Maktub.

"Intuition is really a sudden immersion of the soul into the universal current of life."
-Paulo Coelho; The Alchemist

I am a young woman in a culture where trusting "Intuition" is often considered naïve and irresponsible. Part of this is particular to our culture of information technology and light-speed communication, in which Google-ing and Wikipedia crowd out “Intuition” as decision-making tools. Part of this trend extends even cross-culturally, and encompasses most generational interactions in which he young are expected to make choices for our personal lives and professional careers based on, as my Bank boss demanded of me, "a Plan."

Ask me for a dream, a goal, a vision of what I hope to become, and I am happy to answer. But a Plan? "How absolutely foolish!", I can't help but roll my eyes. Perhaps it took only my few African adventures to realize the foolishness of a Plan in the face of buses with no schedules (or transmissions), hospitals with endless wait lines, unpredictable provision of public goods and unreliable services. Living in places where a Plan is a fantasy, for the unpredictable obstacles lie at every next turn, one learns to instead employ Intuition. (For more on the dangers of Planning)

To my amusement, I recently turned 22 and was carded the same weekend buying tickets to a rated R movie. Perhaps I look seventeen, but my Intuition feels seventy.

Like every other ability, practice makes perfect, and it is the deliberate listening for a gut reaction again and again that has taught me to trust Intuition over Plans. I’ve certainly had and continue to make Plans; I wanted to study music production at Northeastern, travel and perfect my French, work exclusively on HIV/AIDS issues. But it was Intuition that urged me to choose NYU over a hometown school, to choose studying in Accra over Paris, to choose working at the Bank over an AIDS advocacy group. None of these life-path changing decisions were Planned, yet they have brought me closer and closer to what I feel is a life purpose.

What about the non-life-changing decisions, the everyday action and interactions– what does that Intuition sound like?

I heard it yesterday in the peeling away of sticky duct tape strips holding the Air Conditioning in my window (installed by my dear subletter – I can’t stand AC), as I rushed to get the machine out. I wrangled it out, set it down in the hall, and rushed back to the open window frame. And as I practically dove out into the open air of avenue A and 2nd street, I was struck by a moment to which that Intuition was leading me.

I sought the open air, but the air is never open here, I realized, it's always being shared. On this bustling corner we're all inhaling and exhaling – Basilio and the deli vendors downstairs, the bar hoppers across the corner, the dog and their walkers, the relentless-question-asking-toddlers and their stroller pushers, Emmanuel and his crew of homeless men hawking their trinkets to passersby. But it's not just the shared oxygen, as we all contribute our own necessary noises as well – drunken shouts, giggles and guffaws, children’s cries, beeping horns, loud transmissions, clunking moving carts and idling engines. And then we all contribute our scents – the wafting fried food out of Nicky's Vietnamese sandwich shop, to the pungent smell of detergent from the Laundromat, to the putrid dog poop and the sensuous perfume on that woman passing by.

As I laid down to sleep later in the night, I smiled, surrounded by these noises, smells, by the presence of all these people just two floors below, bustling around and attending to their lives and their business, as it all intertwines and interacts on the street corner. A fire truck from Ladder 11 blares out and speeds westward but it does not interrupt my peaceful pause, it is inherently part of it.

I ran this morning, past the Peachtree community garden where overgrown ivy crawls through the chain link fence. I ran past the Pigeons perched atop the lamppost, which is plastered with posters for TV shows and storage services. Past a “Life on Mars” film crew circus around the fountain on the east river, past conspicuous moving vans covered windshield to tailpipe with bold graffiti, past high brick walls tagged with "I CAN" and I" DREAM", past the Lillian Wald projects on FDR and past pooling puddles of who-knows-what-mystery-fluid. Past the few whistles from old men in wifebeaters, past Asian grandmothers mid-calisthenics, past an IDH (Interborough Displaced Hipster) biker clad in skinny jeans and plaid, meandering the poorly paved path.

Talk about a sudden immersion of the soul into the universal current of life!

I followed my Intuition and have found myself part of an unPlanned togetherness, a communion of lives that did not necessarily Plan to live together, but do. And so now I try to listen to my Intuition as I think about life after this somewhat Planned year of Wagner and KCA. Summer in DC challenged me to consider a number of different options in the professional life I dream of – that of an effective public servant.

I watched “Street Fight” on the train ride home from DC, a documentary about the 2002 Newark Mayoral race between now-Mayor Cory Booker and then-incumbent Sharpe James. Though Cory's example as a public servant inspired me towards elected office, it also completely deflated my heart, watching the ruthlessness tactics of the incumbent and how the media's translation of the tricks pulled out by the Sharpe campaign shaped the race, as opposed to the issues or the needs of the constituents. Sharpe spun incredible lies so many times, so passionately, that they became truth to those who heard them. And why? He was fighting to defend the Plan he has laid out for himself, which Cory had come along to challenge.

People’s Plans for themselves will inevitably always come into conflict – over power, over resources, over land. And I feel uneasy thinking that people spend their lives communicating in a language that sets out these grand plans: rhetoric, lies, insecurities, and empty promises. I know this language will always be spoken, but I do hope that people can begin again to start hearing and listening to their Intuition, which is in a different language and a different message. Coelho grabs at the thought when he explains,

"There was a language in the world that everyone understood…. It was the language of enthusiasm, of things accomplished with love and purpose, and as part of a search for something believed in and desired. .... The most important part of the language that all the world spoke - the language that everyone on earth was capable of understanding in their heart… it was love.”

So to conclude this blog, I cannot emphasize strongly enough this immense lesson re-learned:

Do what you love. Don't make a Plan to advance in salary or power, because then you advance the institutions that may not improve the world but hurt it, or you realize that in some way, a Plan has already been scripted for you, and to deter from that path of purpose is to lead an unfulfilling life.

In this “universal current of life” Coelho speaks of, a Plan must be the building of a boat, a lifejacket, a bridge or (shudder) a dam. Our attempts to control what is already written might be useful to making us feel safe and happy in the sort run. But “How absolutely foolish!", I can't help but roll my eyes. Following intuition is perhaps the most responsible thing I can do in a world so bogged down in distractions, advertisements, rhetoric, and confusion. Looking within to find clarity amidst the chaos seems to me far wiser than trying to forge through it unguided.

After a summer of realizing just how much our millions of personally prodded Plans are cluttering up a clear vision of what is even wrong in the first place, and after observing how dishonest people will be to achieve their Plan, I am tempted to feel discouraged about the potential for change – in public service and in our personal lives. But I ultimately settle on a preference that whether it causes me pain and suffering or joy and happiness in the short run, I would rather feel in tune with this universal current of life, than to work against it.

I think we need to be fiercely intelligent and know our facts when it comes to problem solving and decision-making, but effective solutions will take far more than facts and the Plans we build off of them. We all need to tune into our own Intuition in order to tap into that universal language of love if we ever want to share a meaningful existence with those around us.

"When we love, we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too."

xo ko

Today's NYT...

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/30/health/research/30aids.html?th&emc=th

Reactions?

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.

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.”

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

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.

Follow in the Footsteps

Throughout childhood my parents taught me to mitigate conflict and solve problems with a simple technique: "Put yourself in their shoes!"

"Katie was really bossy and yelled at me today at recess"
"Well, did you do anything to her first? Maybe you started it? Maybe she was just having a bad day herself? Put yourself in her shoes!"

I was taught to think through the circumstances that may exist outside of what I could immediately see and experience, and to be sensitively responsive to those forces.

Now here in DC, when I think of the Bank's mission of poverty-alleviation, I witness a bit of this empathy on the part of the Bank. Having evolved past controversial structural adjustment plan strategies - forcing the market as a solution to all problems - the Bank is employing new "put yourself in their shoes!" strategies, emphasizing community consultation socially sustainable development. I witness everyday the hard work of the Bank in truly understanding the communities in which they work. Projects are well planned and approaches rigorously researched, run by an incredibly intelligent body of employees. Especially in my capacity on the Panel I am part of a meaningful community consultation process in our every inspection.

But I know that not everyone and every Project is free from the corruption and inefficiency that most associate with the Bank. These human failures also exist, and persist. Exposes like John Perkins' "Confessions of an Economic Hitman" will tell you that the Bank is a far cry from empathetic, like other criticisms that accuse the Bank of fostering corruption, further screwing the poor into deeper cycles of poverty, and perpetuating the system in which the money-less don't matter.

Somewhere between the sensation pieces of Bank-produced-PR and disgruntled employee publications, there is a truth to the workings of the beast. And everyday at work I find myself battling back and forth between appreciating and vilifying all the Bank does, or sometimes, does not.

Trying to understand how the leadership techniques of the Bank effect the movement to end poverty, I am reminded of a document called "The Denver Principles" that illustrates leadership techniques in the movement to end AIDS in 1983.

The Denver Principles articulated the viewpoint of the HIV positive community at a time when they were being consistently spoken for instead of spoken with. People living with HIV/AIDS refused to be considered victims or scapegoats, and instead asked to be fully accepted for who they were as people living with AIDS. Among other economic factors, it is reasonable to say that the AIDS movement in the US was so intense and goal-reaching, because the people creating these Principles and fighting the fight were literally fighting for their lives. These 'Activists' had no other choice than to be intense, urgent, and immediate,when they and their friends were dying at frightening rates.

The dying has not stopped but rather transferred to new communities. But we are not hearing as much unified 'AIDS activism' in any concentrated way like the NYC/San Fransisco communities of the 1980's/1990's. In fact perhaps the only worthy comparison of unified AIDS activism would be the Treatment Action Campaign, who founder Zackie Achmat is HIV positive himself. He's already in the shoes from the get-go.

I am pretty confident declaring that no one who works in my Bank office lives in poverty. It is tempting to think we could exponentially increase the motivation and energy of the atmosphere if we really tried to put ourselves in the shoes of the poor (although that would necessitate them having shoes and they often do not -- a complicated endeavor from the start with immense metaphorical implications!). We might take a hint from the recent wave of Obama supporters speaking up to adopt Hussein as their middle name to campaign in solidarity with our own Barack H. Obama. Taking on and understanding the burden of others in order to be better advocates ourselves.

And in many ad campaigns and powerful speeches I think we have tried to do so with certain issues:



But what's our alternative? What if, instead of making sure leaders of poverty-relief institutions could empathize with the poor, we just hired more qualified leaders? Ones with lived experiences of poverty, who know the real issues and real obstacles?

What I am asking is, why is the leadership of UNAIDS not HIV positive? Although the UN offers many services and support to their own HIV + employees, are leaders who do not intimately know the destruction and complication of HIV as qualified to do this job? When leadership has lived through the trials of development, they understand the need for urgency and hard work as a moral obligation to address issues of poverty.

But would it be acceptable or would it be dicriminatory to hire on credentials of real experience? World Bankers raised in poverty get extra points on the application?

This past weekend a few Trumans attended two matches of the Homeless World Cup qualifying tournament t where players had to be homeless in order to make the team. I found the atmosphere so satisfying because no one in the stands - presumably a mix of strangers from the street like us and friends of the players and coaches - absolutely no one cared about the word 'homeless.' They cared about a good soccer game. While players were homeless and the tournament subtly raised attention to an issue of importance, it did so not at the expense of the players' dignity, but rather in celebration of their own agency.

I wonder if and how this day will ever come -- when we see leadership positions within international development filled not exclusively by rich white American men (as EVERY Bank President has EVER been), but with those who have uniquely valuable knowledge to solve the issue.

I feel as though solidarity is far more than just metaphorically putting yourself in the other person's shoes from your position of power. Sometimes you can be a more effective leader by just giving power to and then following those who know better.

xo kho