tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46599469291623311672024-03-19T06:11:53.448-04:00Bec2basicsAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-57017328405665896992012-06-04T08:14:00.000-04:002012-12-26T11:15:55.158-05:0040 is the new 18<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So...the 'big 4-0'.<br />
<br />
Over the past half a year, I've witnessed many of my peers arrive at this point in their timeline (mostly via Facebook) - some with trepidation, others with celebratory mirth, and most, with resigned humour.<br />
<br />
As I post one birthday message after another, I often add a line saying that I would be eagerly joining the club soon.<br />
<br />
That is not a lie. I have never felt better about myself - where I am in my life and where I am going to go - than I do now, as I approach the cusp of mid-life.<br />
<br />
''40 is the new 18" - I've told everyone who was patient enough to listen that this is my new tagline for the way I live (and want to be living for the next 40 years).<br />
<br />
In so many ways, I've been blessed with the opportunity to live as if I was 18 all over again, albeit with the hindsight of experience and insight of maturity that I did not have back then.<br />
<br />
This time last year, I was making the most <a href="http://bec2basics.blogspot.sg/2011/06/shoe-with-no-lace-reflections-from.html" target="_blank">amazing, life-changing journey</a> on a fellowship to study ethical issues in journalism through the Holocaust. I spent my birthday, at the end of that trip, across three cities - Krakow, Frankfurt and New York - with a group of people I would cherish for the rest of my life because of the spiritual, emotional and intellectual bonds we had forged.<br />
<br />
Something shifted inside after that journey. I came to understand that it was the universe's way of preparing me for this next half of my life.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm doing the work I love and had dreamed of as a child. Everyday, I feel connected to the principles that had first inspired me to choose this path.<br />
<br />
Looking back at the anger and disappointment in my younger days when the work I was doing then did not match up to my ideals, and the subsequent quests to find something else that could, I understand now that those were all part of the lessons I had to learn to arrive at this point where conviction and action can meet and move on together.<br />
<br />
Putting career on hold and quitting work when the kids came along meant paying the price of having to start all over again at mid-life when everyone else had ''arrived''. But because of those ''lost'' years, I'd gained the priceless gift of being there every moment of the early years of my babies' growth and the incomparable happiness I felt teaching yoga to kids, making and selling my own accessories and writing without fetters. <br />
<br />
I had resisted moving back to Singapore late last year with a vehemence that led only to much wasted energy. But I realised that even those were not ill-spent. The process of resistance at all cost was necessary for me to understand what I didn't want - and what I did.<br />
<br />
But more importantly, there were old chapters back here that needed to be closed, before I could begin the next book.<br />
<br />
Being single again is probably the best thing I've done for myself, next to graduate school.<br />
<br />
Most of the first half of my life had been marked with the fear of being alone and hence, the spate of one disastrous attachment after another. Yes, I know I didn't look it - I've always played the part of independence really well.<br />
<br />
But now, singlehood at mid-life is feeling extremely free and refreshing. I had thought I would need some time to overcome the fear of going it alone - especially given the challenges of single parenting in a society that still harbours strong discrimination and prejudice under the veneer of progressive speak.<br />
<br />
But no, there is no fear. Perhaps, it is precisely because I am now a single parent at mid-life that I feel no fear. Sure, there will be some frustration, annoyance, and occasionally, anger at roadblocks put in place by bureaucracy and prejudice. <i>C'est la vie.</i><br />
<br />
So, on D-day, I'm taking stock of how it feels like to have the next half of a wonderful life before me, with plenty to look forward to.<br />
<br />
It's like having that same fire in the belly at 18, but also the magic power to not let those flames burn out of control and destroy the people and things around me that I hold dear - or, myself.<br />
<br />
That wild, dangerous fire is now a silent, steady flame, which I have come to recognise as what strength, freedom and independence truly is.<br />
<br />
It doesn't get much better than this - so much to see, do, and experience.<br />
<br />
I have a very long bucket list. For a start, Im going to learn Korean, pick up boxing and take the kids to China and imbue them with a sense of culture and heritage. At some point I will run the Great Wall marathon (OK, maybe the half).<br />
<br />
Last, but not least, when I'm approaching 80, I would like to write a blog post titled ''80 is the new 28''.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrl-RpDzzSePMASqg9i8FPVAGEVVecXpCXG-qKYb0A2t7WAp2P-BMVkhauUVjI53EYNaqqadepFi3_fTwe6dW6ltELzleztmlnxD_cJENdwMiXCiz4o_i6m0LOFKG4vk9-SojDb-KZCX0/s1600/DSC_0333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrl-RpDzzSePMASqg9i8FPVAGEVVecXpCXG-qKYb0A2t7WAp2P-BMVkhauUVjI53EYNaqqadepFi3_fTwe6dW6ltELzleztmlnxD_cJENdwMiXCiz4o_i6m0LOFKG4vk9-SojDb-KZCX0/s400/DSC_0333.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journey - on track</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-89000779478845785662012-02-13T08:31:00.000-05:002012-02-13T08:34:19.032-05:00My Funny Valentine 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is that time of the year again, and there is that ubiquitous woman standing by herself and staring at the shelves of pink hearts and chocolates in the supermarket.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I shouldn't assume that she was a lonely heart, or that she was pondering how many Valentines she was going to receive this year (if any).<br />
<br />
But it is hard to break out of the stereotypes and associations this one day in the year come laden with. The reminders are everywhere and in your face - from advertisements for couples' dinners to flowers and chocolates, and nowadays, more original, sassy and kinky stuff.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, if you're Valentine-less, the magazines and papers are full of useless 'how-to' articles that don't really help at all: 'how to survive Valentine's Day alone' and 'how to get a date if you're single', etc. Just what exactly is wrong with people being alone (and - entertain this possibility - happy) on this day?<br />
<br />
Now, I'm a girl who loves my dinners and flowers, but I'm also the least likely to crumble in a heap if I have to eat a takeout dinner in front of Facebook (and everyone's pictures of their dinner).<br />
<br />
The truth is: most of us have years of wonderful, memorable Valentine's Day, and years of not so great ones. Some are lucky enough to have more good years than bad ones. A sobering reminder is that billions of people in the world do not even celebrate this day (at least not with expensive dinners and gifts), given that they live only on a few dollars a day.<br />
<br />
A couple of years ago, I started taking my little man out as <a href="http://bec2basics.blogspot.com/2010/02/my-funny-valentine.html" target="_blank">my 'funny Valentine' date</a> (links to the first 'My Funny Valentine' blog post). This little guy, my 'number one baby' who is growing up much faster than I can keep up with, once said to me:<br />
<br />
“Mum, one is a very lonely number.”<br />
<br />
“Why is one a very lonely number?”<br />
<br />
“Because it always has to go first.”<br />
<br />
''Zero is also very lonely.''<br />
<br />
''Why?''<br />
<br />
''Because it means nothing.''<br />
<br />
He was four when he said that - already aware of the number games that we go through in life. I told him much later on, that whether it was zero, one, twos, threes or many, loneliness and love all come from within each and everyone of us. You can have thousands of people loving you, but still be lonely because you do not love yourself. Or, you can be alone in the world, but happy, loved and loving.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure he got that bit just yet, despite being the philosopher that he is. But, he will. Hopefully, it won't take him as long as it took me to understand that.<br />
<br />
Last year, the little guy and his little lady sister surprised me with a huge Valentine's balloon I found in my room when I got back from a trip to New York. That sealed a new routine - me and my two funny Valentines.<br />
<br />
This Valentine's Day, I would hardly see my babies. I see the little guy briefly before I put him on the bus to school early in the morning; and I see the little lady briefly after the school bus drops her off late in the evening.<br />
<br />
As I left the supermarket, I saw the news on Twitter about Whitney Houston's death. She was only 48. (And yes, I check tweets even when I'm pushing a cart full of groceries.)<br />
<br />
After loading the groceries in the car, I headed for the bakery. I picked a tiny, pink, heart-shaped cake and proceeded to fill it with icing messages and kitschy decor for the babies, including a yellow smiling face.<br />
<br />
We celebrated Valentine's Day two days in advance, on a Sunday this year. My message to them every year will be one borrowed from one of my favourite Whitney Houston songs:<br />
<br />
<i>I decided long ago never to walk in anyone's shadow. If I fail, if I succeed, at least I'll live as I believe. No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity...because the greatest love of all is happening to me. Learning to love yourself...is the greatest love of all.</i><br />
<br />
Ironically, her struggles in life and untimely death showed that knowing this doesn't always mean it's easy to live it.<br />
<br />
So, I hope I was wrong in my assumptions about the woman in the supermarket staring at the chocolates, thankful that I'm now positively living the greatest love of all, and hopeful that the people I love most of all - my funny Valentines - will live this love their whole lives.<br />
<br />
Love yourself - at least, as much as you love the ones you love most.<br />
<br />
Happy Valentine's Day.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/IYzlVDlE72w" width="420"></iframe><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-2572120423910736272011-07-17T15:05:00.000-04:002011-07-17T15:05:26.512-04:00Working at Auschwitz<i>When going to the office means following the barbed wire to the building next to a gas chamber....</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; line-height: 25px;"></span><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Jarek Mensfelt, 49, first came to work at Auschwitz, it was for pragmatic reasons. He had studied languages and besides Polish, he also speaks English, French and Spanish. He’s now been here for 16 years.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It was only after I started working here that I think my life changed…not before,” he says.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He began working as a guide and then an interpreter at the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum and Memorial. But he never thought of it as a ‘mission,’ he adds. Although he was born in a town only 7 km away, it didn’t occur to him in his youth that he would build a career out of the history surrounding the former Nazi concentration camp where 1.1 million people – the majority of whom were Jews – were killed.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, he heads the press office, and while his day job involves maintaining the museum’s website and managing relations with journalists, he still conducts three-hour tours for visitors three to five times a week.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Working in his office, he sips green tea or his favorite sweetened boiled rhubarb drink. He usually starts his day by watering his plants and having a discussion with his three immediate colleagues. But reminders that his isn’t a regular office are never far away.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Behind the window, you can see the barbed wire and just ten meters away is the former gas chamber where tens of thousands were brutally murdered,” he says.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">His office on the grounds of Auschwitz I – the first of the satellite complex of camps – is in the former SS canteen, and next to the gas chamber. He recalls an incident that struck him when he first came to Auschwitz to apply for a job. He asked for directions at the reception and was told matter-of-factly: “go along the barbed wire and you’ll see the chimney and that is the crematorium and that is where the office is.” So while he tries not to think about that all the time, he also hopes never to forget where he works and what happened here, 70 years ago.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Each time I’m going into the camp at Birkenau, I can still sense the emotions,” he says, referring to Auschwitz II-Birkenau, the largest of the camps that held up to 90,000 prisoners and where 90 per cent of the victims here were killed.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To cope with the intensity of these emotions, he adds, he simply tries to “be mindful” – staying aware of who he is and where he is, not going into “a dreamlike mode” but yet not letting the emotions take control of his life.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mensfelt is divorced and has a stepson, 28, who lives in Ireland, and a daughter, 23, who is studying cognitive sciences. He still lives in the village he grew up in, near his mother and sister. When he isn’t at work, he can be found walking his dog, riding his bicycle or swimming.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In his career at the museum, he has led more than 1,500 groups on tour around the museum and memorial. If you’re lucky enough to be guided by Mensfelt, he may take you to a spot not usually on the standard guided tour route – the swimming pool.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #999999; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/jPWEXANfBts?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="color: #999999; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal;"><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even though it’s been more than 10 years, he has never been able to forget what happened on one of the tours he led.</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #999999; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/l3pqTaZx-VQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #999999; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the questions he is asked most often is about how people could live in the villages around the camps.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This is sometimes hard to understand for foreigners, because they would think of Auschwitz as a black hole with no life, where everything was destroyed,” he explains.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Similarly, he adds, it is hard for most people he meets to understand how he and about 260 other employees at Auschwitz go to work every day at a site of great human tragedy. In hindsight, he recalls, he himself was depressed in the first two years of working here.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It was really affecting me and I couldn’t simply switch off,” he said. “I became quiet internally and I changed my attitude to life.”</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But now, he adds, his work in “conveying history” fulfills him and he feels gratified thinking that each day, the thousands of visitors passing through the Auschwitz gates, under the famous “Arbeit Macht Frei” sign will leave having learned something.</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I became more optimistic after all,” he said. “I’m doing what I like doing. I’m a happy man.”</span></div><hr style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #dddddd; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; clear: both; float: none; height: 1px; margin-bottom: 1.45em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; width: 588px;" /><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unlike his colleague Mensfelt, press officer Pawel Sawicki has worked at Auschwitz for only three years, but he feels as if his life’s journey has led him here. The 30-year-old former journalist and soon-to-be father of twins talks about the mission of “working with memory and educating people.”</span></div><blockquote style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 1.5em; margin-right: 1.5em; margin-top: 1.5em; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; quotes: ''; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I think many people think of us as very sad and terrified people because we have to deal with murder and with gas chambers and so on, but in fact, what I learned from the survivors is to be happy every day.” – Pawel Sawicki.</span></i></div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #999999; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/7QAnsfwRLVg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="color: #999999; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 17px; font-style: normal;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 17px; font-style: normal;"> </span></span>As published on the FASPE Journalism website.</span></div><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-78076975409009364842011-06-30T07:50:00.005-04:002011-06-30T07:54:44.105-04:00The Shoe With No Lace - Reflections from Auschwitz<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I made sure not to wear mascara the day we visited Poland’s State Museum at Auschwitz-Birkenau. I was warned. But nothing I had heard from another person, or seen in books and films, could have prepared me for what I was about to experience.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In one of the brick military barracks that once housed over 1,000 human beings, I stood before a glass case of shoes, unable to move. My gut instinct told me to turn and run away. But I couldn’t. Instead, I kept looking at a particular shoe – a small black leather one turned dusty grey with age and wear.</span><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The shoe had lost its lace. I wasn’t sure if its owner – most probably a boy of about seven or eight years old then – had been responsible for that, or if the lace was ripped out of the sockets after the shoe had been taken from him.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The entire case before me was of children’s shoes. I scanned the display, looking for the shoe’s lost companion. It was as if finding the other would somehow comfort the one remaining. Yes, it was lost more than 65 years ago. But, perhaps, if I could find the partner to a pair (maybe even with lace intact) it would relieve this feeling inside me of having come undone.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">My son wears shoes like that to school every day.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I couldn’t find the shoe’s twin. When the Auschwitz concentration camps were liberated by Soviet troops on January 27, 1945, more than 80,000 shoes – both adults’ and children’s – were found, said Agnieshka, our guide. “I say 80,000 shoes, not pairs of shoes,” she emphasized, “because it was impossible to find them in pairs.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She didn’t have to explain why. The Nazi killing machinery had been so efficient that every single item belonging to its victims, from clothes, shoes, and glasses to prosthetic limbs and gold teeth fillings, had been systematically striped, appropriated and in most cases, redistributed. But towards the end, there must have been many items left behind in the wake of hasty retreat. Many of the exhibits were found in one warehouse (called “Kanada” because Canada symbolized wealth then) that didn’t burn down when the SS evacuated the camps, marching the remaining prisoners west, 10 days before the Soviets arrived.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I walked away from the shoes to an open window for some air. I would like to think of myself as an analytical and thoughtful person. But my mind was unable to process any information at that point, although I was still listening to Agnieshka’s facts and statistics loaded narrative through the headset. As I turned my face out the window, away from the room, my only thought was that I was glad I didn’t wear mascara. </span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The sun-soaked brick walls and dirt paths outside seemed eerily distant. I couldn’t feel the warmth and light streaming into the dark room. I didn’t need an explanation for why there was no lace on the shoe. Little boys lose their shoelaces, often without explanation, a lesson I learned on another bright, sunny, early summer day in the far away Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.C., where my kids go to school.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It was 3:30 p.m. and the children were emerging from school dressed in their uniform red tops, navy blue bottoms and black shoes – Mary Janes for the girls and laced leather shoes for the boys. I saw my son coming towards me in the distance, in a strange combination of shuffle, hobble and waddle.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“What’s going on baby? Why are you walking funny?”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Uh…mom…I lost my laces….”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Huh? How?”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t know.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I looked down at his feet to see a pair of black leather shoes turned dusty grey by the sticks-and-stones playground frolic of eight-year-old boys. The lace on one side was gone; on the other side, half the lace was left, with one ripped end dangling tentatively, barely holding the shoe together.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“What do you mean you don’t know? They’re your shoes and your laces…who else is responsible for them?”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t know!”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You must know. Did you step on them? Did you trip and fall? Did they break?”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I said I don’t know.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In that moment, I could have told myself to be a cool mom. It was no big deal. Shoelaces could be replaced. Instead, in the split second I had to decide which way to go, I chose the path of the harried, over-scheduled parent trying to juggle graduate school, working an internship, three freelance writing assignments and raising two kids at the same time.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“This is not acceptable. I want to know how you lost the laces.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“In the playground…maybe.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Fine. I will replace them. But you will clean the shoes when we get home.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He shuffled, hobbled, waddled two feet behind me all the way to the car. It wasn’t too hard to replace the laces. The local CVS pharmacy sold black laces. I didn’t make him clean his shoes nor string the new laces through the sockets. But I gave him a hard time for being unable to explain in detail how he lost the laces.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">We’re moving on, Agnieshka said over the headset. I moved away from the window to re-join the group in our tour of darkness. Why did I get all tied up in knots over shoelaces? I had no idea. But I knew that I wouldn’t be giving my son a hard time if he ever lost them again.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Six million Jewish lives were lost in the Holocaust, and an estimated 11 million in total. Here at Auschwitz, 1.1 million were killed, of which about 90 per cent were Jews, 75,000 Poles, 23,000 Roma and Sinti, 15,000 Soviet prisoners of war and 25,000 people of other ethnicities. The belongings enshrined as exhibits when Auschwitz I, the first of the satellite complex of camps, became a state museum in 1947, were a grim testimony to the horror that was meted out – hair shorn from the heads and bodies of victims before being sent into the gas chambers; suitcases with names and addresses written on them, as if the owners still held on to the barest thread of hope that they were getting on the transports to be resettled in a land where they could start a new life.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I was warned. But nothing I had heard from another person, or seen in books and films could have prepared me for this.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">On the bus after the visit ended that day, I sat by myself next to a window. The sun was scorching hot by now. It was 1:45 pm in Auschwitz, and 7:45 am back in the U.S. I called my son.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hello, mom.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hi, you sound sleepy.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I just woke up…getting ready to go to school.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I just wanted to hear your voice and say that I love you.”</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It was a two-minute phone call, cut short by IDD rates. But I would have gladly given all my worldly possessions to be able to hold him in my arms there and then. In my heart, I held him a little closer and tighter. In my mind, I couldn’t stop seeing the image of the shoe with no lace.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I made sure not to wear mascara as well the next day, when we visited Auschwitz II-Birkenau.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The camp, built over a sprawling 170-hectare site was said to have held up to 90,000 prisoners at one point. You could almost still smell the dead there, a friend who had come here in her high school years with the March of the Living program, had told me. In the tiny bunks shared by five to seven women, or the communal toilets that were basically long rows of circular holes in the ground, the stench of the dead and living dead had long dissipated. But if one stood very still and silent for a few moments, the air would grow heavy very quickly, despite the bright sunshine all around. And then, maybe, one would be able to smell the deaths that still haunted the grounds.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">As I walked, I couldn’t stop thinking about the shoe with no lace. I wondered if its lost owner ever made it here to the living quarters. At the end of the journey, in the building known as the “Sauna” that used to serve as a processing center for new arrivals, I found my answer. Most of the children who came to Auschwitz were sent directly to their death. Of those allowed to live, many were used in cruel medical experiments.</span><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In a room near the exit of the “Sauna” building stood three walls of photographs, taken from the victims. Many of these were of children – from babies to toddlers, and young, pre-teen kids. I scanned the faces – cherubic, happy, and smiling – and each time I came across a young boy, I found myself wondering if it had been his foot that the shoe without lace fitted on.</span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I stood at the wall, unable to move. I didn’t care anymore if I was wearing mascara. In the middle of the wall, there was a plague. Reading the writing, I felt as if all that was soft and living inside me was being violently ripped out like the lost shoelace:</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><em><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The first to perish were the children, abandoned orphans,</span></em></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><em><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; font-style: normal;"><em><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The world’s best, the bleak earth’s brightest,</span></em></span></span></em></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><em><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">These children from the orphanages might have been our comfort.</span></em></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><em><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">From these sad, mute, bleak faces our new dawn might have risen.</span></em></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 15px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In those words, I found the lost boy belonging to the shoe with no lace.</span> </span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="A wall of faces - children, people, families." hspace="5px" id="cid_1286579" src="http://open.salon.com/files/dsc_07921308160891.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="285" /></span> </span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">How does one tie up the pieces again after being torn apart by the horror and darkness that the human race had sunk to?</span></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Somehow, the living always finds a way to release death. That evening, I was one of a few non-Jewish persons who joined our Jewish fellow travelers at the synagogue in the town of Oswiecim to say Kaddish (the mourner’s prayer). What followed was an informal session with song, poetry and speech. It was spiritual and ritual, pious and therapeutic.</span></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In the sharing and baring, I found a lace to thread my soul back together again. I wore mascara that night…and was relieved to let it run. </span></span></div><div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 14px; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 18px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: inherit;"> </span><i>This piece was written as part of my trip to Germany and Poland on the <a href="http://bec2basics.blogspot.com/p/becaroundtheworld.html">inaugural FASPE Journalism Program</a>. It was first published on <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/beckalim/2011/06/15/the_shoe_with_no_lace">Open Salon</a> and it is also posted at the <a href="http://www.faspe.info/journalism2011/2011/06/the-shoe-with-no-lace/">FASPE Journalism site</a>. </i></span></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-52969164990314855052011-05-31T10:33:00.001-04:002011-06-30T08:14:23.943-04:00Memory & Perspectives - Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/KmAe9PGee0o?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-45762980178060827372011-05-25T23:38:00.002-04:002011-06-30T08:18:03.014-04:00FASPE Day 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b>Why do we study history, if not to make a better future?</b><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwL8sB38UCgZEuQLVvljCO-_-ynb9azeYuGzbH-_31D6nvNPSbdokvFe1NOcCChkNxQwPKvDsK9HD_7ysd-unmOI1t6xtcKXkIjAP-8-ciYPD79o_KAwBSyZL1e2JgwtyfR5IBuKJFek/s1600/IMG_0622.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwL8sB38UCgZEuQLVvljCO-_-ynb9azeYuGzbH-_31D6nvNPSbdokvFe1NOcCChkNxQwPKvDsK9HD_7ysd-unmOI1t6xtcKXkIjAP-8-ciYPD79o_KAwBSyZL1e2JgwtyfR5IBuKJFek/s320/IMG_0622.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The horror of the images in A Film Unfinished, <br />
juxtaposed with the beauty of the sunset.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
That was the thought that filled my mind as the documentary A Film Unfinished came to an end, and the shades over the windows rolled up along with the credits in the film, to reveal a magnificent sunset. The film, about a Nazi propaganda film about the Warsaw that was never finished, was probably one of the most intense I've ever seen, along with The Conscience of Nhem En (about a photographer who documented the Khmer Rouge genocide in Cambodia).<br />
<br />
It was the end of the first day on the <a href="http://www.faspe.info/journalism2011/">FASPE journalism program</a> and we had spent the day in discussions and seminars on the role of the press during the Holocaust and covering conflict. We had also been taken on a tour of the <a href="http://www.mjhnyc.org/">Jewish Heritage Museum in New York </a> by a Holocaust survivor from Poland. We were warned that the film was hard to watch, but even then, there was a cloud of silence hanging over the room for a few minutes when it ended.<br />
<br />
I'm hardly ever at a loss for words, but in that moment, I was only able to come to terms with the horrific images I had just seen, by capturing images myself. I grabbed my camera and shot the sunset through the window. Being behind the lens made me feel safe again, even as the questions and thoughts were racing through my head about the people who shot that film in the ghetto, of the dead and dying, and the one man who recounted the process in an interview years later.<br />
<br />
Strangely, I felt like I could understand how he could have done it...just stayed behind the camera and shot the scenes, and fall back to the concerns of the craft (i.e. was there good lighting, etc.) instead of addressing the moral and ethical issues of being an apparatus to documenting atrocities. Of course it's morally wrong. I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying that for a split second, I felt like I could get into the mind of the person behind the camera. In a poetically ironic way, it was through an appreciation of beauty, that I could almost fathom the depths of horror the human soul is sometimes capable of.<br />
<br />
I've always loved sunsets...because they signal to me that there will be another glorious sunrise the next day. Why study history, if it isn't to make a better future?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_I4REMLtPR7YWnGl6j3G64wOfw3J0nSNAGuok3vjXcnntgRuf_37x4PkxBz9swkDkJH8OkXZNOGQ2yq9jspOBtLlFOdnlyW-OLLvuWyFecz5uYY86TPyiW5bEoVvAp9apJB_6t9x7OwY/s1600/DSC_0039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_I4REMLtPR7YWnGl6j3G64wOfw3J0nSNAGuok3vjXcnntgRuf_37x4PkxBz9swkDkJH8OkXZNOGQ2yq9jspOBtLlFOdnlyW-OLLvuWyFecz5uYY86TPyiW5bEoVvAp9apJB_6t9x7OwY/s320/DSC_0039.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-83976706524173440472011-02-28T11:44:00.001-05:002011-02-28T14:43:49.358-05:00Not All Moms Have To BakeI don't bake. I don't like baking. Does that make me a bad mom?<br />
<br />
Today, my lack of baking skills may just turn me into a less than adequate mom, because my 5-year-old's homework is to decorate a gingerbread house. Thankfully, I don't actually have to bake a gingerbread house - just assemble it with icing and help her put on the decoration. So, in effect, it's really more art and craft than confectionery concocting.<br />
<br />
But I have to be honest. I'm really not enjoying this. I'm smiling at my little girl as the icing sugar is flying all over the counter top and floor, but in my mind, I'm half whining at the cleaning up I loathe to do and half ranting at how the school could assign homework that is loaded with gender stereotypes.<br />
<br />
I do realize, of course, that the boys have to do this too. Or, at least, their moms have to do it for them. This is a fun way of wrapping up their thematic topic of 'houses'. So why can't the kids (and their hapless moms) be given a choice - you could either do the gingerbread house, icing or Legos, or build a virtual house on the computer using design software. I would gladly take the last two choices over the first.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I admire people who can bake. And I love devouring their painstaking efforts to recreate a princess castle or Cinderella's magical glass slipper. I really love my sweets. But I just don't dig doing it myself.<br />
<br />
It's not as if I'm useless in the kitchen. I can cook, and I love cooking. I can cook a wide variety of styles and dishes, from curries to pho to sushi and steak. I just don't do baking. Maybe it's because my own mom loved to bake, but can't cook. <br />
<br />
When I was growing up, my mom stayed home and her days were filled with - you guessed it - baking. She had all sorts of baking equipment and accessories, from the electric mixer with a double spinning-thing (with five different types of spinning-thing for mixing, stirring, kneading, whatever) to a vast collection of measuring cups and spoons, and baking trays.<br />
<br />
I recall being very fascinated with the sponge cakes, pound cakes, chocolate fudge cakes, cupcakes and cookies she would spend hours baking (and even more hours cleaning up after). But I never felt motivated to want to do it myself. Perhaps, it is because I decided early on in life that wasn't the life I wanted for myself.<br />
<br />
I love being a mom, and I enjoy every minute of my mothering experience. I do my fair share of cooking, cleaning, laundry and the inevitable driving to ballet, piano, Tae Kwon Do lessons, etc. But I also want to be out there in the field, interviewing people, shooting pictures and videos, or behind my computer, writing a paper, editing a piece in Final Cut or hammering a blog post together. <br />
<br />
I have nothing but the deepest respect for moms who choose to stay at home and devote their entire lives to raising children, because that is the hardest thing to do. My own mom did that, and many of my friends have done, or are doing that. I did that for a few years. But even then, I wasn't really just doing that. I still wrote freelance; I taught yoga; and I started a home-based business selling organic skincare products and my own handmade jewelry.<br />
<br />
I never got into baking the kids' birthday cakes myself, decorating their rooms with matching wallpaper and lampshades, and organizing playdates every weekend. Not even when I was a full time stayhome mom, and much less probably now that I'm juggling grad school, freelance work and internships. I guess it's just not in my personality.<br />
<br />
When I'm spending time with the kids, I would rather teach them photography principles (or watch Justin Bieber videos) than bake with them. I would play soccer, rather than sew. (Although I have to state for the record that I can work a needle...well enough to make classic jointed teddy bears.)<br />
<br />
I guess what I'm really saying is that I break all the rules of things moms should "traditionally" be able to do, and I happily make my own. Does that make me a bad mom? I guess I'll find out when my five-year-old submits her less than picture perfect gingerbread house homework tomorrow.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCWqwWET-KYCHS1aYKg_cV-7F4i35RLrx7ZkRYOS8ZFs2t3EgdVEClDphUKukrBw49SZpIbG6Kt6ed_VgNkjRSS1Pe-ObsSobV_l2zRAoEcod2x4ZYQyRGrTVI7ZN_-I3bARlPUxTJ60/s1600/IMG_0079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCWqwWET-KYCHS1aYKg_cV-7F4i35RLrx7ZkRYOS8ZFs2t3EgdVEClDphUKukrBw49SZpIbG6Kt6ed_VgNkjRSS1Pe-ObsSobV_l2zRAoEcod2x4ZYQyRGrTVI7ZN_-I3bARlPUxTJ60/s320/IMG_0079.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-82920395058357269922011-01-19T21:25:00.001-05:002011-01-19T22:25:48.908-05:00Viral 'baby yoga' Vid - Has The Internet Killed Journalism?<div class="pbody" id="pbody"><div align="justify">Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a video of a woman swinging babies. It is called "Baby Yoga." It went viral, of course, as any spectacle that is put on the net these days are wont to.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Then, there was this blogger who "scored" an interview with the woman. He <a href="http://bit.ly/gFOwBS">blogged about it</a> in detail, including the original video. To be fair to this blogger, he covers his grounds in the interview by asking the woman in the video questions from different angles. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">But it's one guy's blog about one woman's way of teaching 'baby yoga.' That is fine with me. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">But then, Time <a href="http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/5lKgoC/healthland.time.com/2011/01/19/behind-the-viral-video-whats-the-deal-with-baby-yoga/">carried the piece</a> under its "Healthland" banner. There was no reporting done. This means that no one bothered to interview other kids yoga teachers, or to even google and provide background information. The Time piece just said: 1. there's this viral video of 'baby yoga' (as if that is the definitive of baby yoga) and 2. there's this guy who blogged it, read it here (linked). </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">What made it worse, was that @HuffingtonPostLiving tweeted the link to the Time piece. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Cyberspace is full of freak show videos and this-is-just-me shooting off blogs. And unfortunately, these get more eyeballs than well considered, well researched and well reported pieces. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">But when media brand names that people trust for veracity and objectivity, and responsible reporting, etc., etc., latch on to these to get eyeballs, then it is truly a sad day indeed, and I'll finally have to conceed that yes, maybe the internet has killed journalism.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">What do I have against Lena Fokina (i.e. baby swinging baby yoga teacher)? Nothing. But I do need to point out that she doesn't own the 'baby yoga' label. There are many other baby and kids yoga teachers, myself included, who don't swing babies around when we teach. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Of course she is free to teach in her own way, and there are parents who found her lessons beneficial. One of the key learnings in yoga is that there are many paths to one truth. So we are always respectful of that.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">What do I have against the blogger? Nothing. He wanted to find out more about this woman after watching her video, so he interviewed her and wrote it up. I do wish though that he had done some research and put that in his piece. But again, that's his choice and I'm respectful of that. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">But, and this is where I get a little upset. At the very least, the person at Time who wrote up its piece linking to the blog post should have done that. All one has to do is google kids or baby yoga and one will find a host of other information and resources such as the highly acclaimed <a href="http://yogakids.com/">YogaKids</a> program and another well known program, <a href="http://www.itsybitsyyoga.com/">Itsy, Bitsy Yoga</a>. These would have provided a more complete picture to "the deal with baby yoga" as the Time headline proclaimed the piece to be about. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Just as there are more dynamic forms of yoga for adults, such as ashtanga and vinyasa flow practices, as well as gentle forms, there are different ways of teaching baby yoga. I teach it as bonding exercises for parents or caregivers and child. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Yoga teachers, like professional journalists, train hard and for years in their vocation. Both are committed to seeking truth, albeit in different ways. I know, because I am both, and I'm passionately committed to both journalism and yoga. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Ms Fokina has her way of teaching baby yoga; I have mine. But there are some principles and common beliefs that those in the news profession hold. In the day and age of Twitter, blogs, self-publishing and a barrage of information being posted on social networks all the time, it is even more critical that media organizations hold true and hold on tightly to these principles. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">What is the difference between something posted by a media/news organization and someone on a blog? Readers expect 1. context 2. fact checking 3. accuracy 4. timeliness of information 5. objectivity (although that is questionable these days) and so on and so forth from the former. Otherwise, seriously, why should anyone continue to pay for news and information. It's all free on Twitter and the blogosphere, and Facebook and YouTube and so on.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />
</div><div align="justify">Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a profession called journalism. I hope it doesn't go away. Is there a way to make sound journalistic principles go viral?<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>By the way, when this video first went viral, there were many people who thought it was a hoax. And 'the blogger' is also a journalist, who writes on Russia for Time, and he says that he practices yoga as well. And if you HAVE to watch the video, be warned...here it is: </i><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="youtube-player" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/uk3kNi4jBXg?rel=0" title="YouTube video player" type="text/html" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
<i> </i><i><br />
</i></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-53918404436144678612011-01-14T13:29:00.001-05:002011-01-14T13:37:47.586-05:00Banana Parenting Part 2: I'll Never Be A "Chinese Mother."This is why I will never be a true blue "Chinese mother." Ariel missed her first violin lesson today.<br />
<br />
Last night, I saw an email from her music teacher at school with an attachment - both online and on the Blackberry. <i>Groan. More schedules.</i> <i>Let me tweet these articles first, before I look at it.</i> Of course I Twitter-ed away the hours, in between fiddling with Rapid Weaver.<br />
<br />
This morning, I received a very polite email from the violin teacher, Ms C, gently reminding me that Ariel is "clearly very interested in starting violin lessons."<br />
<br />
I'm just glad Ms C is not Mdm Amy Chua. I think I just commited a reprehensible offense in the latter's books.<br />
<br />
In my <a href="http://bit.ly/guGvlF">"Banana Parenting" </a>response to Ms Chua's piece in WSJ (<a href="http://on.wsj.com/esA57L">Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior</a>), I painted myself as prefering a more balanced approach, but nevertheless veering towards the camp of discipline, rules and my own somewhat oxymoronic concoction of reasonable strictures.<br />
<br />
But this morning, I felt more like a bananas-in-pyjamas parent. I was sloppy, in my own book - no excuse. Thus humbled, I thought it fitting to acknowledge that while I don't completely agree with Ms Chua's style of mothering, I should give her credit where it's due.<br />
<br />
Ms Chua has written <a href="http://on.wsj.com/g0jQRx">a response</a><a href="http://on.wsj.com/g0jQRx"> </a>to the responses to her piece and her memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. She maintains that her style of "Eastern parenting" involves high expectations "coupled with love, understanding and parental involvement."<br />
<br />
Despite her clarifications, I believe many people will still find her methods extreme and be unable to wrap their minds around how such methods can speak of love. But if one was to stop for a moment and turn off one's own cultural biases and personal judgment and just read her response objectively, it is not so hard to fathom.<br />
<br />
Open Salon blogger Grace Hwang Lynch has written an <a href="http://bit.ly/ftzyF3">excellent review</a> of Ms Chua's book and it would be a good idea to read this, if not the book, before passing any further judgment or comments on Ms Chua. Some of the more impassioned reactions (on other forums, of course) have included name-calling and other uncalled for vitriol. I don't believe Ms Chua meant to find herself in a clash-of-the-cultures maelstrom. At the end of the day, I agree with Grace, that we need to remember that this is one woman's personal memoir.<br />
<br />
This woman, in allowing us a no holds barred look into the (sometimes ugly and painful) details of her struggles in parenting has laid her vulnerabilities at our feet. That may not be so apparent on the superficial level because she is coming across as being so strong, so agressive and yes, somewhat superior.<br />
<br />
But this is also the same woman who confesses in her reply to readers that she is "definitely a Type A personality, always rushing around...not good at just lying on the beach." She didn't say the rest of us shouldn't lie on the beach if we choose to - just that she can't seem to do that herself.<br />
<br />
So here is my confession. I'm very much a Type A maniac myself, always doing too much. That is why, despite not agreeing with Ms Chua, I can empathize with her.<br />
<br />
Consider this: doing everything that she did for her daughters required extreme stamina and focus. If the child had to practice for 3 hours, it meant the mom had to watch for 3 hours. I can't do that (especially if Glee is on TV.) On my good days (i.e. not the bananas/pyjamas days), I can probably claim to have a B+/A- level of that kind of mental strength. (And yes, I was pretty much a straight A student, or at least in the top cohort because I went to schools that sadistically didn't give "A" grades to motivate us to perform better. Let's not go there.)<br />
<br />
So again, while I don't agree with Ms Chua completely, I have to say I respect her for: 1. being honest and sticking up for what she believes in; and 2. her commitment to her family.<br />
<br />
Let's put this in perspective. We may feel strongly that it's not good to call our children "garbage" but she is also not an abusive drunk who left her kids starving out in the streets like garbage. Different strokes for different folks. Let's leave it at that, and thank Ms Chua for giving us fodder for much interesting debate/discussion.<br />
<br />
So I'll never be a true blue "Chinese mother" but I'm happy chewing on my parenting bananas. Now I need to get out of my pyjamas and go pick the kids up from school.<br />
<br />
<i>Note to self: print music schedule, highlight dates, put it somewhere I won't forget to look. </i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-84766065251403669312011-01-08T11:13:00.003-05:002011-01-11T18:53:48.586-05:00Banana Parenting: Best of East & West or Just A Crazy Mashup?It is Saturday morning. My 8-year-old son, Amon, is grounded in his room. There will be no TV, Wii or playtime this weekend. He has until 12 noon to clean up and organize his room, failing which, he will not be allowed to attend his friend's birthday party this afternoon.<br />
<br />
What did he do to deserve this? It's what he didn't do. He has Tae Kwon Do classes every Saturday. We have an agreement that he is going to be responsible for making sure his uniform and gloves are ready and packed in his bag for every class. Yesterday, I asked him twice if he had done so. He replied in the affirmative both times. This morning, as we were about to rush out for his sister's ballet class, I found the bag empty and strewn on the floor.<br />
<br />
Most parents reading this in the US or Europe would just pick up the bag, find the clothes, gently remind him that he needs to do it the next time, and get going. You will probably be quietly disapproving of my harsh diatribe and punishment. Most parents reading this in Asia will be wondering if I was punishing my son for being rude and disobedient to me, rather than for not being responsible for his things (especially in the newly rich cities where such 'chores' are delegated to domestic helpers rather than have the little princes and princesses do them). Both groups need to reserve judgment and read on.<br />
<br />
I delivered a 10-minute lecture on 1. paying attention to instructions (did he hear me when I said to pack his bag?); 2. discipline and responsibility (his class, his bag, his clothes, his duty to get them in order, just like it's taught in TKD class); 3. honesty (if he told me he did it, I trusted that he did; he didn't so it was a lie).<br />
<br />
Then I set him on his task and sat down to coffee, and my main source of parenting stress therapy - Facebook. And what is the first post I should see but this piece in the <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html?mod=ITP_review_0">WSJ ("Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior)</a> .<br />
<br />
The writer, Amy Chua, discusses, a little tongue-in-cheek perhaps, how her "Chinese" (broadly encompassing most Asian) style of parenting is fundamentally different to the "Western" style. Her kids had no playdates, computer/TV time and had to play the piano and violin and score straight As. Once, when one of them was rude to her, she reprimanded the child, calling her "garbage" the way her own father had done. That caused her some bad PR at a dinner party and a mother so horrified at the "abuse" she had to leave.<br />
<br />
The point of her piece is that the stereotype of the "evil" Asian mother is really a result of a lack of understanding of cultural differences and motivations by the Western writers. Similarly, many Asian parents secretly hold many misconceptions of Western styles of parenting.<br />
<br />
At the risk of being reductive or over-generalizing, I will have to state upfront, as she did in her piece, that I'm using the terms "Asian" and "western" loosely to depict observations and trends. There are many people in both cultures and parts of the world who don't fit in the stereotypes (and I certainly am one of them). <br />
<br />
She underlines several fundamental differences but I would trace them all simply back to basic value systems.<br />
<br />
Western philosophy values the pursuit of individual happiness and freedom above all. Perhaps John Stuart Mill stated this most succinctly in On Liberty: "<style>
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</style><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;">the necessity to the mental well-being of mankind (on which all their other well-being depends) of freedom of opinion, and freedom of the expression of opinion.…” </span></i>The happiness of society as a whole depends on the happiness and freedom of the individuals.<br />
<br />
Eastern philosophy and values, on the other hand, are largely built around the community and the world around us. Confucius teaches that the country comes before the family, and the family before the individual. Buddhism and Hinduism value the respect and embracing of nature and other beings over the selfish interests of the individual. True happiness, inner strength and peace of mind, the Dalai Lama often says, is to be had only when one is caring and compassionate towards others. When society as a whole is happy, the individual can be so too.<br />
<br />
These fundamentally different approaches explain a lot about the difference in parenting styles. In traditional Asian belief, the child has a duty to his or her parents to obey and respect them, and the parents have a duty to ensure the child does the right thing. So if he or she fails in a task, the parent has to guide, punish or do whatever is necessary to set him or her on track to succeed. In western cultures, as Ms Chua noted, the parent is more concerned about the child's feelings and self-esteem, and more likely to tell the child, "It's ok. You did great."<br />
<br />
Again, I don't want to come across as being reductive. These are two ends of the scale and many parents today - especially Asians educated in western philosophy or schools of thought and westerners who are exposed to the cultures and philosophies of Asia - fall somewhere in between. There is also much to be said for the good old Protestant work ethic or simply just "grandma's dictum of hard work and discipline" that many parents in the west adhere to. The most memorable story about Barrack Obama (for me) was that his mother used to sit with him early in the morning to make sure he got his homework done. And I've already mentioned a recent observation in newly rich Asian societies where the children are treated like "little emperors" and not subjected to the same kind of strict parenting as my peers and our parents before us were.<br />
<br />
I believe that there are intrinsic value and benefits from both styles of parenting and the different schools of thought of both western and Asian cultures. I believe that, as with all things in life, the answer to conscious and good parenting comes from going back to the basics and striking a balance. Where those basic values are and where that balancing point is will be different for everyone.<br />
<br />
For me, they fall somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, in the shaded part of the Venn diagram that tries to encompass the best of both worlds. I do believe in playdates and having fun with computers and games. But I also believe in never missing a deadline for homework or school assignments. If that happened as a result of neglect or irresponsibility, I also believe in consequences -- just like the ones I meted out to Amon.<br />
<br />
I will not pick up his pieces and tell him gently to remember to do it next time, because I know he won't. And he wouldn't learn anything if I did everything for him just because I was afraid he will feel bad if I berated him. I saw his face when I was delivering my lecture. Of course he felt bad. But I also do not believe in calling him "garbage" or derogatory terms like "stupid" (some of the examples Ms Chua mentioned in her piece that Chinese parents get away with). I don't believe in that kind of feeling bad. My lecture revolved around the basic tenets of discipline, responsibility and self-confidence that his TKD classes were built on. What's the point, I asked him, of going to class and learning the actions, when you don't even want to be responsible for something as simple as packing your uniform in your bag? I also didn't want him to pack his uniform and go for class because I dictated it. He only goes for TKD classes because he wanted to.<br />
<br />
So he exercises free will and choice, but he also needs to understand and perform the duties and responsibilities that come with it. And yes, I draw the boundaries of where those duties lie because I'm his mother. If he is rude and disrespectful (which he was initially this morning because he yelled back at me) he will be punished for it. But similarly, if I made a mistake and lose my cool with him (and I have), I will apologize for it. So I expect my child to show the kind of respect Confucius said one should accord a parent, but I also treat him as an equal human being with a right to free will and happiness.<br />
<br />
Somewhere, in the convoluted mashup of east and west thinking lies my clear vision of banana parenting. Call it order in chaos, or trying to have my cake and eat it, if you will, but it makes perfect sense to me.<br />
<br />
The "yellow banana" is a term, often derogatory, used to described Chinese (or more politically correct, people of similar skin tone) people who reject their roots and culture for "western" values -- yellow on the outside, white on the inside. But really, if you look at it, a banana on the inside is not white. It's a lighter shade of yellow, and in the best of the crops, the texture and firmness is just right -- not too hard and not too soft.<br />
<br />
I'm very much a banana. I'm deeply rooted in my origins and culture, but I have also studied and reflected on several different cultures and value systems from around the world. I see myself as a truely global netizen of my time, and that is how I will parent my children -- to learn the best from both east and west, and become true citizens of the world. <br />
<br />
So, there are many points in Ms Chua's piece that I do not agree with. I prefer a more conciliatory and all-embracing approach. But I'm also glad though that someone is finally speaking up for the "evil" Asian mother because I'm sick and tired of the judgmental looks I get when I speak sternly to my children in public.<br />
<br />
In the time I took to write this piece, Amon has cleaned up and organized his room. He stayed in there when he was done, and asked his sister if she could convey the message to me to come inspect it. I told him he could come out and have a mid-morning snack. After he eats, I will go with him to his room, and we will assess it and add the final touches together. Then, I will let him read this blog post.<br />
<br />
Right now, he's making me a cheese sandwich ("Mom, you have to try this...it's good!") It looks like we're going for the party this afternoon and his feelings are none the worse for wear.<br />
<br />
<i>Footnote: So he organized and cleaned up his room. But he also hid all his Chinese books in a paperbag, under a pile of loose 'scratch' paper (i.e. trash). Sigh.</i><br />
<br />
<b><i>This post can also be viewed on Open Salon <a href="http://bit.ly/guGvlF">http://bit.ly/guGvlF</a></i></b><i> <b>where there is a great discourse going on about the subject. Thank you!</b></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-61773764021014475512011-01-03T14:51:00.001-05:002011-01-03T14:52:05.196-05:00The Price of Life: $10k to be born and $7k when you die.<div class="pbody" id="pbody">I began the first Monday of the new year as I do most "working" days. I trawl, tweet and retweet news.<br />
<br />
So, what's new in 2011? There was an earthquake in Chile; Zsa Zsa Gabor is in hospital and her lower leg needs to be amputated; British actor Pete Postlethwaite died; and organic beef contaminated with E Coli was recalled in California.<br />
<br />
So, what's new? <br />
<br />
Technically, this is "work" for me, although I don't go to work. I'm working on my thesis in grad school and I write freelance. But as a new breed of independent multi-media journalist, I'm on Twitter all the time being part of the new, news breaking crowd, in the hope that one day some old media organization would notice me for tweet-breaking news and hire me. <br />
<br />
The one news article that did catch my attention beyond 140 characters was the <a href="http://on.wsj.com/fcJQWu">WSJ piece</a> comparing consumer purchases made in 2008, 2009 and 2010.<br />
<br />
These are the price tags of living. The prices of a pair of jeans ($54.50) and a McDonald's Big Mac ($3.20) cost the same last year and the year before. Yay...not that I eat Big Macs. <br />
<br />
But what about the price of life? Not cheap...and it costs more to be born than to be sent off when one dies. The average hospital cost for a newborn and his/her mother was $10,679 last year. The national average cost for a funeral (excluding cemetery cost) was $7,710.<br />
<br />
And if one should be sick? The average cost of a day's stay in a semi-private room in a hospital, excluding fees for a private physician, was $7,507 -- almost as much as a funeral.<br />
<br />
I don't really want to be morbid and talk about death at the dawn of a new year. But these numbers really made me think about life. I really don't want to be sick. I want to live well and live healthy. Between one day in hospital and a funeral, I think I would pay for the funeral and be done with it.<br />
<br />
Knock on wood, I want to live healthy and when it's time to go, go quickly and be done. I don't want my children to have to fork out $7,507 a day.<br />
<br />
Speaking of children, a college education at Penn State cost $23,620 a year in 2010. That is two-and-a-half times the cost of having a baby in the hospital. A Toyota Camry would cost less than a year in college. Car? Degree? Car? Degree? Tough call. <br />
<br />
Gas has gone up by 40cents to $2.81 from the year before to last. It actually costs alot more than that around here. It would probably be a good idea in the interest of all life to drive less in 2011. <br />
<br />
So should we make babies? Or just go out to the movies? The cost of a movie ticket was $7.85 (about 0.1 % of a funeral). Taking into account all the other costs of the nine months before the birth and the 18 years after before this baby makes it to college, it would be safe to assume that the price of making a life is pretty hefty. I can't put a number there.<br />
<br />
It's probably least costly to just hang out in the blogosphere..write and read great writing. But even that will get pricier. The average cost of broadband cable and internet service went up by $2.00 from the year before to $44.95 last year. And we can be pretty sure it'll go up again this year. It's probably hidden in the fine print somewhere. <br />
<br />
All these numbers are giving me a headache worthy of a hangover. Tagging the price of life and cost of living is too sobering an activity for post New Year bash recovery. Maybe I should just stick with resolutions. <br />
<br />
I have only one resolution for 2011. Last year, I learned that happiness comes from deep within me, and isn't determined by who or what is around me. So my single, focused resolution for the new year is: if I'm not happy, it's not worth it.<br />
<br />
That's it...my new outlook on life. Simple. Now I'm happy. Remind me not to go look at those numbers again. As for the price of life, I guess the simplest and happiest answer is really: priceless. <br />
<br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-26490270524554797002011-01-03T01:43:00.000-05:002011-01-03T01:43:43.961-05:00A Room Of My Own<i>This is a piece written in response to an open call on Open Salon on writing space.</i> <br />
<br />
My kindle has a name - Judith S. Porte.<br />
<br />
The "S" stands for Shakespeare, and her favorite song is The Doors' "Light My Fire." She is thus named, because she came into my life at a point when a flame was ignited again. <br />
<br />
I fell in love all over again in the fall in 2009. But the relationship was rocky. Then, late last year, I realized that to truly love, I needed to let go of fear and allow myself to be vulnerable. I threw caution and doubt to the wind, and joined Open Salon. It was scary to go out on a limb like that, but I made a committment to my love. <br />
<br />
I have been in love with writing since I was a little girl. I wrote my first story in middle school. <br />
<br />
It was a novella scrawled in girlish cursive in an unassuming notebook with brown paper cover. It was a romantic mashup of the first three novels I had ever read (Pride and Prejudice, Wutthering Heights and Jane Eyre), with an urban, present day setting and Asian names.<br />
<br />
I showed it to my best friend, who took it home to read. She showed it to her dad. The next day, she came to school with a message from her dad: "Don't stop writing...and don't stop reading." He also loaned me a copy of Watership Down.<br />
<br />
I realized much later on that he must have thought I was reading paperback romance. I guess he was my first critic and writing coach. <br />
<br />
I can't remember where I wrote that first story. But my parents were not well off. I didn't have a writing desk and I did all my homework from school on the little child's size table that also served as my dining table. So I guess I wrote on the dining table.<br />
<br />
The best part about that little eating/writing/all-purpose table was that it was portable. It was made of wood, with a white top and bright orange legs. Whenever Happy Days came on, I would move it to the room with the TV on. When I didn't want the distraction of the TV, I would move it away again.<br />
Those early days of nomadic writing must have been ingrained in me somehow. This is the same way I write today.<br />
<br />
I saw that post by aliquot on Open Salon on desks and started reflecting on my own writing space. Then, I read lschmoopie's open call post (<a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/lschmoopie/2011/01/01/open_call_your_writing_space">http://open.salon.com/blog/lschmoopie/2011/01/01/open_call_your_writing_space</a>) and a couple of responses with all the great pictures of everyone's writing space.<br />
<br />
I realized I don't really have a physical writing space. For a start, I have a desk but I don't use it. Most of the time, I write in the kitchen, from the breakfast table. It is next to the window. I need to look out when I write, and this is what I see:<br />
<img alt="DSCN1422" hspace="5px" id="cid_1003336" src="http://open.salon.com/files/dscn14221294033442.jpg" width="285" /><br />
<br />
When it's not too cold, the black squirrel who lives in the yard comes out to play. He does that a lot in the spring. But fall is my favorite season because I like watching the leaves in the wind.<br />
Sometimes, I move from the breakfast to the dining table. I guess old habits die hard, especially those formed in childhood. Good thing is, I don't have to port the whole table, with the book I'm writing in now - just the Macbook. Still, I need to look out:<br />
<img alt="DSCN0455" hspace="5px" id="cid_1003342" src="http://open.salon.com/files/dscn04551294033811.jpg" width="285" /><br />
<br />
But they don't show Happy Days on TV anymore. So now, when I want to be around happy people when I'm writing, I go out to Starbucks. (Actually it's also for the coffee and free wifi.) <br />
<br />
The people at my two favorite Starbucks locations are always happy to see me (and I'm happy to see them). I was told that at one of those locations, the manager and staff were shot and killed some years back, and even today, some of the takings from the store go to the families of the deceased. <br />
<br />
I don't need to post a picture. Everyone knows what a Starbucks looks like. I usually get a seat by the window. It's not a pretty view. It looks out to a carpark in one location, and a road in another. But it's a view, nonetheless. <br />
<br />
There are times though, when the happy wanderer in me feels the need for a serious space to do some serious writing. Usually, that would be an essay or paper for grad school. Then, I would travel to the space that every student can call his or her own - the library.<br />
<br />
I love libraries and I hang out in them a lot. It's communal and yet private. I get a desk of my own, even though it is one amongst many, and shared by many. In the campus library, there is a common identity and yet I can be anonymous.<br />
<br />
So I can't take a picture in the campus library for this post, because I don't want my anonymous identity to be: "the weirdo who took a picture of the library." Right now, I'm "the girl with the purple mac who likes to sit by the window." I would like to keep it that way. <br />
<br />
So I guess, in short, I don't really have a writing space. I write from everywhere. But then again, maybe I do. I write in a room of my own, with a window I'm always looking out of...and that space is mostly in my head. <br />
<br />
Since I can't take a picture of the space in my head, here's one of Judith, who is often with me these days when I write:<br />
<img alt="Kindle pic" hspace="5px" id="cid_1003384" src="http://open.salon.com/files/kindle_pic1294036058.jpg" width="285" />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-87254428904341748992010-12-31T13:21:00.002-05:002011-01-01T02:23:11.516-05:00I smell bad, my hair is a mess...but I'm SO ready for 2011!My hair is tied up in a bun. There are stray strands all over the makeshift mop-top. It stinks too.<br />
<br />
My fingers, despite repeated scrubbing, reek of the spices I have been chopping and grinding since last night. I have to remember not to run them across my eyes or they will immediately sting and tear. Such is the effect of raw chili! <br />
<br />
I'm cooking. And who cares if I smell and look bad. I'm happy...and ready to welcome and embrace 2011 -- a new year and new decade.<br />
<br />
It is going to be a good year. I already know it. All the hard work and struggles of the last few years are going to come to fruition. I'm on the last legs of grad school, working on a thesis on a topic I've been passionate about since I was 18. I have an internship with a news organization I've dreamed of working for since I was a little girl. And I'm in the process of applying for post graduate studies.<br />
<br />
And I'm cooking. I've not been cooking for a while. I don't mean the whipping up of day-to-day meals. I mean all-out, committed, slave-over-the-stove (and chopping board) cooking that Southeast Asian cuisine is about.<br />
<br />
The foods of the region I come from is so rich in spices, subtle flavors and layers of tastes that anyone who tries it for the first time will be blown away, mind, body and soul. Food reflects cultures, and this is what Southeast Asia is like -- multi-layered, diverse, and constantly stimulating to the senses.<br />
<br />
As you can imagine, the cooking process is pretty much the same...layers of effort. It begins with preparing the spices and herbs -- from commonly used garlic, shallots, ginger to galangal, tumeric, lemongrass, daun lima (lime leaves), etc. Coriander, cumin...all in a cacophony of fragrant concoctions. Some are to be diced and pounded into a paste. Some are to be used "neat" to perform its olfactory duties of its own volition.<br />
<br />
If the spices and herbs are a choral of smells, then the sauces would be an orchestra of tastes. There must be hundreds of different combinations and permutations that chili, pepper, lime juice, fish sauce, soy sauce, garlic, sugar, shallots can be blended together to make a delightful condiment. Sauces are essential companions to many Southeast Asian dishes. Getting the tone and tune right for them is critical to the enjoyment of the overall alchemical performance.<br />
<br />
Cooking the dishes usually require stir-frying in a huge wok or slow-boiling in a huge pot -- or both. At this stage, the layers -- text and sub-text -- and the order of layering, are important. The oil, garlic, shallots; the paste, spices, herbs, and then the meats/fish/seafood or vegetables and often, coconut cream or milk. Some dishes need to be cooked in two, or three parts, and then put together in an ensemble of strings, wind and percussion.<br />
<br />
Cooking to welcome a new year and new decade is music to my ears. I can't think of anything I'm happier doing in this moment (except taking a lunch break to send New Year's greetings to the other side of the world which has already stepped into 2011).<br />
<br />
The menu is as multi-cultural as the wonderful guests who are coming to welcome the new year with me. <br />
<br />
Hors d'oeuvre include cheese, pate and cute Chinese spring rolls. There will be two choices of salad -- a Thai papaya salad with crushed peanuts and a Japanese inspired enoki-and-sprouts creation. Traditional Chinese wanton (dumpling) and bak choy in a clear broth helps to clear and prepare the senses for the spice-loaded main dishes. At this point, a trio will take centerstage -- Thai green chicken curry, sayur lodeh (a colorful Indonesian vegetable dish) and glass noodles pepper shrimps (a mashup based on Vietnamese and Thai influences). The trio will be accompanied by two backup staples: a classic white rice (of the long grain Thai fragrant variety, not the lumpy, short grain whatever you get packed into boxes from the takeouts) and a darker, enhanced cousin, Thai black olive fried rice. The sweetness that rounds off the meal will of course has to come from the west -- a can-can finale of fruits, chocolates, ice-cream and cakes.<br />
<br />
Cooking is music to my ears. I can only cook with love and passion. I can't think of a better way to welcome the new year and new decade that I know will bring amazing new experiences and paths.<br />
<br />
Now, I must get back to the composition, rehearsal and conducting of my symphony. Happy New Year, everyone.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-24119473893422804112010-12-26T17:12:00.000-05:002010-12-26T17:12:49.230-05:00Across The Room...A Christmas Parable<i>This is a parable...a flash fiction piece I wrote for my Open Salon blog for the theme "holiday from hell." </i><br />
<br />
There he is…across the room from me. <br />
<br />
This scene is feeling a little tired. But yet, there is so much comfort in the familiarity that we keep doing this over and over again. <span> </span>This is how we see each other all the time – among warm bodies in a small room, imbibing insane amounts of alcohol and huddled close to form a human ring of heat against the cold outside. <br />
<br />
It is Christmas day. I sometimes wonder if there would be as much cheer during the holiday season if we didn’t have so much alcohol around. Will I feel closer to him, or more distant? Wait…we won’t even be in this room. <br />
<br />
It is also his birthday. I watch him, perched on a barstool and presiding over the giggles and guffaws gathered around him. Most people take him very seriously. But some prefer to rely on humor when approaching him. As for me, I just like talking to him. But that is not a privilege he accords me all the time.<br />
<br />
It has been the same scene and the same old story for a few years now. He is always across the room. He is always there – just near enough for me to see him, and feel as if I can touch him if I just reach out. But I’ve never really been able to reach him.<br />
<br />
I know that he knows I’m watching him. I know his name and I think he knows mine. We’ve been friends before. In fact, we’ve known each other for a while now. Or, at least I think so. Yet he is always across the room from me. <br />
<br />
Perhaps it is all in my mind that I knew him for a long time, and knew him well. Some of these people here tonight probably knew him longer, and better. What did they do to earn their stripes in his company? Did they just stick around long enough until he decides to let them into the inner circle? Or did they say or do something special, exciting or amazing?<br />
<br />
I don’t know. I would like to know. It seems so easy for them to talk to him, and him to them. Yet, I can’t seem to talk to him, and him to me. It’s as if there is this huge chasm between us, and if either of us should try to venture forth, we would plunge headlong into a deep valley.<br />
<br />
I move over to the bar. It’s time to get another drink. It’s also time to make my move. I keep trying. I have to because he doesn't seem to be able to. Or, maybe he just doesn't want to.<br />
<br />
I’m too late. He had just passed out the wine. Everyone is raising their glasses and clinking and sipping. I stand there, watching, not quite at the bar, but not quite away from it either. Am I just unlucky to miss the celebratory round? Or has he timed it so that I wouldn’t be in time to be included, but will still be near enough to witness the cheer. Am I just not worthy?<br />
<br />
Last Christmas, I made the same move to approach him. He left me standing an arm’s length away and didn’t invite me to his table. I stood there for a long time – the eternal outsider, watching. I left without supper. <br />
<br />
I open my mouth to speak. But she is jumping in front of me. She grabs him and plants a big kiss on his lips. That sparks off a chain reaction of affection for him. The women are hugging him and the men are thumping him on the back and shaking his hand. <br />
<br />
He is like Bacchus, with the revelers all surrounding him. But the scene feels more to me like Italian divine comedy than Greek drama. Once again, I feel like I’m in hell. <br />
<br />
Or, perhaps it is purgatory that I’m in. For this state of sub-existence, hanging in his peripheral vision is truly the worst form of torture. I’m not quite engulfed by the infernal flames, nor lifted by redemption. I get the feeling that this is where he wants me to be – hanging out in this awkward mid-space, neither outside nor inside, but still there…somewhere.<br />
<br />
But this is not where I want to be. I am leaving. I say it out loud. I’m going. He seems surprised. For a moment, it even seems as if he doesn't want me to go. I walk towards the door. He's not stopping me. I’m not surprised. I’m across the room from him. I open the door and walk out. <br />
<br />
This is the last year I spend Christmas in hell. <br />
<br />
I still want to be with him and to know him But I will not be looking for him in a roomful of people anymore. <br />
<br />
I’ll be looking for him in solitude, rather than in a crowd, in silence rather than in a cacophony. I’ll be looking for him on a walk in the woods, rather than a restaurant or a bar. I’ll be looking for him in the smell of the breeze on my cheek, rather than the taste of wine on my lips.<br />
<br />
One day, I will find him. Or maybe, he’ll find me. And we won’t be across the room from each other anymore.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-72108701626618405732010-12-21T19:32:00.001-05:002010-12-21T20:39:09.497-05:00Why this Christmas is all about Me, Me, Me...This is the year I spend the holidays with myself...and for myself.<br />
<br />
This must sound incredibly selfish, irresponsible and indulgent to anyone reading. On the contrary, this is the best thing I could ever do for the people and world around me.<br />
<br />
My kids are having a great time in San Diego, enjoying LegoLand despite the rain. They will be spending Christmas at the Bellagio in Las Vegas with aunts, uncles, and cousins all around. They are also going to the Grand Canyon. At their age, I could only dream of doing all of that. So they will be fine... more than fine, actually.<br />
<br />
This is not the first time they've traveled without me. I've traveled without them too. But it is the first time that I don't wake up every morning wondering if they have had their 3 to 5 servings of fruits and vegetables, or if anyone is breaking all my golden rules while I'm not there watching.<br />
<br />
The first night after they left for their vacation was tough. I made up for months of paying for Netflix and not using the service, and got to bed at close to 4 am. That was Saturday. Thanks to yoga and ballet classes on Sunday, I completely crashed that night. On Monday morning, I was fine. I got to work on all my deadlines and projects -- for which I had chosen to not go on vacation.<br />
<br />
I was the responsible, focused person again. And I was still a mom, loved and loving, even though my babies were not around to both hug and bug me. I had breathing space. I was glad for that. And it didn't make me a bad mom.<br />
<br />
The problem is, many people would think so. What? You would let your kids go on vacation without you so you could do your own stuff?! The truth is, some years ago, that would have been how I thought too. As much as I had embraced and enjoyed my motherhood experience from the minute I knew I was pregnant with Amon, it hadn't been an easy, smooth sailing journey.<br />
<br />
I gave my all to the role and experience from Day One. From the minute I saw the little "+" sign on the home pregnancy test kit, I quit smoking cold turkey, stopped hanging out in clubs, stopped drinking except for the occasional half glass of wine, quit coffee (I used to drink four cups a day, black, neat), sushi, etc. Whatever could have been potentially harmful, I quit...just like that. It may sound trivial but these little things added together meant a complete lifestyle change.<br />
<br />
It was also, on hindsight, a reflection on my misguided attitude back then that motherhood was all about doing it RIGHT with strict rules and self-imposed regimes. Thankfully, at the same time as I was building my little totalitarian mom-dom, I also began to delve deeper into my yoga practice.<br />
<br />
The question I'm most often asked is why I chose to train in and teach pre-natal, babies' and kids' yoga. The answer is simple: that was my journey. So thanks to a developing practice and slow but steady spiritual growth, I learned, in baby steps, to achieve balance. <br />
<br />
The first six months to a year of my first child's life and my newly crowned motherhood status, I wore the badge of breastfeeding Nazi proudly on my sleeve. Anyone who dared so much as whisper the world "formula" to me was cut down to size and banished as an evil spirit. I had strong ideas and convictions, many based on research and statistics, and I would fight detractors. If they didn't concede, I cut them off.<br />
<br />
I wasn't all wrong. In fact I was right about most things, as even my worst detractors have come to admit seeing the healthy, happy kids A & A are today. But I could have done it in a different way -- one that was less exhausting and demeaning to my spirit and that of everyone around me. It took several years of practice and growth to break through the fight-or-flight instinct.<br />
<br />
Being still and taking the path of least resistance were not easy to learn. But I did learn some of those lessons and they came in handy with the second pregnancy and baby. By then, I didn't feel the need to fight anyone. I knew what I was doing with my kids. I didn't have to bark back at anyone that I was the MOM and I knew best. Somehow, by not doing all of that, people just understood. Nobody tried to tell me what I should or shouldn't do, well meaning or otherwise.<br />
<br />
By then I was a certified teacher, which in many people's eyes would count as being an "expert." But it had nothing to do with that. I realized that in the early days, people were questioning and doubting my mothering because I was questioning and doubting myself. When I no longer doubted myself, everyone stopped doubting me.<br />
<br />
That was a huge lesson. But it wasn't until three years ago, when my second child turned two, that I began to learn an even bigger lesson.<br />
<br />
I had lost myself in my motherhood. It had taken me six years to learn how to fight without having to win, and win without fighting. The process consumed me so completely that I became just that - a struggle of motherhood. My self identity had become subsumed in the name tag that reads: "Mom of A & A." I had given up doing all the things that I loved and felt happy doing -- writing, music, dancing, etc. I didn't feel as if I deserved to have time for, or do anything for myself. And because I believed that, I led everyone else around me to believe the same. No one could talk to me without mentioning my kids. I could put together an engaging debate on the current affairs of the day but people would still be more interested in how old my kids were and what grade they were in.<br />
<br />
I was partly to blame. It didn't help that I had given up my full-time job and felt identity-less because of that. I wasn't the only woman in my shoes. All around me, every day, I saw women who were devoid of self but brimming over with motherhood. The way society loves to glorify motherhood had a large part to play.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong. I believe we should honor mothers. I've been there and I know what a feat carrying and giving birth to a child is, and how much more so challenging it is to be consciously raising that child everyday. What I object to is that latent to that sense of glorifying honor is also the attitude that mothers should subsume their own needs and identity and make self-sacrificial decisions in every way. <br />
<br />
I had this argument with someone recently. I have $50. If I chose to spend it on myself instead of my child, does that make me a bad (or at least a poor) mom? Most people would say yes. She was a mum, of course. She said she was going to spend the $50 on a new dress for her 14-year-old daughter instead of a haircut for herself. She said it was more important for her teen to look good than it was for her, in her 50s. I told her that I would spend that $50 on a haircut for myself, so that I would feel good about the way I look, and as a result my teenage daughter would be getting positive vibes from me about self image and self esteem. That would have a much greater impact on her life than a new dress (which she may still feel bad about herself wearing). The woman bought the dress. <br />
<br />
Mothers are individuals. We need to remember that ourselves. And everyone else needs to remember that, too. If we don't take care of ourselves, we will not be at our best in giving to and taking care of our kids. That is such simple wisdom and yet so easy to miss. I completely missed it for six years.<br />
<br />
Even now, I sometimes find myself subsuming my needs to the instinct to mother. Not long after my kids' vacation was planned, I began to plan a mission trip. My two kids are going away, so now I'm going to go mother 20 orphans. It was all in the best intentions. I missed working with kids and what better time than Christmas for a volunteer trip?<br />
<br />
I had wanted to go to Haiti initially, but realized that it was naive to think I could just show up on my own without any connection to an aid organization that knew its way around. Instead, I found an international organization that was reputable and well regarded. I was set up with a trip to Costa Rica, and it was perfect because I could even use my frequent flier points to book the flight. But somehow, something was holding me back and I dragged my feet over booking the flight. One, two, three days went by. It was a perfect arrangement but something didn't feel right.<br />
<br />
I emailed my friend in New York, whose clear vision and simple wisdom I always valued and cherished. She wrote back: "Follow your heart. As long as you know you are being responsible."<br />
<br />
That was it. I wasn't being responsible...to myself.<br />
<br />
Mothering is a great act of selfless responsibility. But it can also be one of selfish defense. It can be a wall that one builds around to block out the world. I'm busy, I'm a mom. I have all these things to do. I can't think of anything else. It's hard. I'm doing great on a tough job. So I don't have to engage. And you'll have to respect that...and me.<br />
<br />
It wasn't that I didn't genuinely want to reach out to the orphans and give them all the love and mothering I can. I did. But the person who was really in need of that right now...is me. In the last nine years, let's just say many bad things had happened. I've been through turbulence, trauma, life-and-death moments. But I had never taken the time out to reflect, to heal, and to tell myself that I deserve to be taken care of as well.<br />
<br />
That night, as I sat there re-reading my friend's email, I thought of T. -- a HIV positive man in his 50s I interviewed two years ago for a grad school project. He had been in and out of jail all his life and his relationship with his daughter is strained at best. I asked him if he thought there was a chance he could fix that, now that he's finally out of jail for good and re-building his life.<br />
<br />
His answer threw me off: "No. I'm gonna have to fix me first. You may not agree, but if I ain't fix, I'm no good to her or to myself or to anybody. So I'm gonna spend time on me. I'm gonna fix me first."<br />
<br />
T. was no philosopher and neither had he read any philosophy in his life. But he found the answer that most of us spend an entire lifetime searching for...in books, in philosophy, in religion, in prayer. The capacity to love and be loved stems from the same space within - self love. For some, that is manifested in the grace of God that they feel inside. For others, it is a sense of inner peace and universal compassion. They are all one and the same thing.<br />
<br />
The next morning, I got online and made arrangements to spend Christmas eve and Christmas Day at an ashram and meditation center. I'm spending Christmas with me, but not alone. I will be in an open and loving community of people who will accept and understand when I say that this Christmas is going to be all about me, me, me.<br />
<br />
I'm gonna fix me first.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-15225172412304815992010-12-08T07:36:00.000-05:002010-12-08T07:36:54.450-05:00I Want To Make Tea and Laugh (Yoko remembers John)I'm sitting and sipping my Tie Guanyin.<br />
<br />
I should be transcribing interviews for a story due next week. Instead, I'm reading "Tea Maker" in the New York Times.<br />
<br />
This is good tea -- in fact, one of the best variety of oolong tea. It is also expensive. I had bought it for $4.50 at lunch -- a luxury I really shouldn't have afforded myself. But then, the winds were brutal today. Any other blend wouldn't have done the trick. I needed the fortification of the "Iron Goddess" tea.<br />
<br />
Yoko Ono wrote the piece. It is about John Lennon, of course. He would have been 70 this year. She wrote about her memory of him -- making tea for her in the middle of the night in their kitchen.<br />
<br />
This is a good night for hot tea. This must be the fifth cup I had made out of the same bag of tea leaves. So I don't feel so guilty now. This works out to 90 cents a cup (and these days, it's hard to find even bottled water for a dollar). Tea is a great winter and holiday drink. It works just as well before, or after, the cocktails and shots... or simply on its own.<br />
<br />
He made tea for her and they had a little <i>tête</i>-<i>à-tête</i> about whether the hot water goes in first or the tea bag. That was in 1980, before he died.<br />
<br />
I always put the tea bag in first, and then pour the hot water in. It seems to make sense. I love watching the water seep through the tea leaves and the steam rising with the fragrance. The Tie Guanyin has an amazing fragrance. It is rich and thick with an aroma often described as fruity, but which to me is more "woody."<br />
<br />
He had always put the tea bag in before the water. Then, one night, he told her that according to his aunt, the hot water should go in first. They had a good laugh. It was a simple moment. It probably wouldn't have been significant if he had lived. But that moment became a memory of him etched in her heart and mind after he died -- someone who made tea and laughed with her.<br />
<br />
I don't recall ever laughing over tea. I'm usually reflective or pensive when I drink tea. For many people, tea is a serious business. The Chinese and Japanese regard the art of tea as intrinsic to high culture and perform elaborate rituals in tea ceremonies. (I really just like the pretty cups.) The English partake in afternoon tea with devotion that is almost religious. (I'm impartial to Earl Grey with scones.) The Arab culture regard the drinking of tea as the center of all social activities. (Anyone who has ever tried to buy a carpet from a souk would know.)<br />
<br />
It was a simple act of making tea and laughing together. But it was what she remembered, because it said so much.<br />
<br />
The art of making tea can be a complex and elaborate affair. But the act of making tea is simple. I want to make tea...and laugh.<br />
<br />
Recipe:<br />
1. Tea leaves and strainer OR tea bag<br />
2. hot, boiling water<br />
3. laughter<br />
<br />
Take 1 and put into 2. Or, vice versa.<br />
Add a generous dash of 3 to taste.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-6416494030049079852010-12-05T19:45:00.003-05:002010-12-05T21:53:37.636-05:00Another Facebook Update...updatedThere was another Facebook update earlier tonight.<br />
<br />
No, seriously. It's all over Twitter. Just go search "Mark Zuckerberg" because the world's youngest billionaire was on TV...on none other than THE 60 Minutes this time, to announce a HUGE Facebook redesign.<br />
<br />
Wait, didn't he just make a HUGE announcement like two weeks ago? Yeah, but that one was about how Facebook is going to take over email, SMS, messages, etc. and put all your communications with that special someone in one single thread for you to trail all over cyberspace.<br />
<br />
This announcement was going to be even bigger than the last one. Yes, I'm well aware that this is what they (i.e. social media pundits, journalists, websites, etc.) say each and every time Facebook makes an annoucement. But this time it really was going to be BIGGER.<br />
<br />
This time, it had to do with photos. Apparently, the desginers at Facebook had decided it's time to re-emphazie the fact that Facebook is all about photos. So...they came up with a re-design to emphasize just that - photos...you know, to keep things visually interesting.<br />
<br />
As if Facebook isn't interesting enough.<br />
<br />
So, don't take my word for it. Here's the report from Tech Crunch: <a href="http://techcrunch.com/2010/12/05/new-facebook-profile/">http://techcrunch.com/2010/12/05/new-facebook-profile/</a><br />
<br />
And if you missed the 60 Minutes episode, here's a re-cap, courtesy of Mashable: <a href="http://mashable.com/2010/12/05/mark-zuckerberg-60-minutes-interview/">http://mashable.com/2010/12/05/mark-zuckerberg-60-minutes-interview/</a><br />
<br />
It's just about to get more interesting for 500 million of us. In the days to come, we'll be eagerly looking out for our re-designed profile pages. Until then, I should go update my Facebook status.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-7270359787209974742010-12-04T16:25:00.000-05:002010-12-04T16:25:40.166-05:00Standing Up For Yourself - A Lesson In Life Every Child (and Adult) Needs To Learn"Put on your coat, Amon. Stand right there. Watch me. I'm going to demonstrate to you what Master Coles said earlier about standing up for yourself."<br />
<br />
He slid out of his seat across from me in the booth at Uncle Julio's. Ariel, who was seated beside me, did the same. They watched as I turned around to face the booth seats next to us, behind me. I was about to stand up to the woman seated behind me. It was going to be one of the most important lessons in life for my kids.<br />
<br />
It was a typical Saturday in Bethesda for me and the babies. Ariel had her ballet class and Amon, his Tae Kwon Do class. What was different was that Master Coles had sat the white-belters down in a row and given them a 10-minute lecture on standing up to bullies. <br />
<br />
The parents who were watching were equally surprised as the kids. Usually, Master Coles worked his teaching of principles and philosophy into the class as he taught the moves - the blocks, the kicks and the punches. His message was clear and simple: If someone picks on you, you need to stand up to him, especially if there is no one else around and you're on your own.<br />
<br />
"In this world, there will be people who try to push you down to make themselves feel better," he told the kids (and an audience of enraptured parents). "They think that if they step on you, they get taller. So you have to stand up to them." <br />
<br />
When Master Coles, who has been teaching TKD for 40 years, spoke, everyone listened. It was a good lesson, all the parents agreed in hushed whispers after the class. I, for one, was very glad the Master had decided to expound on bullying, fear and standing up for oneself. Amon is painfully shy and has often encountered kids who try to ride roughshod over him. It didn't help that he was also tiny, softspoken and very bright -- the kind of kid every bully loves to pick on. From his very first incident of bruised feelings and ego, I had stressed to him the importance of standing up to bullies.<br />
<br />
"I cannot fight your fights for you," I always said to him. "You don't have to fight him. But you need to look him in the eye, and tell him in a loud, firm voice to back off. You need to show him that you're not afraid of him. And don't be."<br />
<br />
"And if he doesn't back off?"<br />
<br />
"Make sure you tell the teacher or someone in charged that this boy is trying to hurt you."<br />
<br />
"And if he hits me?"<br />
<br />
"Then you defend yourself. Never raise your fist first, but if someone hits you, you FIGHT back. Don't ever go down doing nothing. You FIGHT back with everything you've got."<br />
<br />
We even practiced by role playing. I played the bully, and walked him through the steps of talking back in a loud, firm voice, staring the person down, and finally blocking the punches if the other person was to raise his fist.<br />
<br />
"And if he has a weapon -- a knife, or a gun -- you get the hell away as fast as you can, you understand?"<br />
<br />
He nodded. I hoped it would never come down to that. I was thrilled when Amon asked to take martial arts classes. That was after watching the Karate Kid movies, both the original 1984 Pat Morita and Ralph Macchio movie, and the remake with Jaden Smith and Jackie Chan, one of my personal heroes.<br />
<br />
It has only been a few months since Amon started TKD classes with Master Coles. But I've seen his confidence grow, slowly but surely. He is still every bit the sweet, gentle, tiny "nerd" but he is a little less soft spoken now.<br />
<br />
"There's nothing wrong in being a nerd," Master Coles told the kids. "I was a nerd growing up." I could never imagine! But I was grateful for his confession. Amon can definitely identify. We had a great discussion about Master Coles' lecture after the class. The kids wanted to eat quesadillas, so we went to Uncle Julio's.<br />
<br />
Little did I know that the responsibility and opportunity would fall on me so soon after to walk the talk. <br />
<br />
The woman behind me had come in with her husband and teenaged daughter towards the end of our meal. As she and her husband moved into the seat behind me, I literally felt myself propelled forward into my guacomole and sour cream. Obviously the seats were not cushioned for impact from movement.<br />
<br />
I didn't say a thing. There wasn't a need to, because it was an inconvenience but not an act of offense on her part. Each time she moved, I felt the earth shake. Obviously, that meant she would feel my movements as well. Blame it on cheap, badly designed furnishing. I had no anger or frustration because it was clearly not a case of anyone going out of their way to annoy another person.<br />
<br />
Just as we were finishing up our meal, I heard her raise her voice and yell, obviously intending for me to hear: "This woman needs to finish up and GET OUT OF HERE!"<br />
<br />
That was an act of offense. Still, I chose not to engage. If she didn't have the manners to speak to me nicely, I didn't see the point of acknowledging her rudeness. Failing to get a reaction from me, she realized she had to address me directly.<br />
<br />
"Excuse me, but you are bumping me and pushing me forward every time you move! Will you stop that?!"<br />
<br />
I looked her straight in the eye.<br />
<br />
"Excuse me but you are doing exactly the same thing to me each time you move. You bumped us when you got into your seats."<br />
<br />
A lightbulb went on. You'd think that she would then have the courtesy to acknowledge the fact that I wasn't deliberately annoying her and back off.<br />
<br />
"Well, yeah, I understand that."<br />
<br />
No, I didn't think there was any understanding in her perspective.<br />
<br />
"Well, then let's just both be more careful."<br />
<br />
"Yes, let's...." I went back to the last bits of my meal and made sure my kids were done. I got the check. But I wasn't done. There was an important lesson to be learned. Some fights shouldn't be backed off from. This was one of them. I had to stand up.<br />
<br />
My kids were watching. I turned to the woman. I addressed her: "Excuse me, we didn't mean to bump you."<br />
<br />
She turned to look at me. She was expecting an apology. It was clear from my look that there was no remote chance of that. She gave me a nasty look and looked back down at her food, and away from me. Her daughter seated across was looking at me. She seemed embarrassed. I stood up.<br />
<br />
"I also want you to know that I didn't appreciate your attitude in the way you talked to me. I could hear every single word you said about me having to get out of here. I have every right to be in here, as much as you do."<br />
<br />
At this point, her husband turned and glanced sideways at me, with a look that seemed embarrassed, but really betrayed the fact that he didn't agree that I did have as much right to be in there as him.<br />
<br />
I got out of the seat, took my kids' hands and delivered the final salvo: "So I hope you'll remember that the next time, before you tell anyone to get out of anywhere."<br />
<br />
I walked towards the exit, all the time with my eyes still on them.<br />
<br />
"Did you see what I did, Amon?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, you stood up to her."<br />
<br />
"Just like what Master Coles said to do. Did I raise my voice or my fist?"<br />
<br />
"No."<br />
<br />
"Yes, there wasn't a need to. But she yelled at us to get out of there. Did you hear that?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. They looked embarrassed."<br />
<br />
"Good. Because she had no right to tell us to get out. Firstly, she doesn't own the restaurant. We're paying for lunch, just as she is. Also, we didn't do anything wrong to be told to get out."<br />
<br />
If anyone is thinking that I had read too much into the woman's antagonism, I will say this to your face: Bulls**t.<br />
<br />
Her initial reaction had completely betrayed her underlying motivations. She wasn't simply annoyed by the bumping caused by my movements. If that had been purely the case, the outburst would be along the lines of: "Why does this person keep bumping the chair?!" Instead, it was that I need to get out of there. She was annoyed by the fact that I was even there at all.<br />
<br />
Was it racially motivated? Of course! Sure, I can't prove it with empirical evidence. But let's not mince words here. Would she have been as blatantly rude if I wasn't yellow? Of course not. For whatever misguided reason, she had assumed herself to be superior to me, and hence she had the right to tell me to get out. Of course it didn't occur to her that if my movements inconvenienced her, then her movements would do the same for me. Because in her worldview, my existence didn't even figure.<br />
<br />
So yes, this is fight that needs to be fought. This is one instance when I have to and will not back off from standing up for myself. And this is one lesson I want my kids to learn.<br />
<br />
"Do not ever, ever let anyone tell you to get out of anywhere, Amon. You have every right to be."<br />
<br />
The conversation had continued as we made our way into Barnes and Nobles. We were standing right in front of a stack of books on Hanukkah.<br />
<br />
"Mom, my classmate Savier brought a menorah to class and we lit a candle together. What happened to the Jewish people?"<br />
<br />
"The same thing that happened to us back in the restaurant. Hitler told the Jews to get out...in very bad ways. He tortured them, put them in prison camps and killed them."<br />
<br />
"That is so wrong."<br />
<br />
'Yes, it is."<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CnrPP3qkM0E?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CnrPP3qkM0E?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-44326399444004685072010-12-01T08:53:00.000-05:002010-12-01T08:53:58.885-05:00World Aids Day 2010<i>This is a feature I wrote in early 2009 as my final paper for a Global Health Reporting class. It was published in the newsletter of an NGO in Asia. I decided to re-post this as a reflection on World Aids Day. The way we've dealt with HIV/AIDS since the 80s is a reflection of how far we have come as a collective human race, from fear and prejudice to understanding, action, compassion and inclusion. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Pukaar January 2010 Issue 68</i><br />
<br />
<b>Waking up to AIDS in Asia... </b><br />
<b>Facing the fact that men are having sex with men</b><br />
By Rebecca Lim<br />
<br />
Shivananda Khan wakes up every morning in Lucknow, India, and goes to work angry. He is mad that in some Asian countries, only one in 10 MSM (men-who-have-sex-with-men) have access to HIV/AIDS services.<br />
<br />
“It is a sense of righteous anger, like when you see someone beaten up for trying to speak the truth,” said the founder and chief executive of Naz Foundation International (NFI), a non-profit organization helping MSM groups in South and Southeast Asia develop sexual health and HIV prevention, support and care services.<br />
<br />
Over in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Andrew Tan goes to work behind a mask. Being a HIV positive MSM and Chinese in a predominantly Malay and Muslim country, he keeps his status and other life as an advocate and volunteer counselor for HIV/AIDS a secret from his co-workers, friends and even some of his family.<br />
<br />
“You’ll get double discrimination,” he said. “Even within the gay community, you’ll be considered an outcast...a pariah of a pariah group!”<br />
<br />
He sits on the board of advocacy group, the Asia Pacific Coalition On Male Sexual Health (APCOM), which Mr. Khan chairs and also founded.<br />
<br />
Both men share a common concern about the gravity of the HIV/AIDS epidemic for MSM in Asia. Here, barriers to prevention, education and treatment are deeply rooted in cultural norms, religious beliefs and social stigma.<br />
<br />
Dr Massimo Ghidinelli, the World Health Organization (WHO) Regional Adviser in HIV/AIDS and Sexually Transmitted Infections, said at a conference last year, that in many Asian countries, national strategic plans for HIV/AIDS do not include interventions for MSM and transgender persons.<br />
He added that targeted preventive measures are reaching only 1% of the MSM population in Asia of an estimated 10 million men.<br />
<br />
“Action needs to be taken now if a major increase in HIV/AIDS cases is to be averted,” he warned.<br />
According to UNAIDS, an estimated 4.9 million people were living with HIV in Asia in 2007, and 300,000 died from AIDS related illnesses, making this the region with the second highest numbers next to Sub-Saharan Africa.<br />
<br />
In an independent study published by TREAT (Therapeutics Research, Education, AIDS Training) Asia in 2006, HIV rates among MSM in Phnom Penh, Cambodia was reported to be at 14.4%, 16.8% in the state of Maharashtra in India, and 28.3% in Bangkok, Thailand. The report also predicted that MSM in Asia will “face a crisis more devastating than that experienced by gay men in the West during the epidemic’s earliest years” if the trend of infections is not stemmed.<br />
<br />
<b>Facing stigma and discrimination</b><br />
One of the key reasons underpinning the lack of HIV/AIDS prevention and services for MSM is social prejudice and discrimination, said Mr Khan.<br />
<br />
This deep-seated stigma stems from the social dynamics of sex between men in Asia, and the cultural pressure on males to marry and build a family, he added.<br />
<br />
“We have a double jeopardy situation,” he explained.<br />
<br />
Many MSM in Asia do not view themselves as homosexual as long as they are playing the dominant or penetrative role. A large number also have sex with women and end up getting married. They continue to have casual (and potentially unsafe) sex with men, putting the spouse and children at risk of HIV infection.<br />
<br />
A study in Mumbai, India revealed that 25% of HIV positive men are married MSM. In Beijing, China, 29% of MSM respondents in a survey said they also had sex with women. “ There is a whole spectrum of MSM and this is almost invisible for many people in Asia who think that being gay means dressing up like a woman,” said Mr Tan.<br />
<br />
While the “masculine and publicly married” men fall on the left of the spectrum, he added, the transgender fall on the right. In between, there are different groups, including those who are comfortably gay, and do not necessarily identify with gender roles.<br />
<br />
For the men playing the receptive or feminine role, the stigmatization is even greater. Many are transgender sex workers or young men turning to sex work to fund drug addiction. While some intervention programs, such as the condom use campaign in Bangkok, have been successful, there is still exploitation and unsafe practices.<br />
<br />
“It’s no secret,” he added. “Some men are willing to pay extra not to use condoms.”<br />
<br />
More than half of MSM surveyed in the major cities of Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou in China admitted to unprotected sex with multiple partners. This is the same in Vietnam, where 69% of MSM surveyed in Hanoi and 63% in Ho Chi Minh City engage in unprotected sex. In Jakarta, Indonesia, 65% of male sex workers and 53% of other MSM do not use condoms regularly.<br />
<br />
The situation is compounded by the fact that sex between men is illegal in 11 out of 23 Asian countries surveyed in the TREAT study. In countries such as Malaysia, Pakistan and Bangladesh, religious groups and authorities condemn homosexual activities. The fear of social persecution and legal prosecution make many unwilling to get tested or treated for HIV.<br />
<br />
“I have come across cases where a doctor slapped someone because he was a homosexual,” said Mr. Khan. “Some doctors report people who go to them for treatment to the police.”<br />
<br />
Mr. Tan is also seeing a trend of more men being infected at a younger age in Malaysia. “The youngest man I’ve counseled is 19,” he said. “He had all these high hopes of becoming a pilot but all of a sudden, his world crumbled.”<br />
<br />
In the 80s, when AIDS meant death, he added, people took protection seriously. Now, some, especially the younger generation, may think that “it’s a matter of popping a few pills” if they should be infected.<br />
“It’s not like taking vitamins!” he stressed. “You have to take responsibility, adhere to the treatment for the rest of your life, and prevent other people from being infected by you.”<br />
<br />
<b>Facing the need for intervention</b><br />
It is estimated that without further intervention, HIV infection rates among MSM in Asia could double year-on-year in the next 20 years, said Mr. Khan.<br />
<br />
Funding is also a major issue, added Mr. Khan. Even the most developed economies in Asia, such as Singapore and Japan, have made little investment in HIV services. International aid is not likely to increase, given current economic sentiments. He noted that last year, the Gates Foundation donated US$ 200 million to India and US$ 50 million to China in HIV funds.<br />
<br />
“We will need another US$ 3 billion,” he added.<br />
<br />
The impact on economic growth is perhaps a way to engage Asian countries in facing up to the HIV/AIDS crisis. The World Bank estimates that when the prevalence of HIV/AIDS reaches 8% (as is the case with 13 African countries), the cost to economic growth is about 1% a year.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, there are success stories such as Cambodia’s. The country has seen a steady drop in HIV prevalence rate from 2.8% in 1998 to 0.9% in 2006 and 0.7% last year and aims to further decrease the rate to 0.6% by next year. The government has allocated US$45 to 50 million in annual funds to achieve this. It is estimated that more than 90% of the country’s at risk populations, including MSM, are aware of HIV/AIDS and 90% of sex workers use protection. Some 93% of the country’s HIV positive people have access to treatment and support services.<br />
<br />
On a personal level, Mr Tan’s story illustrates that while it may be tough to change old beliefs and cultural practices, there are ways to overcome stigma.<br />
<br />
Since being diagnosed with HIV in 1994, his constant support had been his boyfriend of 25 years (who is not HIV positive).<br />
<br />
When he first told his family that he was seeing a man, they thought it was a passing phase. He continued to do his part as “a good son” by making an effort to be home for family meals and events. Eventually, his parents invited his boyfriend to their home for dinner on the eve of Chinese New Year.<br />
<br />
“Since then my parents have referred to my boyfriend as their godson and he is with us at all family events,” he added.<br />
<br />
It is stories such as these that keep advocates such as Mr Khan going.<br />
<br />
“I like what Barrack Obama said about hope,” he said. “We live in hope. If we lose hope, we will drown.”<br />
<br />
<i>Rebecca Lim, a journalist from Singapore, is currently pursuing a masters degree at Georgetown University in Washington D.C. This article was produced last year as part of her coursework in global health reporting.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-81476251967956430042010-09-16T01:46:00.000-04:002010-09-16T01:46:02.585-04:00Sniper or Prankster? Bringing Up Kids In A World of TerrorWe had our first lockdown experience today. For an hour, I was kept inside the school auditorium with about 200 other parents -- familiar faces I see everyday, coming to pick our kids up from school, just past 3 in the afternoon. The children were kept in their classrooms with their teachers.<br />
<br />
I say "first" because I will not be surprised if there are similar experiences in the future, even as I hope not to have to go through another one.<br />
<br />
I thought it was strangely quiet when I was walking down Whitehaven from Wisconsin Avenue towards the school. It was 3.20 pm. Normally, there would be groups of parents, mostly mums, gathered around exchanging parenting war stories or just pleasantries. It was even stranger, since it was a beautiful day in the leafy neighborhood in Georgetown. My instincts told me something was up but it didn't feel like anything could go wrong under that bright sunshine. In the next five minutes, the kids, in their red and navy uniforms, should be spilling out the door to their respective pickup spots. The younger children should have been in the little playground out front by now.<br />
<br />
Something was not right. I checked my Blackberry again (it's my watch these days). Just then, one of Amon's classmates' mum came up to me. She too had just arrived and was puzzled. Then, we saw the principal and vice-principal standing at the door, waving to us and a few other parents to go inside.<br />
<br />
"Are we in a lockdown?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, we are. We received a phone call threatening to harm the children. We think it is likely a prank, but the police are investigating."<br />
<br />
The whole situation was handled very well and with composure. Inside, parents gathered around in groups, chatting. But nobody was panicking or worried. The biggest concern everyone had was that they would get a parking ticket. Just write to parking enforcement and quote the police activity, I said. But yes, it would be a pain to have to go through the process.<br />
<br />
Half an hour into the lockdown, some parents were starting to get annoyed, some worried. The first question - "Is it a bomb?" - was diffused very quickly. No, of course not, otherwise we would all be evacuated instead of locked down. Some people had seen the police vehicles outside. Everyone was still very patient and calm. The kids, we were told, weren't told of the situation. They were being kept blissfully engaged in activities in their classes. Throughout, we were told repeatedly it was likely a prank, but not what the threat (or prank) was about.<br />
<br />
Finally, one hour later, we were told the children could be dismissed. They came to the auditorium in the most orderly manner, like it was just another assembly. Parents were called to pick up their kids by class, starting with the young ones in Nursery and Reception (3 to 5 year-olds).<br />
<br />
We left by another exit, under police supervision. Once outside, I saw the number of police vehicles lining Wisconsin and the surrounding streets. It didn't feel right. Ariel was of course her usual happy, chirpy self. Amon, older and more sensitive, had picked up on the vibes.<br />
<br />
"Just what exactly is going on, Mum?"<br />
<br />
That was what I wanted to know too. I had tweeted, checked Twitter for various possible hashtags, but the information wasn't out there yet (which may have been a good thing if there was a sniper waiting...yes I found out much later in the evening that it was a sniper threat, but not from the school...from Twitter and TBD).<br />
<br />
"We will talk about that in the car. Right now, I need both of you to be alert, hold my hand and walk as quickly as possible straight to the car. NO running, no playing, just pay attention and walk."<br />
<br />
In the car on 35th, I saw more police vehicles and an ABC 7 news van and camera on sticks. The drive home was uneventful except for a little more traffic than usual, and this conversation that I decided I needed to have with the kids. I explained to them that someone had called the school threatening to harm them.<br />
<br />
"Are you both scared?"<br />
<br />
"No," they chorused. But they wanted to know why someone would do something like that.<br />
<br />
"Some people are not right in the head, and they hurt other people because they're angry, or they want media attention. Some people are terrorists. Do you know what that means?"<br />
<br />
"Yes. Terror means fear."(Amon)<br />
<br />
"Right, so fear is their weapon. They threaten people to make us afraid of them, so they can be powerful."<br />
<br />
"So if we're not afraid, then they would be vulnerable." (Amon)<br />
<br />
"That's right! So the most important thing is not to be scared. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't be careful and alert too."<br />
<br />
"If he tried to hurt me I will ROAR at him."<br />
<br />
OK, that's not really going to work. But Ariel got the spirit right. I was pleased with the kids, and myself, feeling like I had created a positive learning experience out of the situation.<br />
<br />
At 6 pm, I emailed the principal, thanking him for a great job getting everyone out safe, and asking for more information. He emailed back saying he is working on the information for parents. Just after 6, the ABC 7 report was updated on TBD.com. I didn't see it, only because I left for dance class. I saw it at 10 pm, the minute I got home and sat down to trawl Twitter for updates. I still hadn't heard from the school. I sent the principal another email with the link.<br />
<br />
I wasn't comfortable with the conclusion that it was purely a prank, unless the police had established that beyond doubt. Under most circumstances, I would be the last person to make a mountain out of a molehill. But we live in a post 9/11, post Columbine world now. I don't think I need to remind anyone about the DC area sniper. In my childhood, the probability of this being a prank would have been far greater than not. The reverse is now true for my kids.<br />
<br />
Kids today can't grow up blissfully unaware the way we did. They should still be able to feel safe in school. But they also need to know that sometimes, bad things can happen even in safe places, and there are people out there who are "sick in the head" as Amon calls them.<br />
<br />
"I feel really sick now," S, a friend and one of the locked down parents, said to me as we were leaving with the kids earlier.<br />
<br />
It is indeed very ill -- all of it. A person really has to be sick in the head (and heart) to hurt children. It is really sick that such sick people has easy access to deadly weapons and common knowledge on how to create deadly weapons. It is even more sick that each and every sick act of this nature seem to encourage and perpetuate more copycat sick acts. And unfortunately, there is no cure for this disease. Despite all our technical advances, medical know-how and intellectual discourse, the human race has not discovered how to cure hatred and the need for bloodshed. <br />
<br />
As of now, I still do not have any information from the school with regards to any conclusions from the police investigation and whether it would be safe to send my kids back to school in the morning. But then, what answers am I waiting for? I already know it. There are no answers. It almost doesn't matter if it was a sniper or prankster. We can't keep our children at home every day, living in fear. The deadliest weapon, more so than guns and bombs and crazies, is fear.<br />
<br />
So I have to set aside my own fear, and simply trust that the kids will be fine when I drop them off at school tomorrow, and the day after, and the next. There is no instruction manual on bringing up kids in a world of terror. We're all learning as we go along.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-54035712021029978612010-08-29T00:31:00.000-04:002010-08-29T00:31:51.745-04:00...and all ye need to know"A cake! Look, mama!"<br />
<br />
I looked in the direction Ariel was pointing at. It was a cake alright -- a huge, round chocolate cake, unassuming in its basic chocolate-ness. A middle-aged woman was hunched over the cake, arranging candles in a circle around it, and in the middle, she planted an '8' candle and a '0' one.<br />
<br />
"Someone's having a birthday!" I watched as she lit the candles and carried the cake towards the table of 10 to 12 people in the other side of the cafe.<br />
<br />
"An 80th birthday!" Trust Amon to be the one who always picks up and emphasizes the detail. (Aside: He would make a really good journalist, with his ability to hit on the key point and express it in short, succinct sentences all the time. And he always has a kicker.)<br />
<br />
"Yes...wow...isn't that something? To celebrate your 80th birthday here at Fallingwater!"<br />
<br />
It was a rhetorical question. But both kids nodded their heads as we watched the party sing the birthday song. They sang rather quietly. The clapping at the end of the song was as genteel and softly resounding as it would be in a private recital. It was a small group of mostly seniors, but their joy was filling up the room in a big way, that could easily drown out any rowdy bar bash.<br />
<br />
Wow...80. I had never contemplated that number until then. I was almost halfway there, I found myself thinking. Wouldn't it be nice if I could have my 80th here too, I continued to muse. And that's the way it goes once one starts getting wistful thoughts. Wow...Amon would be...50! He'll probably be a paleontologist...or architect (those being his two big loves now).<br />
<br />
"Mummy why aren't you eating your pickle?" Nothing like an Ariel rebuke to snap me out of my daydreams.<br />
<br />
But dreams are good..."we are such stuff as dreams are made on" right? I have another whole lifetime to live before I get to 80. And yes, I think I would make it a point to try and celebrate that 2nd round of 40 back here, at one of the most beautiful houses and remarkable architectural landmark in the world, by a man whom I deeply admire for his genius in blending art and nature, the organic and the technical.<br />
<br />
I can't remember exactly how and when the love affair with Frank Lloyd Wright started. But it definitely had something to do with a missed calling. Before I took the road most traveled, collecting 'A's on my way to a typical college education, I had wanted to run off and pursue a passion for design. I had spent hours among the design, art, interiors and architecture shelves of libraries and one day, I saw a brochure for a design school in the UK.<br />
<br />
But when I was in school, nobody ever told me that I could do anything I wanted to do, and be whatever I wanted to. I was told to shut up, listen, raise my hand when I wanted to answer (not ask) the question, study, get 'A's and collect all the certificates that come with the major examinations. So, no, I didn't explore that route and didn't think that it was in my power to do so.<br />
<br />
So, as I took the well trodden path, I had paused at various points to ponder what I would have become if I had the courage to veer 'off-course' way back when. I think I would have been an interior designer, with a mission of helping people create aesthetically pleasing spaces to live and be happy in. There is much to be said about beauty in life, and a life of beauty. It's not about makeup and clothes (although I love those, too) but about that little piece of your soul that feels free and uplifted. Some find it in art, some in music, some in nature, some in a 20-foot putt, etc. But everyone has that capacity to find it.<br />
<br />
At 80, what more could I really ask for, then, than to be surrounded by so much love, joy and beauty? And to be in a healthy state of mind, body and soul to appreciate all that.<br />
<br />
<i>"Beauty is truth, and truth beauty." - that is all</i><br />
<i>Ye on earth know, and all ye need to know</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-11629223808250286972010-08-10T13:17:00.000-04:002010-08-10T13:17:22.875-04:00Don't Grow Up So Fast....Amon just turned eight. And he figures he's old enough to have his own Facebook page. I said 'no' not because I felt like I needed to assert my fast diminishing parental control, but because 1. kids could do with more real socializing before social networking and 2. the digital space is not where kids should be allowed to roam free without strong parental guidance.<br />
<br />
I know two 11-year-old girls with Facebook profiles, under the guidance of their mums, of course. And they are just a handful of many kids out there below 13 (the minimum age as stipulated) that have Facebook profiles. They're both great kids - smart, sweet girls. And they know how to be sensible on the net. One of them doesn't even put her photo on her page. And I told her: "That's great. Keep it that way. Do you know what happened to this 11-year-old girl who got trolled?" She didn't. And I'm not surprised.<br />
<br />
I posted this on my FB page some time ago, but here it is again for those who missed it. It's about how an 11-year-old got her life turned upside down on the net. (<a href="http://gawker.com/5589103/how-the-internet-beat-up-an-11+year+old-girl">http://gawker.com/5589103/how-the-internet-beat-up-an-11+year+old-girl</a>) Last thing I read about her, she was under police protection for death threats.<br />
<br />
It's not funny. My kids...and yours...are growing up in a very different era, when connectivity is the norm and apart from grappling with the usual socialization of adolescence and teenage angst, they also have to deal with a whole different realm of existence we never had to - their cyber life. I consider myself pretty much an early adopter of technology and all things digital. I'm a gadget geek at heart -- from the Palm (remember that?) to the first iPod and every other new cell phone fad. I was one of those who embraced the dot.com wave (remember that?) but luckily had a regular job with a bricks-and-mortar (remember that term?) institution to go back to. But with my kids...I'm somewhat at a loss.<br />
<br />
I believe in balance in my approach to everything in life. That's one of the fundamental bec2basics beliefs in my philosophical makeup. But it's tough walking the fine line between embracing the openness of this cyber world, and letting my kids do their growing up by trial and error, versus enforcing the filters and boundaries to ensure their safety. There is no right answer. I'm certainly not alone in this struggle.<br />
<br />
I believe in being at the cutting edge of change and technology. But I also embrace 'old world' values. As much as I recognize that my kids belong to their generation, I would also like them to have a solid understanding and appreciation of mine, and those that came before me. I tried to hold off wii as long as I could. I caved last winter when we got snowed in for weeks. This summer, my kids were away from me for two weeks. When I saw them again, they had picked up the iPhone and iPad. On the 20+ hour flight back from Singapore, I caved and handed over my iPod touch with all the apps they like (yes, Cooking Mama is one of them) loaded via the wifi at the airport.<br />
<br />
I don't believe in mollycoddling kids. But I believe in limits and boundaries. Otherwise I'm not doing them a favor in learning how to live as responsible adults. So 30 mins of wii each time; no wii on school days; 15 to 20 mins on the net for leisure (homework is online now, for parents whose kids are not in school yet); and 15 to 20 mins each time on the iPod/iPhone apps. Amon has an email add (on yahoo! not google) and a blog, but uses both under supervision of an adult (mostly me). <br />
<br />
So far it's working out well. The kids understand the limits and they have a wide range of interests that aren't digital -- good ol' stuff like Legos and Trivial Pursuit, soccer and ballet. But I shouldn't count my chickens. In two years' time, the boundaries will shift. Maybe, even in a year's time. <br />
<br />
It may sound like a cliche but the kids are really growing up much faster these days. I believe exposure to media and the cyber world has a lot to do with it. Does anyone remember having a concept of future time when they were four? Well, this is a conversation between my 4 and 8-year-olds.<br />
<br />
Ariel: "I like makeup. But I think I'm a little young to use it."<br />
Amon: "Right! You're too young. Maybe when you're 13."<br />
Ariel: "I think when I'm 10."<br />
<br />
I will always remember what my domestic helper said to me when that 4-year-old was born. She was holding the little raisin in her arms. She said: "She's beautiful, m'am. But you know, very soon she'll grow up. You'll look at them sleeping one day and wonder how come they're so long."<br />
<br />
How right she was. And it didn't take long for that to happen. Dear kids, don't grow up so fast, will you?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-67950761679522214612010-07-29T00:53:00.000-04:002010-07-29T00:53:08.594-04:00Heart of DarknessThe horror, the horror, the horror.<br />
<br />
That's three times of "horror" for three nights of sitting and half sleeping in a black box of ennui, i.e. the house of darkness... with no kids, no light, no music, no TV, no NOTHING... except the security system beeping every 10 minutes.<br />
<br />
The freak storm that happened last Sunday blew the kids' Little Tykes slide across the yard and knocked out the power. I was one of those lucky last 40,000 among the 300,000 who lost power to get it back last.<br />
<br />
So what's the big deal with power outage? At least the kids weren't around. True. It wouldn't have been that bad. I could camp out in school or Starbucks for wifi and AC. I didn't usually watch that much TV anyway. It was just the darkness... the Waiting-for-Godot nothingness that got to me. I can't explain it. I could easily have just breathed, meditate and go to sleep. Instead, I crashed on the couch with 88.5 playing NPR, BBC, Deutsche Radio, Canadian Radio etc. half enraptured by the great programming (yes, public radio is even better in the wee hours), half stirring up a soup of too-many-things out of nothing in my head.<br />
<br />
My 19-year-old neighbor explained it better. He was actually alone too, on one of those nights, and found it much easier to fall asleep in the pitch darkness. It was that first night when my alarm system freaked out on me and keep going off. That's the way the human mind works. All it takes is for it to freak out once. He was, of course, right. So much more wisdom from someone so much younger.<br />
<br />
I'm not about to get all Foucaultian but there really is just a very thin line between sanity and madness. And I had allowed myself to stray across the line somewhat in the last three nights. I excused myself by pointing out that I was tired and stressed, trying to get a million and one things done. But really, there was no logical reason. It was like a walk in the park I wanted to take.<br />
<br />
So now that the ordeal is over, and there is light again, I need to go back to being my usual soak-up-the-sun self. It wasn't all darkness and horror. There were all the great friends who sent messages of empathy and offers of food, shelter and company. It made me wonder. If it takes so little to reach out and connect with someone, why are so many people afraid to do so. Isn't the darkness more scary? It definitely was, for me. I always thought of myself as someone who would one day go out into the woods to live deliberately. I guess not, after all. I'm grateful for the guys at CVS who said I was welcome to hang out there the whole night if I couldn't bear the dark, stuffy house. I'm also grateful for the BBC, which is comfort food for the mind to me. Most of all, I'm grateful for this scene, and several others, that I captured (in the great company of a fellow novice photo-enthusiast). That evening after the storm had one of the most gorgeous sunsets I had ever seen (and I've seen quite a few...including one over Tanah Lot).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgu_r3rr4zIBfi-oSTDJ34y2Arr4IEvtXAFtZtRUTP_Ple4SZ6jkmwdDBlWxYsxB9yrlcmqKfowp2jxLwOxjjek1V3hL0smTxYVAhq2z-C8Ten-oytq1tUZ6kMOn3QSLgk4Ck8PUPhzE/s1600/DSC_0163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfgu_r3rr4zIBfi-oSTDJ34y2Arr4IEvtXAFtZtRUTP_Ple4SZ6jkmwdDBlWxYsxB9yrlcmqKfowp2jxLwOxjjek1V3hL0smTxYVAhq2z-C8Ten-oytq1tUZ6kMOn3QSLgk4Ck8PUPhzE/s320/DSC_0163.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-54775438616743669292010-06-26T02:08:00.002-04:002010-06-26T09:26:20.595-04:00Connectivity Killed the Romance Star.So my social network knows I'm crazy about the World Cup. That's because it's all over my Facebook updates and postings. I've kept my Tweets restrained and restricted to 'professional' re-tweeting of serious news...such as Australia's first woman prime minister. If that's the side of me you prefer, find me on Twitter!<br />
<br />
With social media and connectivity, the World Cup has become so much more fun. I can now watch it "with" my friends who are 10,000 miles away on FB or Gchat or Skype. In college we used to watch football in someone's dorm room. Later, it was in someone's home or at a bar. Now, we don't have to leave our child-rearing, home-sitting responsibilities behind. We can still share the experience of a match with our friends in "real time" without stepping out the door. That made it so much fun. Or, did it?<br />
<br />
This was me a couple of days ago. The USA-Algeria match was on TV; the England-Slovenia match was streaming on the Mac Book; the iPod Touch was in one hand for FB and chats; the Blackberry was in the other for phone calls and emails. With so much connectivity around me, I actually could share the experience with many more people. See if I was watching with a bunch of people somewhere, it would just be with that bunch of people. But there, in my connectivity hub, I was sharing the experience with people around the US, in England, and in Asia.<br />
<br />
During the half time break, I actually managed to use the bathroom, fix lunch, make coffee, take a call, and tweet, all at the same time (well, not all) and in time to be right back in position for the second half. And that was when it hit me. I saw a tweet from someone I didn't know that said that making tapes for someone is still the most romantic gesture of all time.<br />
<br />
Wow. How true. I thought of all the ex-es I made tapes (and then later CDs) for and who did the same for me. For a second there, just before the second half started, I got that warm, fuzzy buzz. After the games were over (and I was very happy with the results) I felt like I had to unplug -- log out of all my accounts, shut down and just be NOT connected.<br />
<br />
I kept thinking of the tweet, though, and how much technology and connectivity, while purportedly bringing people closer together, have actually taken away good old intimacy and romance.Think about this, starting with...<br />
<br />
Making tapes:<br />
Music on the go became a lifestyle phenomenon when the Sony Walkman was invented. In those days, making a tape for someone was the most romantic thing you could do. Then came the CD players, and you could still burn music files on to a CD. I'm not even going to go into the MDs and other formats that didn't take off, but basically, you can put together music for another person in a way that said, this is how much I care about you. Now, with iPod and iTunes, who wants CDs, and you don't need to figure out playlists because the Genius does it for you. Very cool and chic. Nothing warm or fuzzy.<br />
<br />
Writing letters:<br />
Before the music tapes, there was the love letter and the pen pal letters. Does anyone remember when it was cool to write letters? When pen is put to paper, thought is needed to make the words flow just right. When we write, the act somehow also inspires us to reveal our most intimate thoughts and feelings. Now, we have email. Who writes pensive, pining or pretty emails? Get to the point, cut to the chase, I have another 5,000 un-read mails in my inbox. Let's think of all the guys who would fail miserably if they had to write an email to express themselves...Shakespeare, Neruda, Keats, etc.<br />
<br />
Phone call:<br />
Now that we have text messaging, instant chat, Skype, Gtalk, FB chat, who really takes the trouble to call? Why do you need to spend hours talking about nothing over the phone, when you can send a text message or chat msg and get it over with in 5 minutes? Instead of calling someone just to see if he or she is ok, you can send an email. Hi, just dropping a note to say hope you're ok. We should hang out some time. And when that time comes, the meeting can be set up via email too. This place-that place- this, this or this day/time, that day/time is better....etc. After about five or ten mails, we'll get it right. That, is still easier than picking up the phone, especially if it's the iPhone 4. And now that we have email on our mobile phones, that makes life even easier.<br />
<br />
In the same way, social networking sites have made life so much easier. Now I can know all the things I want to know about a 'friend' through his or her profile. I don't have to invest time chatting on the phone, or hanging out over coffee. There's so much connectivity all around me I can plug into and play.<br />
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So, what exactly was I complaining about again?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4659946929162331167.post-84821577662951695552010-06-18T09:50:00.000-04:002010-06-18T09:50:53.892-04:00Fever Pitch - Top Ten Reasons I ♥ the World CupNobody really needs to justify loving the World Cup. I mean, it's only the most watched sports event in the world, with an estimated 715 million viewers tuned in to the final game in 2006 (and that was apparently only the 4th most watched World Cup ever). But then I can't watch this joke of a match going on between Germany and Serbia. Besides, I think many of my friends believe I love the World Cup because of the shirtless, hot footballers. So this is my stab at redeeming myself. (And yes, I will call it 'football' like we do in most parts of the world.)<br />
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10. Shirtless, hot footballers (hey, they're hot, can't deny the facts)<br />
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9. Fan mania (this is one sport where it's perfectly legitimate for fans to be as rowdy, crazy, obsessed and over-the-top as we want to be...I mean most sports fanatics are obsessed, but in football, it's perfectly understandable and acceptable)<br />
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8. Teamwork (yeah, we have the stars, the superstars, in fact, but this sport is about teamwork and nowhere is it more apparent than in the World Cup when all these stars have to leave their club memberships, fat paychecks, and pride behind to play on par with the hardworking but less famous guys from back home)<br />
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7. Equalizer (football is the great equalizer all over the world, because you can be a homeless street kid and play/love this game...watch the documentary 'Kicking It' by one of my professors, Susan Koch, if you haven't already)<br />
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6. Strategy (to the naysayers who make jokes about men chasing a polka dotted ball around a field and 'just running' you have absolutely no clue how much brain work and play making goes into a solid team and match)<br />
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5. Controversy (the amazing rules...check out how many pages the official FIFA rules pdf has...make for great controversy stirring sh*t...especially in the day before 'live' digital video and offside calls tread a fine line between best intentions and error of human judgment...and let's not get started on the yellow and red cards, the penalty, free kicks, corners, etc. etc.)<br />
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4. Statistics (football is a mathematician's wet dream...there's player statistics, tries, goals, etc. and team statistics...and the World Cup, with its history and sheer number of teams probably needs its own dedicated server just to handle crunching all those NUMBERS)<br />
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3. Flags (look at all those gorgeous colors fluttering in the wind...it's better than the United Nations...tell me you're not swaying to 'Waving Flag' right now)<br />
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2. World Peace (seriously, the World Cup is the only time when nationalism and international relationships clash in healthy competition...bitter enemies, neighbors with love-hate affairs, a triangle or two, even...imagine if all strife in the world can be resolved on the pitch...you know, North & South Korea, USA-Iran, etc. The pen is mightier than the sword, but the ball is ROUND.<br />
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1. My Daddy.<br />
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When I was a little girl, my daddy introduced me to football...on TV. I remember many sultry Sunday afternoons spent watching EPL matches, AC Milan and Real Madrid. I think I learned how to spot an offside before I actually started playing any sports. I probably would have played football, if I didn't grow up in a part of the world where girls didn't get to play.<br />
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My daddy also introduced me to my first 'hero' - Pele. I would ditch the greatest footballer of all time later for my own role model - Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, who to me embodies feminine power, dedication to a cause and real courage as Hemingway described it. But deep in my heart, there will always be a deep respect for Pele, not just because he's who he is, but because my daddy respected him.<br />
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Then, when I was 14, I did what all girls do. I picked my own guy to have a crush on - Diego Maradona, the second greatest footballer ever. It was the year he led Argentina to a resounding World Cup victory. I made my mother buy tins and tins of a chocolate drink called "Milo" (or was it "Ovaltine") so I could collect all the team stickers and complete my World Cup handbook. I think that was also when I started to think of myself as a citizen of the world, and that must also have been what sparked my wanderlust and desire to visit as many different corners of the world as I can in my lifetime.<br />
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I live 10,000 miles away from my daddy now, but I'm pretty he's watching the World Cup and enjoying it as much as I am. Happy Father's Day, DAD.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14477327251539791261noreply@blogger.com0