Just a short note. A day late, but still worth sharing. Every Columbus Day I cringe, because I don't think he was such a great guy. He kind of sucked, big time. There are so many other people that we could celebrate with a national holiday, people that didn't lead a genocide. My general feelings about this can be summed up here, courtesy of my favorite Internet comic strip, The Oatmeal.
Anyway, not much time to write, but this not so special holiday always gives me a little smirk and it goes back to second grade. Yet again, another moment for which I have my mother to thank.
Mom was always good at teaching me the stories from outside the history books of grade school, and she made sure to teach me about Columbus and his genocidal rampage at a very early age. So, rewind back to second grade. I was seven years old, and had no problem expressing my own ideas, even if they didn't fall in line with my teacher or my schoolbook.
Bunny rabbit teeth, pigtails, and complete disgust
for Columbus. Yours truly in second grade.
A one-page exam was placed on my desk. One of the first questions was, "Who was Christopher Columbus?". My waxy Crayola response was: A Genocidal Maniac.
Now, I don't know if any other child in my class knew that. I know my teacher didn't tell me that, but thanks to my mom, "Genocidal Maniac" is what I wrote. Good job, Mom!!!
The answer was marked wrong, and my teacher called my mom to complain. It was not the first or last time that something like this happened, but my parents were proud.
Some have asked me, "When did you become an activist?" Looking back, I can't remember when I wasn't an activist. I don't remember times when I didn't speak up, but those are more fun stories for another time.
"And at the end of the day, I'll take you to see the Jew", he announced at 8am in the morning as we drank our chai on the dusty street. I just smiled and nodded like I knew what he was talking about. I had no clue, and I was nervous. "The Jew?!?", I thought. "Does Kathmandu have an honorary Jew? I just don't get it".
Sudeep--along with his wife Sunita--was my host when I first lived in Kathmandu. He was a small Nepalese man with legs built like pencils. He always had the brightest half moon smile and loved wearing turtlenecks and polyester pants that were so stiff and unmoved by the wind. It was the second day of my life in Kathmandu. He wanted to show me the sites--including the Jew--and he was so proud.
He took me everywhere, and I found the city of Kathmandu to be quite exotic with its strikingly contrasting Buddhist and Hindu architectures and robed monks and shamans everywhere. Chattering monkeys jumped around the rooftops. Traffic signs were more like suggestions instead of rules. People burned candles and incense and sang Sanskrit prayers at the temples in the morning. Strangers warmly and whole-heartedly greeted me all day as we walked the streets.
The city's distinctive smells ranged from intoxicating to ghastly. I enjoyed the whiffs of incense, flowers and fresh curry that permeated the city until they mingled with and dispersed into blasts of unmitigated exhaust fumes and the stench of open sewers.
It was a fabulous tour, but the Jew of Kathmandu gnawed at my consciousness all day. What on Earth did he mean?!? Finally, Sudeep brought the Jew to light.
"And finally" he said with a twinkle in his eyes, "the best for the last. Now I take you to the Jew!" I was scared and confused. I knew there was some language barrier that I just couldn't climb over. The taxi stopped. I hesitantly stepped out, squinted my gaze, and finally realized what the hell he was talking about. The Jew! It was there in front of me. Amazing! But it wasn't a Jew. It was a Zoo! AHAHAHAHA!!!! Sudeep's final act was to take me to the zoo!!! This is what our day was leading up to. What a relief to know that all he wanted to do was show me tigers, monkeys and deer inside cages. This is how I learned that the Nepalese can't pronounce the letter Z. It usually comes out as a J. Oh that Joo. What a moment that was. Cultural confusion is so entertaining sometimes.
First Grade on Saint Patricks Day. All the kids were drawing pictures of shamrocks, pots of gold, and leprechauns--everyone except me.
We all got to present our drawings in front of class. I stood up to show my work of art. It was a Crayola masterpiece. There was a landscape of green Irish hills, a pristine beach, and a bloody severed hand lying in the sand. There were two cartoon clouds. One said "We made it!". The other said, "Go Ireland!!!". That was one of the proudest moments of my childhood. Now hold on. Hear me out. I wasn't sick and twisted. I was just sharing my family's history.
I stood up and told my classmates the story of my ancestor O'Neil, one of the first kings of Ireland. O'Neil had to compete in a boat race to win the kingship. The deal was that whoever touched the shore first would be crowned king. The boats were so neck and neck that he wasn't sure if he would make it. I guess O'Neil was creative, determined and partially bat shit crazy so he reached for his sword, cut off his hand and threw it to the shore. He was probably called stubby for quite some time, but guess what?!? He touched the shore first and became king! Who's gonna mess with him or argue with that? Jeesh. And with my own crazy determination, it's no wonder I'm related to this guy.
The kids in my first grade class all thought that was an awesome story. Lots of ooo's and ahhh's came from my very attentive 6 year-old audience, but my teacher was not impressed at all.
Later that day my mom got a phone call from her. She called her in to "talk" about my picture. My mother went in and my teacher said, "Your daughter drew this in class today," with a disturbed tone and a frown. My mother looked at it and said, "Oh! I'm so proud!!!". We were probably looked at like we were the Adams Family, but my mother had every right to be proud. Mom told me the story of O'Neil many times. She was never sure how much I absorbed it, but that picture proved that I embraced our family story with every cell, even though I was only six years old. I think it's still one of her proudest moments as a mother. :-)
Here's the family crest with the bloody red hand. Happy Saint Patricks Day.
I don't have much to say right now, so I'm digging in my archives. I had to repost this one. An oldie, but goodie from 2007:
My kiss from Michael Franti at the Iraq Veterans Against the War benefit at Bus Boys & Poets in Washington DC
Ok-another update from one very beaten up and worn down activist. Let me tell you about my journey to a peace march in DC, and you'll understand the exhaustion.
Several weeks ago I went to Washington D.C. I didn't know that I had to go until 2 days before my flight. A major peace march was scheduled for the 4th year of the war and I wanted to document it with my trusty camera (see slide show here). Also, the CODEPINK peace activists were at it again in the streets and halls of Congress, having challenges matching their bold protest actions with their internet-media skills. I was called in at the last minute to go there and train them on internet outreach basics: dealing with digital photos and film, spreading press releases in the right places on the net etc.
During my flight there, I connected in Pittsburgh but lost my flight to DC because of a violent snow storm. The peace march was the next day so I decided to hitchhike; whether it's rain, snow, sleet or hail, not much will stop me from arriving on time to my destination.
I immediately hitched a ride with a man who I deemed ok. He asked me what I do and I said, with a slight intuition that he was a Republican, "I'm a peace activist". He said with a smirk, "Well doesn't that make us the odd couple!" I asked him what he did and it turned out that he was a gun shop owner and sells military supplies to the government. You're all cringing right now. I know, but it was actually a great ride.
a pic I took during the peace march. notice how the sign in the background looks kind of like a natural thought bubble--as if Cheyney is trying to tell Bush what's going on.
We talked about our own beliefs and I pointed out that, even though he is a Republican and I am not, what he wants isn't different from what I want: a warm place to sleep, food, and some good lovin'. He also said that he wants more localized government and this, in his mind, was a Republican belief. I bursted his bubble gently, letting him know that I too, among many people, dream of a localized government that comes from the grassroots or tribal nature and that I think community action is where it's at and where I've seen the most social progress made.
He was only supposed to drive me to Harrisburg, but I guess our conversation left a warm and fuzzy impression on him because he drove me two extra hours to Baltimore so I could catch a direct train to DC. As I left him for the Baltimore-DC train, I passed a bunch of soldiers on the sidewalk, all coming back from the Middle East. This journey to the peace march couldn't have been more dream-like and symbolic. At this point, I felt like I was the star of my own movie (hmmm...)because it was so surreal.
I warily fell to my seat on the train and a very zen-like California surfer elder sat next to me. His name was Jeff (and no, his last name was not Lebowski). He offered me a macaroon and we began to talk. We exchanged little tidbits of info and realized that we were very connected; he was friends with the co-founders of CODEPINK, the peace organization where I currently work.
Midge Potts, CODEPINK activist in front of Congress during my trip. photo provided by yours truely
Jeff was trying to get to LA that night so he could go on a surfing holiday, but the east coast snow stopped him on his sunshine daydream journey and sent him back to his home in cold and snowy DC. We were both redirected by weather that day, and had the fate of sharing the rocking ride of the train together.
We arrived at Union Station in DC and Jeff stayed with me so I didn't have to wait for my ride by myself. He asked me to tell him stories of my travels, so I told him tales of Asia, shamans, and my Indiana Jones-like adventures. He told me about his travels through the Middle East, his recent journey to Kumba Mela (a gathering of thousands of saddhus)and how he was looking to start a media organization for Iranian youth.
My colleague finally arrived to see me and my new zen'd out surfer elder friend at the station, and suggested that we go to see an amazing spoken word/hip hop/funk musician named Michael Franti. My 24 hours of travel and lack of sleep was not enough to stop me from seeing one of my favorite performers in this world so I decided to go along.
CODEPINK ladies singing peace in the streets
On my way there, I told everyone in the car that I was going to kiss Michael Franti. No one believed me, which is understandable because it's easy for people to forget how much I turn my daydreams into reality.
We got to the club just as an auction for the Iraq Veterans Against the War started. Signed CD's and t-shirts by Michael was all there was to buy, but I had an idea...
I approached the auctioneer and asked him if he would auction off a kiss from Michael. He asked and Michael agreed. I then entered the auction and won the highest bid at 130 dollars. The money went directly to the Iraq Veterans organization and Micheal Franti's lips went straight to mine as I stood on the stage of the club with the crowd loudly cheering. I could almost call it prostitution, but it was for a good cause and, even though it was just a kiss, it was tax-deductible (I can't wait to report this one to the IRS next year). This made my 24 hours of air travel, hitchhiking, and train riding all worth it. Yes, this all happened in one day, on my way to a peace march, starting with snow and ending with a kiss.
Reverend Billy, activist/evangelist, exorcises the war demons out of Nancy Pelosi's Office.
You can also check some of my pics atMarch 17th, 4 Years of War-Slide Show Some of these photos will go into a Harvard Press publication about women's activism around the world. First book publisher for me!!!
This is a clip from when we raided the Congressional cafeteria and sang the Dont Buy Bush's War Gospel as it is. Peace-a-lujah!
I'm loving life. It's been some time since I've lived in the chaos of Asia, and the longer I'm in the states, the more I appreciate what I have here. Let's talk about fashion.
I LOVE dressing up. I love fashionable short skirts, cute jeans, high heels, you name it. I even wear makeup. I know. Those who have known me for a while are laughing right now. Yes, I've finally girl'd out. I get to be pretty and I even wear sparkles.
You might not think that it's a big deal. Lots of western women girl out all the time, but it's a big deal to me.
During my 20s, I had to dress to hide. In Nepal, I lived with village tribes. The villagers were very welcoming, but they still treated me like a zoo animal. I got stared down all the time, and it became exhausting. How many white 21 year olds live alone in a Nepalese village while speaking fluent Nepali? I can understand their confusion, but I used fashion to minimize the constant rubber necking and googly eyes from onlookers. Pretty much, I got a tan, acted like a villager (which wasn't hard because it was a very organic and primal environment) and wore village clothing. See example below:
Yours truly, in a Himalayan mountain hamlet.
My efforts to be a chameleon paid off though. One time, in the village, a group of Israeli tourists looked straight at me. One of them said, "Does anyone speak English here?!?! They're all locals!!! We won't find what we need." I didn't say a word and they looked right past me. Never approached me. I would have spoken to them in English, but they were loud and rude, so I just watched and laughed inside. They thought I was a local!!! HAHAHA!
Then there was Afghanistan...
I had to dress like a local as much as possible, because I didn't want to get kidnapped while walking the city streets. I wasn't perfect at looking like an Afghan woman, but I will proudly say that an Afghan soldier once asked me if I was from Pakistan. Again, I think it was because of my tan, my energy, and my somewhat regional clothing.
Humor made the culture diving easier. My friend Jeremy and I used to make jokes about the fashion all the time when we were in Kabul. He would say, "I just saw your wrists. Put those things away, you whore!" It was hilarious for us.
On the streets of Kabul. Nothing sexier than trying to dress like a sack of potatoes. Hot.
Can you imagine? Dressing to hide for so many years? What a weird concept. It didn't really phase me. It was just a small price to pay to explore a wondrous world, full of miracles and craziness. I have no regrets, but now! Let me tell you, I've broken out of my burka mentality to rock fitted dresses and hot fashion whenever possible. Oh the things one can appreciate. I'm sure the women who came before me in my own country understand what I'm talking about. Remember women, we had a fashion revolution here not too long ago.
Ah, that's better. I could have been stoned to death for this in Kabul.
And this fashion statement would have been a straight up death wish. This was in LA, not Kabul :-)
I was at a diner yesterday morning, and it hit me. Manifesting what you want--whether it's a relationship, job or anything in life--is like ordering a hamburger. Yes, I'm using greasy diner food to illustrate mystic wisdom. :-) Be clear with the waitress if you don't like onions on your burger, and make sure she knows that you want the special sauce. If you forget the finer details, you won't get what you want. It's that simple, and please don't complain when the burger comes with onions and no sauce. That's the way you ordered it, and remember this the next time you order a burger so you can get it right.
Manifesting is also like a diner, because you know the food will come. Do you get stressed out, and wonder if the food will come? No! You know the drill and expect it to arrive. You have a knowingness. This is what it's like when you successfully manifest your desire. You just know that what you want will arrive, and then it does. Please remember that attachments, stress and ego usually get in the way. So if you get cranky with your waitress, she might drag out the delivery time of said burger, or secretly place who knows what inside of it. Kindness and patience are key.
So ask for that career change, relationship or dream vacation as if you're ordering a burger. Don't stress, and know that it's coming.
Happy New Year and happy new paradigm! Do you feel the shifts in consciousness? I sure do. It's breathtaking how easy it is to manifest and create these days.
So I'm back! Sorry, last year I got really quiet in the blog world, but with good reason. I'm getting deeper and deeper into my journey as a film producer. I expect things to get busier this year, so I don't think I'll blog as much as I did in previous years. I will do my best to keep posting updates on all the miracles, which are definitely hard to keep track of these days. :-)
I'm in Los Angeles, feeling like a mere guppy, swimming in and around Hollywood. It's strange. Most days I get to swim with the dolphins: amazing producers and directors with pure hearts, brains and golden intentions. And then there are the other days, the ones that thankfully don't happen too much. Oh yeah, I run into the sharks: egomaniacs, extreme narcissists and people who will do most anything to turn a buck. Those are the days when I want to run away screaming. Those are the days when I miss living in Afghanistan--in a war zone--because the people there were so humble and real.
Several weeks ago, I woke up in one of those funks. I thought, "I'm really here? Why am I doing this? Can't I just run off and work for the UN again?", but then I reminded myself that life in those war-torn places became familiar. It sounds crazy, but war zones became my comfort zones, and somehow, by the grace of the goddess, I conquered all the challenges I met there. Going back would be the easy way out. I can't do that right now.
My ego was trying to fool me. It said, "Who are you to think that you can be a film producer?!?. That's not your path." My heart said, "Girl, quiet down. Meditate and pray." So I did. I sat in full lotus and lit some luscious spiced incense that brought a piece of Asia back to my nose. I said, "Universe, please show me a sign, a big fat sign that this path is right for me. Thank you."
The day continued. My dear friend Bjorn took me out for lunch with his friend Vic. Vic likes to raise tons of money to build schools and orphanages in Tibet and Nepal. This type of philanthropy is also a passion of mine. For many years, I sent Nepalese village kids to school on my own dime.
Vic and I had much to discuss. We're both versed in Buddhist practices and history. We love Kathmandu, and getting lost on treks in the majestic Himalayan heights. Two hours whirled by like two minutes. It was unspoken, but Vic and I knew we were from the same tribe.
During our conversations of adventures, philanthropy and peace, a voice kept popping up from within. It said, "Ask about Lama Wangdu. Ask about Lama Wangdu!!" louder and louder. By the end of our conversations, I finally listened to the message and said to Vic, "Do you know Lama Wangdu? He's my Buddhist teacher in Nepal." His face broke into a thousand-watt smile and said, "Of course! I studied in his monastery in Boudhanath (in Kathmandu)!!!" Then Vic reached inside his shirt and pulled out a necklace that held a small silver Tibetan medicine locket. Lama Wandgu gave it to Vic, but he didn't have to tell me--Lama Wangdu gave me the same necklace years before.
"So you want a sign" says the Universe. "Here's your sign, kid." My meditation request was answered that day. And yes, you bet I'm on my path. I know it, but the reminders are nice sometimes.
Pictured Below: He's the man. My Tibetan Buddhist teacher, Lama Wandgu.
Say what you want about corporate Disney or Walt Disney, the man. I really don't care. When I read this quote, I know everything I need to know about him. An inspiring man who believed in magic and vision.
I just had a flashback from a simple moment, yet it is one of the most significant experiences of my life. I was biking on a snow covered sidewalk in Bend, Oregon at night. Snowflakes were falling with grace. The road was slick. I fell with my bike, and when I stood up and looked behind to where I fell, there was a break in the snow where a quote was written with spray paint on the pavement. It said, "Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens."-Jimmy Hendrix. Even though I was sore, I was happy to fall that night. The wise words were worth the tumble. I fell in the perfect spot so I could receive a beautiful message.
Finally, for the first time in life I have learned how to hold 'crow pose' for long periods of time. What's interesting is that I'm not the strongest person physically, but I realized in mid pose that it's about having inner strength, and letting go of the fear to fall on your face. This yoga pose made me realize how much I've let go of that fear to fall in just about every facet of my life. I'm sure I'll fall again, but now I know it's not going to stop me.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
A recent insight...
A director recently said to me, "As a Producer, you are suppose to agree with everything I say." I laughed to myself. I replied, "That's not true." What I have learned about filmmaking so far is that having a team of "Yes Men" is not going to make you a good director or leader in general. Having people who are fearless to disagree with you is more honest, and I believe that a little creative tension is healthy. That's where some amazing creations are born.
I am living in the lap of luxury--absolute abundance--and I've traveled far and wide just to learn this. In my early 20's, I left my country to search the earth for something better. Funny how the search brought me back here, to the golden west coast of America. It's ironic. This place is all I want now.
I've walked through hell and the world's greatest nightmares. I didn't know the extent of suffering that existed until I saw children crying with bloody head wounds and bloated bellies on the streets of Delhi.
I've seen whole families starving in the jungles of Cambodia, and fear in the eyes of many who are stuck in never ending war zones. I'm not saying where I live is perfect, but I'm grateful for what I have. Damn right, more than ever.
In my younger days, I thought I would flit and flutter from one exotic place to the next for the rest of my life. Now, I just want to be. I know where the roots are growing, and that my true flight will come from stillness. Oh, and no doubt, there will be more butter-flights around the block. I've always wanted to see the pyramids of Egypt, the penguins in Antarctica, and experience what Carnival in Rio is all about. But it's not going to be in the same capacity as before. No more two-year stints in Central Asian war zones or Himalayan hamlets. See, I've got a place, and it comes with a beautiful community that loves and supports me in a way I've never experienced until now.
Thank God. All my needs are met. Hallelujah. I'm a lucky butterfly.
Hi, my name is Erin. It always has been, but I've used my middle name Liz (short for Elizabeth) since I was a teenager. Now, Erin is busting out.
A little history...
Back on the first day of high school, I learned that I was not the only Erin in my class. My overly rebellious, egotistical, independent teenage self couldn't handle another Erin. I went to Liz, and I was the only Liz in my class. That felt better, but there was more to it. It was my childhood dream to be an actress. By the time I got to be a freshman in high school, I planned the rest of my life, including my university (NYU), career, where I'd live for the rest of my life (New York, of course) and my stage name, Liz Kelly. Kelly is my grandparents' last name, and I thought it had a nice royal ring to it.
Funny how plans unravel. Other than the high school drama club and summer theater, I never became an actress with a stage name. NYU rejected me. I never lived in New York as an adult, and you couldn't pay me to live there; I'm completely in love with the west coast and it's where I'm staying. I became a crazy, world traveling storyteller and made it my profession.
Several years past, mom and I went to a Spiritualist psychic reading. It was a circle of women with one psychic who went around and gave everyone a 10 minute message. The psychic easily figured me out. She said that I'm creative, a traveler, psychically gifted, and that I "wear time like a necklace" because I knowingly see and interact with it in a nonlinear way. She then said, "You're not using the name that you're meant to use. You have another name." Mom cracked into a half-moon smile.
She said the name I'm meant to use has something to do with being a peacemaker and the work that I came to do in this world. Well, it makes sense. Erin means Ireland in the Gaelic mother tongue of my ancestors, and it also means 'peace' and 'light'. I am here to spread the light, no doubt. It's been my number one intention for years, and I do it in as many ways as I possibly can. It's one of the reasons why I want to make films, because I want to spread stories that shine light in darkness of the world.
Mom said that Elizabeth means "woman that holds the temple within" which is also pretty cool, but it's time to finally embrace my name of peace and light. Of course, I'll respond to Liz with my old friends, and I won't have a problem with it.
By the way, my mom is thrilled. She and everyone in my family has called me Erin throughout the years, so it's not completely foreign. She always wanted me to stick with Erin, and I think it drove her crazy that I went by Liz.
What prompted all of this? I'm entering a new phase in life, one of great potential. Just in case my work becomes well known, I want to make sure that I'm happy with the name that goes public. That's it. That's why I'm Erin on Facebook and Twitter. Nice to meet you. Over and out.
You yearn to pick the rose that grows
behind the bulletproof
glass.
I watch with the melancholic laugh,
as a garden flourishes
behind you.
Kaleidoscope blankets of flora wait at your back,
but will
you notice before summer has come to pass,
when the hand of time throws infinite
petals to
wilt in browning grass?
My dear, that glass you will not crack...
Just turn around
to see,
everything of your dreams
is here right now. Forget the future and the past.
My mom is a cool woman, with a wacky sense of humor and a heart of gold. She's spiritual and creative. As she says, "The coconut doesn't fall far from the tree", and it's true. I have her to thank for many of my qualities and sensibilities.
Last week, the approach of Mother's Day got me thinking about my favorite moments with my mom. I thought for a while about those times that made me love her so much. The list could go on, but these made the top of the list:
1. She taught me about the truth of Christopher Columbus and that he caused a genocide. In second grade, when asked on a test, "Who was Christopher Columbus?", I wrote, "A genocidal maniac." I got in trouble. The teacher marked my answer wrong and she called my mom into school. Mom stood up for me and told the teacher that she agreed with my answer. By the way, this wasn't the only time she had to do this :-)
2. She introduced me to Monty Python at an early age. I was about 11 when she bought me The Holy Grail and Life of Brian. It absolutely changed my world. These films expanded my mind and inspired me to explore humor in a way I never imagined before. Eventually, when I was 13, I wrote my own sketch comedy styled film. It was heavily influenced by Python, with satirical jabs aimed at politics and the Catholic church.
3. She gave me a copy of The Rocky Horror Picture Show when I was 11, which also exploded my mind into a new paradigm. I loved that movie and watched it so much (Tim Curry, what a genius!) that I broke the video cassette. Then I brought it to my friends houses. I thought it was the coolest thing, but the parents of my friends didn't agree. Again, I got in trouble by adults who didn't get me, and my mom stood up for me. Of course, I gave up on showing it to my friends for a while.
4. She didn't kill me when I told her that I lived in Afghanistan for two years--this was long after the fact. She just calmly said, "Good thing I didn't know. If I had known, I would have flown to Kabul just to drag you home". Yeah, she's great at loving me for who I am, even with all the crazy things I do. Maybe she doesn't understand everything that I do, but she loves me, no matter what.
5. She was completely understanding when I got kicked out of Sunday school class for telling the teacher that women have the freedom of choice when it comes to their reproductive health. She never made me go back after that. Thank God!
6. She's a great storyteller. There's never a lack of conversation when she's around. We always have interesting stories to share, and I know I got the gift of gab from her.
7. She makes the best eggplant parmesian. Hands down. I miss it all the time.
8. She has helped to preserve and educate me about our family's Irish heritage. She's preserved and found so much information about our family's lineage. I don't think everyone knows as much about their family tree--the woman even went to Ireland to research our deeper roots.
9. She's classy and cultured. She always took me to museums and gave me tons of books to read. She taught me how to appreciate the beautiful and more aesthetic things in life. She's a great interior decorator and showed me how to turn everything, even my bedroom, into art.
This is just a sliver of why my mom is so wonderful. I hope she realizes how much I love her and how grateful I am for what she has given me over the years.
This year is phenomenal, and I know I'm transitioning into something more, something I've never experienced before. It's what I've been working for on all levels: spiritually, professionally, and geographically.
My psychic/spiritual growth is intense. I feel more than ever, and I have to say, it's a blessing, but it hurts. I don't know why I have this gift, but I do. Often times, I feel more than I want to feel from other people--especially the ones I care about the most. I guess it gives me more compassion, but it's hard on my heart and body. It often makes me want to just hide in a cave. I've come to the point where if a dear friend is in physical pain, I can physically feel it as well. If someone is having a bad day, I can feel that too-even if he or she is half way around the globe. Luckily, I know enough to understand when it's not my own stuff, but what to do with it? I wish I could find my Yoda to help me soon (Yoda, if you're reading this now, give a shout out!).
Last summer I went to New Mexico to make a documentary short for the YWCA about the Henderson House, a home that was created to get homeless women veterans off the street and back into solid and secure lives.
I didn't know what to expect with my interviews, but speaking with these women changed my life. All the women veterans I spoke with have PTSD because of sexual abuse in the military. It's one thing to read about these stories, but to hear their stories in person was something else. I am so disgusted by how these women were treated by men in the military and how they weren't taken care of after serving for our country. Society and the government left them homeless. Most of it was painful for me to digest, but the light in the darkness was the Henderson House, which is really the first home of its kind in the country where these women can bounce back with all the love and support they need. There have been homeless shelters for women veterans in the states, but the women had to share the space with male veterans. Imagine how hard it is to trust a male veteran after experiencing sexual abuse in the military for years on end. And what's unique about the Henderson House is that it isn't just a shelter--it's a proper home.Watch the video below or see the longer version here.
I don't have a lot of answers. This is a long rant so I'll sum it up here at the top.
1. I congratulate Invisible Children just as much as I question them. I hope they succeed in healing the wounds of child soldiers & trafficking in Uganda and beyond.
2. Let the majority of voices of the Kony Campaign come from the Ugandans.
3. Kony is not in Uganda--Invisible Children should have made this clear in the video.
4. I don't believe sending US troops is necessarily the best answer.
5. Look before you donate.
6. In the end, my opinions don't matter too much. The big question is, "What do the Ugandans want?"
My professional background makes me very interested in Kony 2012. I spent ten years working in international development, in war torn places like Cambodia, East Timor and a solid two-year stint in Kabul, Afghanistan.
Am I impressed with Kony 2012? Yes! Do I have issues with Kony 2012? Yes! And I'm grateful that it has evolved the way it has, because the world is discussing what it means to be sustainable in international development. In this Internet world where everything is so visible and where it's easy to donate with the click of a button, it's important to question as much as it is to praise this campaign. We have some lessons to learn, especially as we collectively address and move deeper into the healing of our global community.
Traffic in LA... It's a bitch sometimes! No, really. And I never swear on this blog, but I get to swear when it comes to talking 'bout traffic. Those of you who have braved driving here understand my agony and have plenty of profanities for it that I won't use on this blog. For those of you who have never driven here, I often find myself taking an hour to drive 10 miles. Ugh... Being tapped into one of the main pulses of western civilization comes with a price.
Today was different though. For about 20 minutes, I drove behind a man who was alone in his car. His bumper sticker read, "I love anthropology" and he was holding a bubble gun out the window! He was shooting a stream of constant bubbles, and he gave me a good laugh while creeping through traffic tonight.
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