http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/30/health/research/30aids.html?th&emc=th
Reactions?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
A National Workout Plan
Madeline Albright would probably agree with Caitie Whelan, whose booming voice echoed through the GWU hall on Thursday night at our self-created Truman Public Service Symposium. A few Trumans created the Symposium as a place to reflect on our own experiences in public service, and an as opportunity to explore the winding roads and gray matter between our talents and the accomplishments with which people associate us. Reflecting on the ways in which she has pulled herself out of tough times, Caitie evoked one’s individual potential to climb out of rock bottom situations by exercising three “muscles”: inspiration, creativity, and connection. “The thing I LOVE about muscle,” proclaimed our slender speaker, “Is that no one was born with big muscles, but everyone has the capacity to strengthen them.”
Just one night prior, our group had the honor of hearing from and speaking with former Secretary of State and President of the Truman Foundation, Dr. Madeline Albright. I believe Dr. Albright would have enjoyed Caitie’s Symposium presentation, because in addition to serving as the first woman Secretary of State, managing issues of ethnic cleansing, democracy, human rights, and nuclear proliferation, it turns out that Madam Secretary also loves muscles – she can leg-press up to 400 pounds! Seriously! Dr. Albright offered the expected stateswomanly analysis of the Karadzic arrest (‘a watershed event’), the future of the UN (‘too much nepotism’), and Zimbabwe (‘the South African response is a tragedy’), however she also threw in a few provocative comments, one in response to the wonderful Whelan herself. Caitie asked about the role of empathy in American foreign policy, and Dr, Albright replied that “Americans are the most generous people in the world, with the shortest attention spans.”
She described the difficulty of transforming empathy and intention into deliverable services, because although empathy exists, our current public service delivery systems makes it difficult for people to believe that anything greater than short-term relationships are possible. The ‘systems’ are more specifically national governments and the ‘relationships’ are our international interactions, be they military-, trade-, or relief- focused. It does seem, oftentimes, that our foreign policies are lacking the muscles for which Caitie advocates – destruction leaves us uninspired, bureaucracy sucks away creativity, and corruption creates mistrust and disconnection.
Dr. Albright’s words and Caities's philosophy made my mind immediately zip back to earlier in the week, Monday morning. Stretching out my tired muscles, hearing my bones cracking with every exaggerated twist, I rose at 5:30 am to spend a few hours at Miriam’s Kitchen, conducting research for my second and final Street Sense article. The Deputy Director the Kitchen had worked for many years with HIV/AIDS services. In addition to allowing me an interview as she buzzed across the room, addressing every client by full name and with a smile, she also graciously identified four HIV + homeless men willing to speak anonymously with me about their experiences with social services in DC.
There is a certain disappointment that pulls on one’s heart when you look into a human face and see it become a statistic; another HIV+ person dies, the counter ticks up. But it is a very different feeling, a sudden and disturbing shock, when you look at a statistic and see it morph into a human face. As each man shared with me his story, I forced my eyes not to widen, and my jaw not to drop. These were human voices, scrunching wrinkles around their eyes, rough palmskin inside tightly clasped hands, and deep gazes from behind their eyes into my brain. I sat and listened to the stories I only normally know though the statistics:
• African Americans represent 13% of the US population, yet nearly 50% of the HIV+ US population.
• AIDS is the leading cause of death in black women aged 25 to 34.
• Almost 60% of people receiving their drugs through the federal AIDS Drugs Assistance Program (ADAP) are from an ethnic minority, predominantly African American, yet insufficient funding for ADAP means many states are seeing long waiting lists for treatment.
Statistics sound controlled, specific, aloof, numerical and lifeless. Voices, whether you like it or not, involve you in the issue and commit you to the pursuit of a solution. But Caitie’s metaphor now challenges me. These voices were telling me that even if we all have the same capacity to build muscle, everyone does not have access to the same equipment.
With atrophied muscles it can be impossible to drag ourselves out of rock bottom. Within this one population, the HIV+ and homeless, there are obstacles so high as to completely overshadow inspiration, there are environments that even the most creative mind cannot overcome, and there is a lack of support that rules out the power of connection.
Being prime for inspiration, can seem impossible when one is shackled down – literally into a prison or hospital, or metaphorically stuck in the cycle of drug abuse. A 55 year old black man, an ex-coke addict from south Florida, sighed that, “Being an addict will wear you out. You’ve gotta deal with a lot of low-life people. And you live a lonely lifestyle...it can stress you out! And stress is not good for anyone on medication."
Being creative, or seeing beyond one perspective, goes against the very “rule of the street”, said one 53 year old black man. “You mind your business and don’t ever bother with anyone else’s”, he spoke vehemently, “If you know someone’s HIV + and still having unprotected sex or sharing drugs, you don’t tell anybody.”
Being connected is also difficult if no one will reciprocate your asks with answers. The same man explained to me that in the 1980’s, before services were widely available, “Government and religious leaders were not involved, but should have gotten involved, much earlier on.” He chastised the institutions, that “a great deal of mistrust now exists because of what took place from the offset. The Churches only opened their doors when the grants started coming to them. Or when their family members were dying. Politicians? They helped during election years. That’s the reality of it all. They come around when they want your vote.”
The system is indeed debilitated, and indeed empathy then seems naïve and foolish, as it cannot possibly transform itself into deliverable services. As my interviewees commented on, when the system is weak, people take advantage of what is offered. Those who may not need it as much as others - the asymptomatic HIV+ person compared to someone with full blown AIDS - compete for scarce resources and diminish the available pool of goods. No one is secure that the opportunity to get help will always be available, so with a logical and rational short-term mindset, they take what they can now.
When will the short-term system shift? How will the lifestyles of insecure time horizons change?
Perhaps the least mentally stable man I spoke with had the wisest suggestion – economics. “Smoking crack-cocaine kept me calm,” he said, exasperated, “But it kept me broke! I had to stop using.” But playing out the logic reveals that a market solution is still short-term, temporary, and subject to relapse. This man was clearly still using drugs, and even if he were to stop completely, what next? Where will his income come from? His social support? Any sense of stability and security? How do we make sure that short term successes sustain?
Another man confessed that he took up drugs to deal with his mother’s death, at age 17, and it was not until he had his own son that he had another opportunity to feel unconditional love for someone else, to feel that someone was expecting something of him. His son, he said, changed his life. Not only is he now clean, but he is running the HIV/AIDS programs at a local faith based organization that have changed the lives of many more men in his shoes. When I asked how he references those who come to access services (Guests? Clients? Customers?), he said, “I just call them my friends. That’s what they are.” And so it is human relationships that emerge as a manner of allowing empathy to become effective services.
Problems emerge when there are no stable systems – the homeless have no home, the sick have no health insurance, those looking for a job never had access to quality education – but systems remain unstable because of our inability to form meaningful human relationships within systems. Albright calls the inabilities of our foreign policy a “Rubik's Cube situation”, but ultimately, what does it take to build that muscle?
Any body builder will tell you the same: you need weights or equipment, a disciplined schedule of exercise, repetition of one action again and again, restating old and making new goals each week, having a work-out partner – a coach - to whom you will feel accountable to succeed. Similarly, the HIV + need drugs, a schedule to which they must adhere, a counselor or family member to help make sure adherence is achieved. Checking T-cells and viral loads every week or every three months. On this regimen we have seen The Lazarus Effect, people moving literally from deathbeds to vibrant life again. What will the muscle-building regimen of improving our public service-delivery systems look like?
It will undoubtedly take our inspired, creative, and connected energy. Adam Schmidt, fellow Truman, put it best at our Symposium by claiming that “We have more to offer than is being asked of us.” Among my peers there are any who have grown tired of the ‘systems’ not asking enough, and chosen instead to start their own nonprofits and social enterprises. This is necessary, but Caitie and Dr. Albright now push me to hope that we must also change the systems by working from within. We must start our systems on a long-term regimen, and although Albright set a high bar as a public servant by leg-pressing 400 lbs, I believe my generation’s muscle will be able to bear and lighten the heavy load ahead.
Just one night prior, our group had the honor of hearing from and speaking with former Secretary of State and President of the Truman Foundation, Dr. Madeline Albright. I believe Dr. Albright would have enjoyed Caitie’s Symposium presentation, because in addition to serving as the first woman Secretary of State, managing issues of ethnic cleansing, democracy, human rights, and nuclear proliferation, it turns out that Madam Secretary also loves muscles – she can leg-press up to 400 pounds! Seriously! Dr. Albright offered the expected stateswomanly analysis of the Karadzic arrest (‘a watershed event’), the future of the UN (‘too much nepotism’), and Zimbabwe (‘the South African response is a tragedy’), however she also threw in a few provocative comments, one in response to the wonderful Whelan herself. Caitie asked about the role of empathy in American foreign policy, and Dr, Albright replied that “Americans are the most generous people in the world, with the shortest attention spans.”
She described the difficulty of transforming empathy and intention into deliverable services, because although empathy exists, our current public service delivery systems makes it difficult for people to believe that anything greater than short-term relationships are possible. The ‘systems’ are more specifically national governments and the ‘relationships’ are our international interactions, be they military-, trade-, or relief- focused. It does seem, oftentimes, that our foreign policies are lacking the muscles for which Caitie advocates – destruction leaves us uninspired, bureaucracy sucks away creativity, and corruption creates mistrust and disconnection.
Dr. Albright’s words and Caities's philosophy made my mind immediately zip back to earlier in the week, Monday morning. Stretching out my tired muscles, hearing my bones cracking with every exaggerated twist, I rose at 5:30 am to spend a few hours at Miriam’s Kitchen, conducting research for my second and final Street Sense article. The Deputy Director the Kitchen had worked for many years with HIV/AIDS services. In addition to allowing me an interview as she buzzed across the room, addressing every client by full name and with a smile, she also graciously identified four HIV + homeless men willing to speak anonymously with me about their experiences with social services in DC.
There is a certain disappointment that pulls on one’s heart when you look into a human face and see it become a statistic; another HIV+ person dies, the counter ticks up. But it is a very different feeling, a sudden and disturbing shock, when you look at a statistic and see it morph into a human face. As each man shared with me his story, I forced my eyes not to widen, and my jaw not to drop. These were human voices, scrunching wrinkles around their eyes, rough palmskin inside tightly clasped hands, and deep gazes from behind their eyes into my brain. I sat and listened to the stories I only normally know though the statistics:
• African Americans represent 13% of the US population, yet nearly 50% of the HIV+ US population.
• AIDS is the leading cause of death in black women aged 25 to 34.
• Almost 60% of people receiving their drugs through the federal AIDS Drugs Assistance Program (ADAP) are from an ethnic minority, predominantly African American, yet insufficient funding for ADAP means many states are seeing long waiting lists for treatment.
Statistics sound controlled, specific, aloof, numerical and lifeless. Voices, whether you like it or not, involve you in the issue and commit you to the pursuit of a solution. But Caitie’s metaphor now challenges me. These voices were telling me that even if we all have the same capacity to build muscle, everyone does not have access to the same equipment.
With atrophied muscles it can be impossible to drag ourselves out of rock bottom. Within this one population, the HIV+ and homeless, there are obstacles so high as to completely overshadow inspiration, there are environments that even the most creative mind cannot overcome, and there is a lack of support that rules out the power of connection.
Being prime for inspiration, can seem impossible when one is shackled down – literally into a prison or hospital, or metaphorically stuck in the cycle of drug abuse. A 55 year old black man, an ex-coke addict from south Florida, sighed that, “Being an addict will wear you out. You’ve gotta deal with a lot of low-life people. And you live a lonely lifestyle...it can stress you out! And stress is not good for anyone on medication."
Being creative, or seeing beyond one perspective, goes against the very “rule of the street”, said one 53 year old black man. “You mind your business and don’t ever bother with anyone else’s”, he spoke vehemently, “If you know someone’s HIV + and still having unprotected sex or sharing drugs, you don’t tell anybody.”
Being connected is also difficult if no one will reciprocate your asks with answers. The same man explained to me that in the 1980’s, before services were widely available, “Government and religious leaders were not involved, but should have gotten involved, much earlier on.” He chastised the institutions, that “a great deal of mistrust now exists because of what took place from the offset. The Churches only opened their doors when the grants started coming to them. Or when their family members were dying. Politicians? They helped during election years. That’s the reality of it all. They come around when they want your vote.”
The system is indeed debilitated, and indeed empathy then seems naïve and foolish, as it cannot possibly transform itself into deliverable services. As my interviewees commented on, when the system is weak, people take advantage of what is offered. Those who may not need it as much as others - the asymptomatic HIV+ person compared to someone with full blown AIDS - compete for scarce resources and diminish the available pool of goods. No one is secure that the opportunity to get help will always be available, so with a logical and rational short-term mindset, they take what they can now.
When will the short-term system shift? How will the lifestyles of insecure time horizons change?
Perhaps the least mentally stable man I spoke with had the wisest suggestion – economics. “Smoking crack-cocaine kept me calm,” he said, exasperated, “But it kept me broke! I had to stop using.” But playing out the logic reveals that a market solution is still short-term, temporary, and subject to relapse. This man was clearly still using drugs, and even if he were to stop completely, what next? Where will his income come from? His social support? Any sense of stability and security? How do we make sure that short term successes sustain?
Another man confessed that he took up drugs to deal with his mother’s death, at age 17, and it was not until he had his own son that he had another opportunity to feel unconditional love for someone else, to feel that someone was expecting something of him. His son, he said, changed his life. Not only is he now clean, but he is running the HIV/AIDS programs at a local faith based organization that have changed the lives of many more men in his shoes. When I asked how he references those who come to access services (Guests? Clients? Customers?), he said, “I just call them my friends. That’s what they are.” And so it is human relationships that emerge as a manner of allowing empathy to become effective services.
Problems emerge when there are no stable systems – the homeless have no home, the sick have no health insurance, those looking for a job never had access to quality education – but systems remain unstable because of our inability to form meaningful human relationships within systems. Albright calls the inabilities of our foreign policy a “Rubik's Cube situation”, but ultimately, what does it take to build that muscle?
Any body builder will tell you the same: you need weights or equipment, a disciplined schedule of exercise, repetition of one action again and again, restating old and making new goals each week, having a work-out partner – a coach - to whom you will feel accountable to succeed. Similarly, the HIV + need drugs, a schedule to which they must adhere, a counselor or family member to help make sure adherence is achieved. Checking T-cells and viral loads every week or every three months. On this regimen we have seen The Lazarus Effect, people moving literally from deathbeds to vibrant life again. What will the muscle-building regimen of improving our public service-delivery systems look like?
It will undoubtedly take our inspired, creative, and connected energy. Adam Schmidt, fellow Truman, put it best at our Symposium by claiming that “We have more to offer than is being asked of us.” Among my peers there are any who have grown tired of the ‘systems’ not asking enough, and chosen instead to start their own nonprofits and social enterprises. This is necessary, but Caitie and Dr. Albright now push me to hope that we must also change the systems by working from within. We must start our systems on a long-term regimen, and although Albright set a high bar as a public servant by leg-pressing 400 lbs, I believe my generation’s muscle will be able to bear and lighten the heavy load ahead.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
My Inner Outcast
“Oh, shit,” I worried in my mind, “I didn’t realize we were going to have to tell someone!” I winced as we stood shoulder to shoulder in a long line on the dance studio floor, racking my brain for an alternative story than the one I had chosen for this exercise.
“Now find a partner,” instructs our workshop leader Elizabeth, “And tell your partner your story in one lap across the floor.” Her tiny dancer’s body moved quickly beneath her mass of blond dreadlocks, and she lovingly smiled at our discomfort as we all begin to walk our personal planks.
This past Friday our Truman crew participated in an “Arts and Public Policy Day” at the Liz Lerman Dance Exchange. The 9-5 workshop gave us a day off from our jobs, and a chance to explore our own and each other’s creativity and personality through movement exercises, group discussions, role-plays, and interpretive dance. After a session of abstract physical expression, our group was asked to recount a situation in which we had acted unethically and then, in unison, each tell our story out loud and we marched across the studio floor. Easy enough, we reluctantly and collectively agreed: when everyone’s talking, no one is listening, right?
I decided quickly on my most recent feelings of unethical behavior, namely, the time I spend everyday at the Bank corresponding for Keep a Child Alive business, as I feel like our Bank work contributes so little to the big picture of development and poverty relief. Yes, in a bigger picture this is perhaps not unethical, because the positive impact my KCA work is having on poverty relief at our sites outweighs my contributions in my position at the Bank. However in the context of this summer, I feel hypocritical for criticizing the unfocused and unmotivated leadership at the Bank, when I myself am acting unfocused and unmotivated.
DeCarol is my partner, and I firmly cup her left hand in both of mine as I explain to her my dilemma, speaking straight into her attentive eyes. She reciprocates on the stroll back with her story, a tragic tale of never having apologized for a wrongdoing until it was too late. Elizabeth then asked us to assign headlines to each of our stories and come back to join the group in a large circle. “Phew!” I sighed in relief, knowing I held the utmost trust in DeCarol not to ever share my confession that I feared could be so easily misjudged.
Thinking we were moving on to a new exercise, my jaw dropped at Elizabeth’s next line.
“How about those headlines?”
Her eyes smiled devilishly, looking around as a wave of discomfort rippled through our faces. “You can say yours or your partner’s, ready? Who’s first?”
My brain initiated a flurry of thoughts towards an emergency exit strategy. Maybe I can still save myself from this embarrassment!?, I hoped frantically, yes, as long as DeCarol just doesn't…
“Hypocrisy: My Experience at the World Bank”, she proclaimed clearly.
I blinked hard, bit my lip, my heart tightened up, I forced a smile. The entire circle laughed in my general direction, well aware the headline belonged to me, and upon group request, DeCarol retold my tale to the entire group. Busted, I thought, as I tried to mask my shaky spirit with a stolid, calm face. I felt awful for a moment, afraid people would lose their faith in me as the person I try to be; a person of strong character and moral values. I felt concerned the retelling could be misinterpreted, or that all my other work would now be meaningless.
I felt, in short, like Bruce Wayne.
Sitting in the plush seat of an air conditioned movie theater one day later, I stared up at Wayne, Harvey Dent, and The Joker duke it out in a battle to bring ‘true’ justice to Gotham. “You want order in Gotham?” The Joker sneers, “Batman must take off his mask and turn himself in. Everyday he doesn’t, people will die.”
Our Dark Knight wavers upon the fine line between hero and outcast, nearly incapacitated trying to determine how to weigh the immediate tragedies of standing strong with his mask on against the long term consequences of giving into The Joker’s tactics of terrorism and demoralization. (“Does it depress you how alone you really are?” he snickers to Harvey in the hospital) And on top of that, Batman is immersed in personal hypocrisy. He refuses to kill The Joker because of his stated moral code, but keeps his mask on knowing that innocent people are getting killed because of his choice. How ‘ethical’ is that?
I think back to my Bank debacle. Maybe I’m doing my job by not doing my job – breaking the rules in order to create order. The Joker, as anarchic as he is, reveals this paradox of chaos creating order. He questions the incredibly skewed nature of our own purported ‘logical’ perceptions: does it really make ‘ethical’ sense that, as he references, we can accept groups of human soldiers being destroyed but are distressed when a city Commissioner is shot? Does it make ‘ethical’ sense that we knowingly allow thousands of humans to perish everyday from underfunded quick fixes like diarrhea, but mark history when 3,000 people die in a single attack? How orderly is our order? And do I have before me now an advantage working within an institution if I want to fundamentally change the way it functions?
“You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”
Does becoming the villain indeed bring the positive change? Must we be cast out from an institution in order to give them something to push against? As Batman realizes, if you want to make a real difference, people will hate you. You will have to allow them to chase you and to vilify you, in order for society to have a reason to band together and demand justice, rather than turn yourself in ('ethically'), and watch them crumble under the intimidation of the truly immoral villain.
Maybe the systems and institutions that frustrate us actually have this all figured out, and are in fact promoting positive social change at a grassroots level (i.e. frustrating even its employees to be more satisfied by grassroots work than bureaucratic projects and reports). But more likely, we are facing a slew of institutions fallen to corruption and crime. Either way, there must be at least two different kinds of villains: the Dark Knights and the fallen White Knights. The Batmans and the Two Faces. The deliberate outcasts and the accidental outcasts. Those who are villains as a sacrifice to give people the chance to be good in retaliation, and those who are villains having given in to a greater evil.
We could all use an Alfred in our lives sometimes (although I have one, his name is Dad), someone to answer our rhetorical anxieties when we do not know what role to choose.
I legitimately think Wayne’s worries, every day: “People are dying! What do I do?”
“Endure,” Alfred replies, “You can be the outcast. You can make the choice that no one else will face, the right choice, Gotham needs you.”
“Now find a partner,” instructs our workshop leader Elizabeth, “And tell your partner your story in one lap across the floor.” Her tiny dancer’s body moved quickly beneath her mass of blond dreadlocks, and she lovingly smiled at our discomfort as we all begin to walk our personal planks.
This past Friday our Truman crew participated in an “Arts and Public Policy Day” at the Liz Lerman Dance Exchange. The 9-5 workshop gave us a day off from our jobs, and a chance to explore our own and each other’s creativity and personality through movement exercises, group discussions, role-plays, and interpretive dance. After a session of abstract physical expression, our group was asked to recount a situation in which we had acted unethically and then, in unison, each tell our story out loud and we marched across the studio floor. Easy enough, we reluctantly and collectively agreed: when everyone’s talking, no one is listening, right?
I decided quickly on my most recent feelings of unethical behavior, namely, the time I spend everyday at the Bank corresponding for Keep a Child Alive business, as I feel like our Bank work contributes so little to the big picture of development and poverty relief. Yes, in a bigger picture this is perhaps not unethical, because the positive impact my KCA work is having on poverty relief at our sites outweighs my contributions in my position at the Bank. However in the context of this summer, I feel hypocritical for criticizing the unfocused and unmotivated leadership at the Bank, when I myself am acting unfocused and unmotivated.
DeCarol is my partner, and I firmly cup her left hand in both of mine as I explain to her my dilemma, speaking straight into her attentive eyes. She reciprocates on the stroll back with her story, a tragic tale of never having apologized for a wrongdoing until it was too late. Elizabeth then asked us to assign headlines to each of our stories and come back to join the group in a large circle. “Phew!” I sighed in relief, knowing I held the utmost trust in DeCarol not to ever share my confession that I feared could be so easily misjudged.
Thinking we were moving on to a new exercise, my jaw dropped at Elizabeth’s next line.
“How about those headlines?”
Her eyes smiled devilishly, looking around as a wave of discomfort rippled through our faces. “You can say yours or your partner’s, ready? Who’s first?”
My brain initiated a flurry of thoughts towards an emergency exit strategy. Maybe I can still save myself from this embarrassment!?, I hoped frantically, yes, as long as DeCarol just doesn't…
“Hypocrisy: My Experience at the World Bank”, she proclaimed clearly.
I blinked hard, bit my lip, my heart tightened up, I forced a smile. The entire circle laughed in my general direction, well aware the headline belonged to me, and upon group request, DeCarol retold my tale to the entire group. Busted, I thought, as I tried to mask my shaky spirit with a stolid, calm face. I felt awful for a moment, afraid people would lose their faith in me as the person I try to be; a person of strong character and moral values. I felt concerned the retelling could be misinterpreted, or that all my other work would now be meaningless.
I felt, in short, like Bruce Wayne.
Sitting in the plush seat of an air conditioned movie theater one day later, I stared up at Wayne, Harvey Dent, and The Joker duke it out in a battle to bring ‘true’ justice to Gotham. “You want order in Gotham?” The Joker sneers, “Batman must take off his mask and turn himself in. Everyday he doesn’t, people will die.”
Our Dark Knight wavers upon the fine line between hero and outcast, nearly incapacitated trying to determine how to weigh the immediate tragedies of standing strong with his mask on against the long term consequences of giving into The Joker’s tactics of terrorism and demoralization. (“Does it depress you how alone you really are?” he snickers to Harvey in the hospital) And on top of that, Batman is immersed in personal hypocrisy. He refuses to kill The Joker because of his stated moral code, but keeps his mask on knowing that innocent people are getting killed because of his choice. How ‘ethical’ is that?
I think back to my Bank debacle. Maybe I’m doing my job by not doing my job – breaking the rules in order to create order. The Joker, as anarchic as he is, reveals this paradox of chaos creating order. He questions the incredibly skewed nature of our own purported ‘logical’ perceptions: does it really make ‘ethical’ sense that, as he references, we can accept groups of human soldiers being destroyed but are distressed when a city Commissioner is shot? Does it make ‘ethical’ sense that we knowingly allow thousands of humans to perish everyday from underfunded quick fixes like diarrhea, but mark history when 3,000 people die in a single attack? How orderly is our order? And do I have before me now an advantage working within an institution if I want to fundamentally change the way it functions?
“You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”
Does becoming the villain indeed bring the positive change? Must we be cast out from an institution in order to give them something to push against? As Batman realizes, if you want to make a real difference, people will hate you. You will have to allow them to chase you and to vilify you, in order for society to have a reason to band together and demand justice, rather than turn yourself in ('ethically'), and watch them crumble under the intimidation of the truly immoral villain.
Maybe the systems and institutions that frustrate us actually have this all figured out, and are in fact promoting positive social change at a grassroots level (i.e. frustrating even its employees to be more satisfied by grassroots work than bureaucratic projects and reports). But more likely, we are facing a slew of institutions fallen to corruption and crime. Either way, there must be at least two different kinds of villains: the Dark Knights and the fallen White Knights. The Batmans and the Two Faces. The deliberate outcasts and the accidental outcasts. Those who are villains as a sacrifice to give people the chance to be good in retaliation, and those who are villains having given in to a greater evil.
We could all use an Alfred in our lives sometimes (although I have one, his name is Dad), someone to answer our rhetorical anxieties when we do not know what role to choose.
I legitimately think Wayne’s worries, every day: “People are dying! What do I do?”
“Endure,” Alfred replies, “You can be the outcast. You can make the choice that no one else will face, the right choice, Gotham needs you.”
Monday, July 14, 2008
memorializing priorities
My mother’s voice floated into my bedroom as she sauntered by in the hallway. “Wake uuuu-uup!” she crooned towards my sister and I, both pleasantly face-planted in our pillows. For a split second - after waking up but before opening my eyes - I was a younger version of myself immersed in the comfort of home. I could have been five years old, about to get up and wriggle into my mom-made dress and patent leather shoes for church on this Sunday morning. I could have been fifteen years old, about to get up and slip into a Speedo for an early morning swim meet. I could have been any Kate, but this morning, after a few forceful blinks and exaggerated body stretches and bone-cracking, I remembered that I was merely passing through home, once again, and would soon be on my way back to Washington, DC.
I Amtraked home for about 24 hours this weekend to celebrate a few occasions: the return of my sister from a school trip to Egypt, the shared one-year anniversary of my reaching the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro and of my father quitting smoking, and the general desire to be away from the DC vibe for a bit. I lingered in bed and only my eyes moved around, body entirely exhausted from the previous night's John Mayer concert with the siblings. Seeing that it was still dark outside, I remembered we had a task at hand and jumped out of bed!
Last week I had proposed an adventure to my father: in honor of my climbed mountain and of his kicked habit, why don’t we take a sunrise hike to the top of Diamond Hill, the highest point in Cumberland? Not quite comparable to Uhuru Peak, but an acceptable local equivalent!
And as per usual, the entire Otto crew was up for such a random celebration. So at 4:45 AM Dad was waiting downstairs in his tangerine and tropical flowered Hawaiian button up shirt, sporting the Vodacom cap I brought him home from Arusha last summer. In his celebration he is subtle and not all at once. Mom is ready to go, sleeves rolled up on one of her many oversized tye-dye swim meet shirts, emanating, “This is nothing for me!”, as a woman who wakes up every morning to walk at 5:00 AM. Diana and I tumble downstairs in our mismatched pajamas, without a thought of brushing teeth or hair, and we groggily, but loyally, lace up our sneakers and hop in the minivan to get to the park.
The air is crisp and cool as we march up the hill, the terrain deserted except for our motley crew. No one actually knows “the” way (although I believe there rarely every is one) and we keep walking uphill finding narrow, pebble ridden trails weaving through the long grass and clustered trees. At just about 5:30 the sun emerged a fiery orange orb from behind a horizon full of crowded black clouds, and we squinted as her rays broke through the massive crisscross of branches atop the hill. We watched her rise, and then as nonchalantly as we trudged up, we descended together, dad stopping every minute to test us on tree identification, Diana interrupting with ridiculous jokes, Mom and I laughing helplessly at the entertainment (one of many ways I’m turning into her!) An informal yet deliberate recognition of our reasons to celebrate, unannounced yet obvious ceremonial action.
The night prior, before the Mayer concert, I spent some time sifting through old albums with my mother in search of some material for my Tuesday night Truman presentation. Curled on in the comfort of my parents’ queen size bed, we flipped through photo after photo of moment and memories from my childhood, most of which I would never remember otherwise. But some of the photos, though I forgot they happened, were not particularly surprising. The three oldest munchkins ruthlessly burying a toddler Andrew in the sand, lovingly mischievous grins on our faces. A photo of me in a sparkly, bright ballet outfit, eyes wide, enormous smile agape, staring brightly in the camera, mid-dance-move, tiny arms reaching out wide. I know we always teased Andrew. I know I have always been a dancing fool.
But part of me was upset that I otherwise would never have remembered that trip to the beach, or that impromptu dance recital. There are so many moments I have never recorded in any medium! I felt angst from the part of me that requires an understanding of the past before I can move forward.
Because it’s not just good memories I want to remember, it’s the bad ones too. Another friend at the House of Compassion, the AIDS home at which I have been volunteering since high school, passed away last week. Frank. I haven’t reacted as strongly as I did to Patrick’s recent death but part of me was infuriated that another person has been lost to HIV/AIDS who will probably never be remembered. How do we honor his memory? Or those of the thousands more worldwide who perish everyday from a disease we know how to treat and prevent? How do we properly remember the past, with or without physical evidence that anything actually happened?
On our simple sunrise hike this morning we were celebrating two monumental occasions, yet this subtle and simple action seemed to suffice as recognition of how much my father and I had both accomplished in attempting the feats we had set out before us. A celebration of grandeur would have seemed insincere and distracting. Besides the loud Hawaiian tee, it was just another walk in the park, yet meant so much more.
I think memory is a lot about incorporating heavier memories into lots of little pieces in our everyday lives. I have my little tricks to keep important moments fresh – my blackberry and laptop desktops are photos are people of phenomenal importance to me, one a KCA child and one my grandfather. I keep small cards in my wallet of every funeral or wake I have ever been to. And there are the reminders I don’t ask for – at least one e-mail a week from friends in Ghana or Tanzania, asking me to fund a college education or help rebuild a burnt down orphanage. Little reminders that sneak into my everyday life - my wallet, my desktop, my inbox - that keep concepts otherwise too immense fresh and light and omnipresent.
But it's got to be more than things, than photos and video clips and physical reminders. I think real memory is an ability to act on the past. So that my actions – whether a trek up Diamond Hill or an attempt to publish a thesis on HIV/AIDS - allow me to memorialize a person or an experience. And so I think even harder now about what it is I am doing here in DC...really 'doing'... and whether or not that sits soundly with what my past, my experiences, and my memories, tell me is the right thing to be doing.
As I sign off my Keep a Child Alive e-mails with a deliberately customized signature,
"Action expresses priorities." -mohandas gandhi
I Amtraked home for about 24 hours this weekend to celebrate a few occasions: the return of my sister from a school trip to Egypt, the shared one-year anniversary of my reaching the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro and of my father quitting smoking, and the general desire to be away from the DC vibe for a bit. I lingered in bed and only my eyes moved around, body entirely exhausted from the previous night's John Mayer concert with the siblings. Seeing that it was still dark outside, I remembered we had a task at hand and jumped out of bed!
Last week I had proposed an adventure to my father: in honor of my climbed mountain and of his kicked habit, why don’t we take a sunrise hike to the top of Diamond Hill, the highest point in Cumberland? Not quite comparable to Uhuru Peak, but an acceptable local equivalent!
And as per usual, the entire Otto crew was up for such a random celebration. So at 4:45 AM Dad was waiting downstairs in his tangerine and tropical flowered Hawaiian button up shirt, sporting the Vodacom cap I brought him home from Arusha last summer. In his celebration he is subtle and not all at once. Mom is ready to go, sleeves rolled up on one of her many oversized tye-dye swim meet shirts, emanating, “This is nothing for me!”, as a woman who wakes up every morning to walk at 5:00 AM. Diana and I tumble downstairs in our mismatched pajamas, without a thought of brushing teeth or hair, and we groggily, but loyally, lace up our sneakers and hop in the minivan to get to the park.
The air is crisp and cool as we march up the hill, the terrain deserted except for our motley crew. No one actually knows “the” way (although I believe there rarely every is one) and we keep walking uphill finding narrow, pebble ridden trails weaving through the long grass and clustered trees. At just about 5:30 the sun emerged a fiery orange orb from behind a horizon full of crowded black clouds, and we squinted as her rays broke through the massive crisscross of branches atop the hill. We watched her rise, and then as nonchalantly as we trudged up, we descended together, dad stopping every minute to test us on tree identification, Diana interrupting with ridiculous jokes, Mom and I laughing helplessly at the entertainment (one of many ways I’m turning into her!) An informal yet deliberate recognition of our reasons to celebrate, unannounced yet obvious ceremonial action.
The night prior, before the Mayer concert, I spent some time sifting through old albums with my mother in search of some material for my Tuesday night Truman presentation. Curled on in the comfort of my parents’ queen size bed, we flipped through photo after photo of moment and memories from my childhood, most of which I would never remember otherwise. But some of the photos, though I forgot they happened, were not particularly surprising. The three oldest munchkins ruthlessly burying a toddler Andrew in the sand, lovingly mischievous grins on our faces. A photo of me in a sparkly, bright ballet outfit, eyes wide, enormous smile agape, staring brightly in the camera, mid-dance-move, tiny arms reaching out wide. I know we always teased Andrew. I know I have always been a dancing fool.
But part of me was upset that I otherwise would never have remembered that trip to the beach, or that impromptu dance recital. There are so many moments I have never recorded in any medium! I felt angst from the part of me that requires an understanding of the past before I can move forward.
Because it’s not just good memories I want to remember, it’s the bad ones too. Another friend at the House of Compassion, the AIDS home at which I have been volunteering since high school, passed away last week. Frank. I haven’t reacted as strongly as I did to Patrick’s recent death but part of me was infuriated that another person has been lost to HIV/AIDS who will probably never be remembered. How do we honor his memory? Or those of the thousands more worldwide who perish everyday from a disease we know how to treat and prevent? How do we properly remember the past, with or without physical evidence that anything actually happened?
On our simple sunrise hike this morning we were celebrating two monumental occasions, yet this subtle and simple action seemed to suffice as recognition of how much my father and I had both accomplished in attempting the feats we had set out before us. A celebration of grandeur would have seemed insincere and distracting. Besides the loud Hawaiian tee, it was just another walk in the park, yet meant so much more.
I think memory is a lot about incorporating heavier memories into lots of little pieces in our everyday lives. I have my little tricks to keep important moments fresh – my blackberry and laptop desktops are photos are people of phenomenal importance to me, one a KCA child and one my grandfather. I keep small cards in my wallet of every funeral or wake I have ever been to. And there are the reminders I don’t ask for – at least one e-mail a week from friends in Ghana or Tanzania, asking me to fund a college education or help rebuild a burnt down orphanage. Little reminders that sneak into my everyday life - my wallet, my desktop, my inbox - that keep concepts otherwise too immense fresh and light and omnipresent.
But it's got to be more than things, than photos and video clips and physical reminders. I think real memory is an ability to act on the past. So that my actions – whether a trek up Diamond Hill or an attempt to publish a thesis on HIV/AIDS - allow me to memorialize a person or an experience. And so I think even harder now about what it is I am doing here in DC...really 'doing'... and whether or not that sits soundly with what my past, my experiences, and my memories, tell me is the right thing to be doing.
As I sign off my Keep a Child Alive e-mails with a deliberately customized signature,
"Action expresses priorities." -mohandas gandhi
Friday, July 4, 2008
A 3-D 4-July
Ask my mom for verification- I am as patriotic as they come. Before I was actually allowed to march in my hometown July 4th parade as a Brownie Girl Scout, I used to escape her motherly (iron) grip, as she balanced 3 other toddler-Otto's, and I would scamper into the festivity, eager to join the celebration and wave my flag proudly.
I love my country and because of that love I think it's only fair to be honest with my country.
Traditionally, we celebrate July 4th to commemorate the signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1776.
Dutifully, we celebrate July 4th to honor all those who have served and who have died for our nation.
Patriotically, we celebrate July 4th to uphold the truths upon which we founded our own sovereign nation, as Jefferson so powerfully wrote:
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness."
With respect for tradition, duty, and patriotism, I also feel our celebration is a bit dimensionally skewed; it is all very Past-tense. I want to suggest that (Responsibly), we start celebrating July 4th on a 3-D level: an appreciation for the (accurate) Past, an assessment of the Present, and a commitment to the Future.
The accurate Past would tell us that there is not much significance to placing the celebration on the 4th of July. On the actual day of July 4, only 9 of the 13 colonies voted in favor of the Declaration. The accurate past would also reveal that it has taken centuries to approach fulfillment of even just the Preamble.
Let us momentarily put our past in a different light, and make a comparison, (though I know it is imperfect!)
Consider that Ghana was the first African nation to declare independence from her colonial government in 1957 ; (all African nations - except Ethiopia and Liberia - were colonized after the 1884/5 'scramble for Africa.') Today, 51 years into independence, Ghana certainly bears burdens of poverty and disease, yet boasts a thriving economy, effective democratic government, and strong, peaceful leadership in West African and throughout the Continent.
Where was America 51 years into independence? In 1827, the Creek Indians lost all of their property to the federal government, and only a few years later all Native Americans east of the Mississippi were forcibly resettled to the west. Slavery raged on, not to be Constitutionally abolished until 1865, and women still had nearly 100 years to wait for suffrage. Dr. Thomas Cooper, then-President of South Carolina College, responded to the bitter bickering between the North and South over tariff laws on manufactured goods: ". . . what use is this unequal alliance by which the South has always been the loser and the North always the gainer? Is it worth our while to continue this union of States where the North demands to be our master?" Decades later, bloody Civil War would break out across the nation, leaving nearly 700,000 dead in the wake.
What I'm saying is America was from having her together 51 years into independence, and we should appreciate that it takes time to implement such a lofty mission statement as the Preamble. I venture to think we still have far to go, which requires us to celebrate July 4 from the second dimension, an assessment of the Present.
Unlike understanding the Past there is little researching required, just observe of what is around you on the walk to the parade floats or beneath the fireworks. Yes there is 'victory' to be claimed in that thousands of Americans, of all races and religions, sat together on Lincoln's lawn to behold the rockets' red glare. But what about the hundreds of homeless folks (and nearly a quarter of the homeless population in America are war veterans) asking for spare change from the torrent of tourists? Or what about the gay soldier in the brigade that just marched by whose very identity is illegal in his everyday life?
The morning after the fireworks, a Vietnam War vet sold me a morning paper - Street Sense - a special publication produced by a team of homeless folks. “I’m not homeless anymore though” he smiled at me in conversation, and attributed his success to the help of his Church. It was Church, not State, that gave him life, liberty, and the ability to pursue happiness: the social and medical services he needed, the employment assistance to help him find a job, and the encouragement that pushed him to write beautiful poetry. He handed my my copy, already creased and folded open to a specific page, and pointed a firm finger at a poem, tapping and saying "You're really going to like this one, I can tell."
Random Acts of Kindness by Foster B. Jarvis
"The people who reach out to those who are less fortunate or to those in need
of random acts of kindness, these are the true unsung heroes of our society.
The one who has enough courage and compassion to assist a complete stranger while passing him on life’s road.
The one who stops to assist one helplessly in need.
The one who shares his substance instead of devouring it all in greed."
From a man who has been to hell and back, and given little if any support or gratitude for his service, comes this clear message, pointed and purposeful.
Now, I know we've got to be competitive to stay in the game -- of trade, of defense, of power -- and I do not intend to sound naive. But I would be proud to be an American if America truly - as Foster says - shared her substance instead of devouring it all in greed. Sharing our substance (life, liberty, pursuit: LLP) might mean agreeing to new rules that would allow for a fair game to be played. It would not just mean amping up foreign aid from an abysmal .7% of our GDP, or just ending export subsidies and canceling debts that keep poor nations locked into their poverty. These are all essential moves but part of a greater endeavor for America as a world superpower. We claim to want to bring the 'light' of democracy around the globe. But are we ready and willing to provide and ensure that LLP comes with it as well? Because as of now, even those we help democratize are still suffering because we makes rules that don't allow them to play at all.
The last lens through which we must celebrate is our commitment to the Future, which requires using an understanding of the Past and Present to set goals and plans needed to reach them. This lens is especially important to those already engaged in promoting LLP across the world, particularly those who have ever claimed to want to "save the world."
A plea to you: Please stop saying that. You never will.
What does that term even mean? What does it accomplish besides, arguably, motivation? It's distracting and unclear. Instead of "saving the world", we must focus on making small changes to fulfill the mission of LLP for those with whom we interact.
For example, although slavery persisted 51 years into our independence, 1827 also brought Freedom's Journal, the first African-American owned and operated newspaper published in the United States. That was an integral piece of the puzzle to bringing LLP to African-Americans, and required vision, tireless labor, and tenacity. Instead of looking to the future with lofty goals of "saving" anything, figure out what you can tangibly contribute to a greater picture of LLP...and do it! As the great Edmund Burke put it, "No one could make a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could do only a little."
So rather than sell ourselves short, I think the best way to celebrate any holiday fully is to live in 3-D: to recognize the honest history that has thus followed from LLP, to work tirelessly to make the small changes we are capable of making on a small scale, and to envision (but do not expect to immediately see) change on a large scale.
Whether or not July 4 is an arbitrary date, our nation indeed deserves a celebration, and a deliberate opportunity for us to take a closer look into that reflecting pool, a deeper look into the shimmering marble walls of the Vietnam memorial, and to see ourselves for what we are.
And what we are capable of becoming.
I love my country and because of that love I think it's only fair to be honest with my country.
Traditionally, we celebrate July 4th to commemorate the signing of the Declaration of Independence in 1776.
Dutifully, we celebrate July 4th to honor all those who have served and who have died for our nation.
Patriotically, we celebrate July 4th to uphold the truths upon which we founded our own sovereign nation, as Jefferson so powerfully wrote:
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness."
With respect for tradition, duty, and patriotism, I also feel our celebration is a bit dimensionally skewed; it is all very Past-tense. I want to suggest that (Responsibly), we start celebrating July 4th on a 3-D level: an appreciation for the (accurate) Past, an assessment of the Present, and a commitment to the Future.
The accurate Past would tell us that there is not much significance to placing the celebration on the 4th of July. On the actual day of July 4, only 9 of the 13 colonies voted in favor of the Declaration. The accurate past would also reveal that it has taken centuries to approach fulfillment of even just the Preamble.
Let us momentarily put our past in a different light, and make a comparison, (though I know it is imperfect!)
Consider that Ghana was the first African nation to declare independence from her colonial government in 1957 ; (all African nations - except Ethiopia and Liberia - were colonized after the 1884/5 'scramble for Africa.') Today, 51 years into independence, Ghana certainly bears burdens of poverty and disease, yet boasts a thriving economy, effective democratic government, and strong, peaceful leadership in West African and throughout the Continent.
Where was America 51 years into independence? In 1827, the Creek Indians lost all of their property to the federal government, and only a few years later all Native Americans east of the Mississippi were forcibly resettled to the west. Slavery raged on, not to be Constitutionally abolished until 1865, and women still had nearly 100 years to wait for suffrage. Dr. Thomas Cooper, then-President of South Carolina College, responded to the bitter bickering between the North and South over tariff laws on manufactured goods: ". . . what use is this unequal alliance by which the South has always been the loser and the North always the gainer? Is it worth our while to continue this union of States where the North demands to be our master?" Decades later, bloody Civil War would break out across the nation, leaving nearly 700,000 dead in the wake.
What I'm saying is America was from having her together 51 years into independence, and we should appreciate that it takes time to implement such a lofty mission statement as the Preamble. I venture to think we still have far to go, which requires us to celebrate July 4 from the second dimension, an assessment of the Present.
Unlike understanding the Past there is little researching required, just observe of what is around you on the walk to the parade floats or beneath the fireworks. Yes there is 'victory' to be claimed in that thousands of Americans, of all races and religions, sat together on Lincoln's lawn to behold the rockets' red glare. But what about the hundreds of homeless folks (and nearly a quarter of the homeless population in America are war veterans) asking for spare change from the torrent of tourists? Or what about the gay soldier in the brigade that just marched by whose very identity is illegal in his everyday life?
The morning after the fireworks, a Vietnam War vet sold me a morning paper - Street Sense - a special publication produced by a team of homeless folks. “I’m not homeless anymore though” he smiled at me in conversation, and attributed his success to the help of his Church. It was Church, not State, that gave him life, liberty, and the ability to pursue happiness: the social and medical services he needed, the employment assistance to help him find a job, and the encouragement that pushed him to write beautiful poetry. He handed my my copy, already creased and folded open to a specific page, and pointed a firm finger at a poem, tapping and saying "You're really going to like this one, I can tell."
Random Acts of Kindness by Foster B. Jarvis
"The people who reach out to those who are less fortunate or to those in need
of random acts of kindness, these are the true unsung heroes of our society.
The one who has enough courage and compassion to assist a complete stranger while passing him on life’s road.
The one who stops to assist one helplessly in need.
The one who shares his substance instead of devouring it all in greed."
From a man who has been to hell and back, and given little if any support or gratitude for his service, comes this clear message, pointed and purposeful.
Now, I know we've got to be competitive to stay in the game -- of trade, of defense, of power -- and I do not intend to sound naive. But I would be proud to be an American if America truly - as Foster says - shared her substance instead of devouring it all in greed. Sharing our substance (life, liberty, pursuit: LLP) might mean agreeing to new rules that would allow for a fair game to be played. It would not just mean amping up foreign aid from an abysmal .7% of our GDP, or just ending export subsidies and canceling debts that keep poor nations locked into their poverty. These are all essential moves but part of a greater endeavor for America as a world superpower. We claim to want to bring the 'light' of democracy around the globe. But are we ready and willing to provide and ensure that LLP comes with it as well? Because as of now, even those we help democratize are still suffering because we makes rules that don't allow them to play at all.
The last lens through which we must celebrate is our commitment to the Future, which requires using an understanding of the Past and Present to set goals and plans needed to reach them. This lens is especially important to those already engaged in promoting LLP across the world, particularly those who have ever claimed to want to "save the world."
A plea to you: Please stop saying that. You never will.
What does that term even mean? What does it accomplish besides, arguably, motivation? It's distracting and unclear. Instead of "saving the world", we must focus on making small changes to fulfill the mission of LLP for those with whom we interact.
For example, although slavery persisted 51 years into our independence, 1827 also brought Freedom's Journal, the first African-American owned and operated newspaper published in the United States. That was an integral piece of the puzzle to bringing LLP to African-Americans, and required vision, tireless labor, and tenacity. Instead of looking to the future with lofty goals of "saving" anything, figure out what you can tangibly contribute to a greater picture of LLP...and do it! As the great Edmund Burke put it, "No one could make a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could do only a little."
So rather than sell ourselves short, I think the best way to celebrate any holiday fully is to live in 3-D: to recognize the honest history that has thus followed from LLP, to work tirelessly to make the small changes we are capable of making on a small scale, and to envision (but do not expect to immediately see) change on a large scale.
Whether or not July 4 is an arbitrary date, our nation indeed deserves a celebration, and a deliberate opportunity for us to take a closer look into that reflecting pool, a deeper look into the shimmering marble walls of the Vietnam memorial, and to see ourselves for what we are.
And what we are capable of becoming.
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