a thank you note to Ira Glass for encouraging us to move on with our silly projects, is a thank you note to everyone who’s been involved in mine. I find myself oddly fulfilled when I walk to the bus stop in the mornings and think about all the new stories I carry with me to my next location. They’re the experiences and perspectives that get me closer to closing the gap in my own, and there’s something really beautiful about that.
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Natasha
Today I was asked for directions by three people within 10 minutes of each other. And you know what? I knew exactly where they needed to go. That is a major accomplishment in my book on two accounts. The more obvious: I know my way around New York City after 6 months. The less obvious (but more important): I look like I know my way around New York City after 6 months (aka I walk the walk and talk the talk).
I moved here at the end of August on a whim, after accepting an AmeriCorps position in the big apple as a Women’s Health Advocate. You know those times in your life where you just go with the flow and don’t really think about it? That’s what this was. I had a cushy job at a start-up in California, good friends around, and mild weather resulting in predictable hair. Cushy. But when I got a call asking if I still wanted this position 4 weeks before the start date (previously rejected, sheesh, they’re lucky I said yes!), I thought, meh, always wanted to live in New York!
I arrived here August 31 (and by here, I mean Brooklyn, since living in Manhattan is literally impossible on an AmeriCorps “salary” unless you happen to have a rich New York relative or a sugar daddy, both of which I lack - but am working on) and started my job at a community health center a week later.
Women’s Health Advocate - a little vague, right? Let me explain. I spend half my time working with a non-profit called the Reproductive Health Access Project (RHAP). They are a teeny tiny organization that believes women’s reproductive health should be part of your primary care. This means, ladies shouldn’t have to go to a giant abortion clinic, or a women’s free clinic, to get the care they need. This should be available from their primary care provider — the same place they go to when their throat hurts. Coming from the liberal hub of the Bay Area, this seems pretty obvious, but RHAP reaches out to family doctors in rural areas of Texas, Illinois, and other states where access to women’s health care is hard to find. Basically RHAP is great, and I work with strong, smart women who get the concept of health justice.
The second part of my job is spent directly with the ladies who need the care. I’m a doula. Now, Wikipedia defines doula as, “a provider or non-medical support to women and families during labour, childbirth, and the postpartume period.” But my role goes beyond this more traditional definition of the doula to include support for all aspects of reproductive care. I chat with and support women who come to the clinic for colposcopies (sample of the cervix to screen for cancer), IUD insertions, and abortions. These women (and sometimes, teenagers) are scared, nervous, or maybe completely fine. But however they’re feeling, for the 10 or 20 incredibly intimate minutes that our lives intersect, I’m their friend.
Through this job, I have met some amazing women, many of whom I wish I could be friends with post-procedure (some have even offered for me to add them on Facebook, although I never have). I’ve met opera singers, police officers, mothers, graphic designers, nannies, comedians, and students. I’ve heard happy stories about celebrity sightings or amazing NY apartment finds. I’ve heard sad stories about siblings in jail and unsatisfying careers. But mostly, I’ve heard dreams about what the future will hold, with an underlying message of how this procedure, whatever it may be - from protecting against unintended pregnancies, to screening for cancer - will allow these women to get where they hope to be.
It’s hard to explain the impact each patient has on my life without sounding cliche or overly dramatic. But working at a community health center whose mission says they “will not turn away any person for lack of insurance or funds,” I really do interact with all types of people, and you know what? We all have something in common. Although the 19-year-old mother living in a half-way house seems miles away from the 38-year-old architect from England, I find a way to relate to each of my patients as I ease their anxieties and normalize their medical care.
To give you an example of how powerful these moments can be: In my first month, a 20-year-old came in for an abortion after getting pregnant even with an IUD in place. This girl was frustrated that her birth control had failed, and scared for the procedure. But within a minute of walking in to the room, we were talking about all sorts of things, like how she’s in college and hopes to become a lawyer, and how she lives with her Mom but visits her Dad once a year in Mexico City, and has a cat named Ringo.
Once her visit was over, the nurse came in to check in and make sure she was okay. She said she was good, and pointed at me saying, “Me and this girl? We’re friends now!” She gave me a hug and went on her way. I’ll probably never see her again, but she had a profound impact on my life, and revealed how important a stranger’s conversation can be. Makes you wonder who you’re impacting, huh?
So, as I continue my year of AmeriCorps, I am experiencing the New York City life style (on a serious budget) and looking out for celebrities on a daily basis (saw one already! Any 30 Rock fans out there?) But most importantly, I’m providing directions to those lost in the big city, whether they’re new in town, tourists, or maybe just need a friend for a moment in time.
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Willi
Life is silently laughing
I could argue that my youth couldn’t have been any more perfect. Treeforts, pool parties, sports, friends, a loving family and a Great Dane named Cleo molded me into the tall, goofy self that I wake up with everyday. Why did I get so lucky?
Today is February 8, 2012 and I ride my bike through the streets of Buenos Aires, Argentina for a living. I ride bikes and get travelers and visitors to do the same thing, every day. It’s my passion because I can cycle for the rest of my life without tiring, no pun intended. There are times where I have to take a step outside myself to analyze the randomness of my existence.
What drew me to this country? What were the most impactful decisions? I think too much about this stuff really. I guess the point is not to think at all. Things that bring me into the moment are: biking obviously, kids, birds, drawing, strangers smiling for no apparent reason and meditating when I’m unselfish with my minutes. What are yours?
A friend asked if I could free write life experiences and my take on them. I thought this would be easier. Like I said, I ride bikes, not put thoughts on paper. Moving on, I guess if I had the chance to say something for the world to hear that may push a positive, progressive impact in society, it would probably be the following:
Life knows better than we do. If you think something that happened, is happening, or something that you think will happen, should actually be something better, LIFE IS SILENTLY LAUGHING AT YOU. Some people claim karma. I say she has a sense of humor. If you trust that what is is for a reason, then suffering cannot touch you. Accept and enjoy the ride!
Another “dicho” of mine is actually “less is more” so I’m going to end my rant here. Right now I’ll take advantage of plugging my passion. For those coming to Buenos Aires, never hesitate to email me if you’re interested in learning and exploring this beautiful city on some comfy bikes! Viva la bici!
