May 17, 2009
February 08, 2009
January 30, 2009
V-Day Article
I have an article in Seven Magazine this week about V-Day if anyone is interested...
"V-Day turns 10 in London this year; not, of course, the V-Day associated with shiny red hearts gleaming in high street windows, February roses sold by the dozen, and restaurants booked to capacity. This V-Day doesn’t mix love with consumerism. This is playwright and activist Eve Ensler’s V-Day, a “V” that stands not only for valentine, but for vaginas and victory over violence. It’s a V-Day that cynics can embrace and one that inspires even the single women." Read the rest here:
http://www.sevenglobal.org/index.php/the-issue/41-north-america/330--the-v-day-about-real-love.html
"V-Day turns 10 in London this year; not, of course, the V-Day associated with shiny red hearts gleaming in high street windows, February roses sold by the dozen, and restaurants booked to capacity. This V-Day doesn’t mix love with consumerism. This is playwright and activist Eve Ensler’s V-Day, a “V” that stands not only for valentine, but for vaginas and victory over violence. It’s a V-Day that cynics can embrace and one that inspires even the single women." Read the rest here:
http://www.sevenglobal.org/index.php/the-issue/41-north-america/330--the-v-day-about-real-love.html
January 19, 2009
Innocence and Innocence Lost
This weekend, I went to a free screening of Until the Violence Stops, a documentary of sorts on the creation and purpose of V-Day (Eve Ensler’s movement to raise awareness of violence against women.) I went because I’m writing an article on the Vagina Monologues, her play that is put on in many countries around the world to raise money for this movement. It is the 10th anniversary of the London V-Day this year.
It was a difficult film to watch, though funny in parts as well (and the seats in the Belsize Park Everyman theatre are comfortable reclining couches). I remembered the first time I saw the Vagina Monologues, the moment I sat in a crowd of people where the women who were abused in the past were asked to stand; among them, many of my own friends. And then the people who know women who were abused stand and after that, everyone who promises never to let a woman be abused again. It’s a powerful play.
The documentary we watched included interviews with Japanese “comfort women” who served the sexual needs of soldiers during the war. One of them spoke of how she was shunned by her family for the shame of revealing her story and seeking justice. In the film, they spoke to a community of Native American women where there is a long history of domestic abuse. It showed Eve Ensler visiting Kenya where a centre for education on female circumcision was set up. They explained the different types of female circumcision, one of them cutting everything away, sewing up the girl with only a tiny hole for urine and menstrual blood. When the girl is married, her husband will sometimes use a goat’s horn to force through the wound.
On top of that, I’ve just started a book called The Road of Lost Innocence by Somaly Mam. It’s her memoir of growing up in Cambodia abused and sold into prostitution at the age of 16 where she was treated horribly. She felt dead inside. Her story is an amazing tale of survival and she is now an advocate for sex trafficking, working with young women rescued from brothels in Cambodia where she lives with her three children.
There is so much violence and anger in this world.
Here’s a short excerpt from Somaly’s book. Page 63-64:
My punishment was harsh, but the way they punish prostitutes today is far worse than anything I ever had to suffer. When I was with Aunt Peuve, except for that one time with electricity, the punishment was mainly beatings and our own fear - things like snakes. Now, I see girls in brothels with nails hammered into their skulls. That sounds unbelievable, but we have photos. Girls are chained and beaten with electric cables. They go mad. We've rescued several children from brothels who have completely lost their minds..Recently, some dead girls were found in the sewer of a brothel: they had drowned. Another time, after a fire, the police found several girl's bodies, still chained up. They know who owned that brothel - everybody does, but he isn't picked up and nothing is done about it. He has too many connections and the girls are nobodies. .The cuts and weals we see on escaped prostitutes these days are unbelievable. The clients do it, or the pimps. Maybe it's the influence of Chinese films; the pimps watch them avidly, like a lot of other men. They're full of scenes of torture. .Nowadays, the girls are much younger, too. This is because men in Cambodia will pay thousands of dollars to rape a virgin for a week - it's always a week, for a virgin. Sex with a virgin is supposed to give strength. It lengthens a man's lifespan and even lightens his skin..To make it clear they offer true bona fide virgins, the brothels today sell children. Often, they are very young girls, five or six years old. After the week is over, they sew the girl inside - without an anaesthetic - and quickly sell her again. A virgin is supposed to scream and bleed, and this way the girl will scream and bleed again and again. They do it maybe three or four times.
Tell me, can you read that without sadness and anger?
These are the reasons we need V-Day and what makes it important. It is not a male-bashing event, as some people find it. It’s supported, in fact, by many men who understand what it is about. It’s about empowerment of women, to help them feel comfortable with their bodies, to help them understand that their bodies are their own. To cast a blanket over dark pasts, to help those who aren’t strong enough to help themselves, to bring women together in compassion for one another. For peace.
It was a difficult film to watch, though funny in parts as well (and the seats in the Belsize Park Everyman theatre are comfortable reclining couches). I remembered the first time I saw the Vagina Monologues, the moment I sat in a crowd of people where the women who were abused in the past were asked to stand; among them, many of my own friends. And then the people who know women who were abused stand and after that, everyone who promises never to let a woman be abused again. It’s a powerful play.
The documentary we watched included interviews with Japanese “comfort women” who served the sexual needs of soldiers during the war. One of them spoke of how she was shunned by her family for the shame of revealing her story and seeking justice. In the film, they spoke to a community of Native American women where there is a long history of domestic abuse. It showed Eve Ensler visiting Kenya where a centre for education on female circumcision was set up. They explained the different types of female circumcision, one of them cutting everything away, sewing up the girl with only a tiny hole for urine and menstrual blood. When the girl is married, her husband will sometimes use a goat’s horn to force through the wound.
On top of that, I’ve just started a book called The Road of Lost Innocence by Somaly Mam. It’s her memoir of growing up in Cambodia abused and sold into prostitution at the age of 16 where she was treated horribly. She felt dead inside. Her story is an amazing tale of survival and she is now an advocate for sex trafficking, working with young women rescued from brothels in Cambodia where she lives with her three children.
There is so much violence and anger in this world.
Here’s a short excerpt from Somaly’s book. Page 63-64:
My punishment was harsh, but the way they punish prostitutes today is far worse than anything I ever had to suffer. When I was with Aunt Peuve, except for that one time with electricity, the punishment was mainly beatings and our own fear - things like snakes. Now, I see girls in brothels with nails hammered into their skulls. That sounds unbelievable, but we have photos. Girls are chained and beaten with electric cables. They go mad. We've rescued several children from brothels who have completely lost their minds..Recently, some dead girls were found in the sewer of a brothel: they had drowned. Another time, after a fire, the police found several girl's bodies, still chained up. They know who owned that brothel - everybody does, but he isn't picked up and nothing is done about it. He has too many connections and the girls are nobodies. .The cuts and weals we see on escaped prostitutes these days are unbelievable. The clients do it, or the pimps. Maybe it's the influence of Chinese films; the pimps watch them avidly, like a lot of other men. They're full of scenes of torture. .Nowadays, the girls are much younger, too. This is because men in Cambodia will pay thousands of dollars to rape a virgin for a week - it's always a week, for a virgin. Sex with a virgin is supposed to give strength. It lengthens a man's lifespan and even lightens his skin..To make it clear they offer true bona fide virgins, the brothels today sell children. Often, they are very young girls, five or six years old. After the week is over, they sew the girl inside - without an anaesthetic - and quickly sell her again. A virgin is supposed to scream and bleed, and this way the girl will scream and bleed again and again. They do it maybe three or four times.
Tell me, can you read that without sadness and anger?
These are the reasons we need V-Day and what makes it important. It is not a male-bashing event, as some people find it. It’s supported, in fact, by many men who understand what it is about. It’s about empowerment of women, to help them feel comfortable with their bodies, to help them understand that their bodies are their own. To cast a blanket over dark pasts, to help those who aren’t strong enough to help themselves, to bring women together in compassion for one another. For peace.
January 03, 2009
A Letter to Halima Bashir
Here's a book recommendation: Tears of the Desert by Halima Bashir.
It's a true story of her survival growing up in Darfur, Sudan. It's a place in the world that has become synonymous with violence and genocide, but Halima breathes life into it by sharing stories of her playful childhood and loving family life. She becomes a doctor and helps her people which gets her into trouble. Eventually, she does escape to London where she lives now.
Her story is incredible. And so I wrote her a letter, sent it off to the head of media at Aegis Trust, who she mentions in her book and asked him to forward it to her. He did. He read it as well and sent it to the CEO of the company who asked if it was okay to forward it to everyone there as a sort of motivational end of year email showing the chain of people their work has touched.
It's nothing special, but this is my letter:
Dear Halima,
For the past week, the part of my day I looked forward to most was my morning and after-work commute during which I could absorb your story in Tears of the Desert. It was one of the most heart-breaking and vivid stories of life and survival I have ever read and the first book to make me cry on public transport.
I’m the sub editor for an online magazine called Seven (www.sevenglobal.org) and had edited a story about a woman who travelled to The Hague with 47 survivors from Darfur. The author's story touched me and, in it, she wrote that someone had recommended your book to her. The next morning before work, I went to Waterstones and bought it. When I turned the last page, I felt I had to write to you. You are such a strong, inspirational woman and your ability and courage to speak out about such horrendous events is extremely admirable.
Having grown up in the comfort of an American suburb and lived in London for the last two years, it has been nearly impossible for me to fathom such inhumanity to this degree. I have read many articles about innocent people dying in Darfur and the torture and desperation that has been forced into their lives, but being so far detached from the situation makes it difficult to fully understand and easy to push behind you.
Your book is important because it will give people the crucial ability to see the situation on a different level. When westerners see facts and figures quoting hundreds of thousands of lost lives and millions displaced, those numbers are cold and empty. Reading a true, personal account of someone who was actually involved - someone who had a warm and loving family life and childhood that we can relate to – will make a difference in understanding and empathy.
One aspect I loved about your story was the glimpse into the true culture – learning about the food, how people live and work together, the traditions and beliefs, the environment and the languages. Most stories about Darfur focus on the violence. Your story also brings us the love and humanity of the people, the strong family bonds, hospitality of neighbours and the innocence of childhood.
I admire your dedication to your education and the way you were able to help people even if, at times, it was slipping them a bit of aspirin to make them feel “treated”. How you found the strength to face the girls who had been raped, I will never know. It absolutely broke my heart just to read about it. But thank God for your knowledge so that you could help. My boyfriend is a doctor in London and he has a dream of being able to go abroad to places where people have so little in the way of medical supplies and make a tangible difference. I’m going to buy him a copy of your book because I know it will inspire him even more so to follow it.
Thank you for sharing your story. I want to send my deepest condolences for the loss of your friends and neighbours, your strong grandma and, of course, your beloved father. Best wishes to you in your search for the rest of your family. It makes me thankful for my own family because, even though they are 3,000 miles from here, I know they are alive and safe. I can not imagine the pain of not knowing and all that you have gone through. You are in my thoughts.
All the best,
It's a true story of her survival growing up in Darfur, Sudan. It's a place in the world that has become synonymous with violence and genocide, but Halima breathes life into it by sharing stories of her playful childhood and loving family life. She becomes a doctor and helps her people which gets her into trouble. Eventually, she does escape to London where she lives now.
Her story is incredible. And so I wrote her a letter, sent it off to the head of media at Aegis Trust, who she mentions in her book and asked him to forward it to her. He did. He read it as well and sent it to the CEO of the company who asked if it was okay to forward it to everyone there as a sort of motivational end of year email showing the chain of people their work has touched.
It's nothing special, but this is my letter:
Dear Halima,
For the past week, the part of my day I looked forward to most was my morning and after-work commute during which I could absorb your story in Tears of the Desert. It was one of the most heart-breaking and vivid stories of life and survival I have ever read and the first book to make me cry on public transport.
I’m the sub editor for an online magazine called Seven (www.sevenglobal.org) and had edited a story about a woman who travelled to The Hague with 47 survivors from Darfur. The author's story touched me and, in it, she wrote that someone had recommended your book to her. The next morning before work, I went to Waterstones and bought it. When I turned the last page, I felt I had to write to you. You are such a strong, inspirational woman and your ability and courage to speak out about such horrendous events is extremely admirable.
Having grown up in the comfort of an American suburb and lived in London for the last two years, it has been nearly impossible for me to fathom such inhumanity to this degree. I have read many articles about innocent people dying in Darfur and the torture and desperation that has been forced into their lives, but being so far detached from the situation makes it difficult to fully understand and easy to push behind you.
Your book is important because it will give people the crucial ability to see the situation on a different level. When westerners see facts and figures quoting hundreds of thousands of lost lives and millions displaced, those numbers are cold and empty. Reading a true, personal account of someone who was actually involved - someone who had a warm and loving family life and childhood that we can relate to – will make a difference in understanding and empathy.
One aspect I loved about your story was the glimpse into the true culture – learning about the food, how people live and work together, the traditions and beliefs, the environment and the languages. Most stories about Darfur focus on the violence. Your story also brings us the love and humanity of the people, the strong family bonds, hospitality of neighbours and the innocence of childhood.
I admire your dedication to your education and the way you were able to help people even if, at times, it was slipping them a bit of aspirin to make them feel “treated”. How you found the strength to face the girls who had been raped, I will never know. It absolutely broke my heart just to read about it. But thank God for your knowledge so that you could help. My boyfriend is a doctor in London and he has a dream of being able to go abroad to places where people have so little in the way of medical supplies and make a tangible difference. I’m going to buy him a copy of your book because I know it will inspire him even more so to follow it.
Thank you for sharing your story. I want to send my deepest condolences for the loss of your friends and neighbours, your strong grandma and, of course, your beloved father. Best wishes to you in your search for the rest of your family. It makes me thankful for my own family because, even though they are 3,000 miles from here, I know they are alive and safe. I can not imagine the pain of not knowing and all that you have gone through. You are in my thoughts.
All the best,
January 01, 2009
Brecon Beacons, Wales & Bath, England
A million tiny stars, like pixie dust of wishes and magic, were thrown to the wind and stuck to the thick black oil paint of the sky. We stood under the Milky Way in the middle of a dark road and dared to question our role as humans on this planet, challenging the insignificance this universe laughingly plants on our teeny heads. For some time, the cold, bitter air seemed not to exist and it was only us and the stars. A million tiny stars.
.
It was beautiful driving over the rollercoaster hills of the back country roads, flicking the headlights off for a second to envelope ourselves in total country darkness. There is no darkness like country darkness. But it is a safe kind of darkness, unlike the nerve-wracking sort of city darkness or back alley darkness. This was peace. And when the lights went off in those quick moments before they flashed back to help us navigate the next curve up a mountain just in time, we had our first glimpse of Welsh stars. Magic beyond words.
.
It was my birthday weekend, my quarter of a century, between Christmas and New Year's. K, my boyfriend, and I were staying two nights in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. We stayed in a small village called Trecastle, the sort of place you’d smile at as while driving through, never really thinking to stop. It consists of a few houses, most of which were, surprisingly, festively decorated with Christmas lights, our hotel, an organic farm and antique shop across the road and not much else. But it was perfect. It was just what we wanted to escape the city rush. At the Castle Coaching Inn where we stayed, the owner, a middle-aged man with greying hair, a welcoming grandfather’s smile and a hint of excitement about him, upgraded our room. It has purple walls, little touch lights at the sides of the bed and a sparkling clean, white bathroom with a heated towel rack. Cosy, safe, warm. Perfect.
.
We drove down on a Friday and when we woke up was a gorgeously sunny Saturday morning, though the kind of deceptive morning that chills you to the bone and leaves a layer of frost clinging to the windows of parked cars. Even the leaves were coated in a shimmering icy glaze, fragile looking, yet pliable. I didn’t have my New York birthday snow, but scraping the car gave me enough snow to whip a few friendly snowballs in K’s direction; though he proved to have some excellent Dubya-dodging skills.
During breakfast (of bacon, eggs, toast and tea – presumably from the organic farmer across the road), the owner gave us some advice on how to spend our day. He even drew us a map. By 9:30am, we were layered up and out the door.
Winding country roads spread out before us and white sheep with coloured markings on their backs grazed in fields in every direction. We were on a mission to find a waterfall. Eventually, we parked and walked uphill at least a mile and then found a trail pointing to our destination. For the next few hours, we trekked over dirt paths, up hills, over rocks, into ditches, over streams and roots, following a creek that would eventually go over the falls.
We found them and had them all to ourselves, not a single soul in sight. Thirsty, we crept close to the edge and cupped our palms under the water, scooping it into our mouths, all down the front of our coats. It was clear and cold and clean and probably the best water I have ever tasted.
Retracing our steps I thought about how wonderful it was to completely detach. Both of us left our phones off or dead all weekend and there was no internet and we didn’t turn on the TV. It was just us, some sheep and horses and the muddy, wild, wilderness. At one point, we saw a horse standing across a field. I blew on a piece of grass to whistle and it came charging over to where we were standing. When I made the noise a second time, he stuck his nose over the fence and nuzzled at us. We stroked his white nose. What a massive and beautiful animal.
The Nant Ddu Lodge was recommended to us for lunch and we found it after a bit of hunting. Sitting next to the fireplace, we ate Welsh dishes and shared a pot of drippy dark chocolate fondou with fresh fruit and sweet marshmallows for dessert.
As the sun was setting, we drove back down the narrow, nearly-deserted roads. They were one lane, meant to be for two-way traffic, round curves and down hills. Any oncoming traffic meant pulling over and hoping you do it in time in case they don’t see you while coming fast round a bend. Lucky, there were not so many cars out that night.
.
It was beautiful driving over the rollercoaster hills of the back country roads, flicking the headlights off for a second to envelope ourselves in total country darkness. There is no darkness like country darkness. But it is a safe kind of darkness, unlike the nerve-wracking sort of city darkness or back alley darkness. This was peace. And when the lights went off in those quick moments before they flashed back to help us navigate the next curve up a mountain just in time, we had our first glimpse of Welsh stars. Magic beyond words.
.
It was my birthday weekend, my quarter of a century, between Christmas and New Year's. K, my boyfriend, and I were staying two nights in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. We stayed in a small village called Trecastle, the sort of place you’d smile at as while driving through, never really thinking to stop. It consists of a few houses, most of which were, surprisingly, festively decorated with Christmas lights, our hotel, an organic farm and antique shop across the road and not much else. But it was perfect. It was just what we wanted to escape the city rush. At the Castle Coaching Inn where we stayed, the owner, a middle-aged man with greying hair, a welcoming grandfather’s smile and a hint of excitement about him, upgraded our room. It has purple walls, little touch lights at the sides of the bed and a sparkling clean, white bathroom with a heated towel rack. Cosy, safe, warm. Perfect.
.
We drove down on a Friday and when we woke up was a gorgeously sunny Saturday morning, though the kind of deceptive morning that chills you to the bone and leaves a layer of frost clinging to the windows of parked cars. Even the leaves were coated in a shimmering icy glaze, fragile looking, yet pliable. I didn’t have my New York birthday snow, but scraping the car gave me enough snow to whip a few friendly snowballs in K’s direction; though he proved to have some excellent Dubya-dodging skills.
During breakfast (of bacon, eggs, toast and tea – presumably from the organic farmer across the road), the owner gave us some advice on how to spend our day. He even drew us a map. By 9:30am, we were layered up and out the door.
Winding country roads spread out before us and white sheep with coloured markings on their backs grazed in fields in every direction. We were on a mission to find a waterfall. Eventually, we parked and walked uphill at least a mile and then found a trail pointing to our destination. For the next few hours, we trekked over dirt paths, up hills, over rocks, into ditches, over streams and roots, following a creek that would eventually go over the falls.
We found them and had them all to ourselves, not a single soul in sight. Thirsty, we crept close to the edge and cupped our palms under the water, scooping it into our mouths, all down the front of our coats. It was clear and cold and clean and probably the best water I have ever tasted.
Retracing our steps I thought about how wonderful it was to completely detach. Both of us left our phones off or dead all weekend and there was no internet and we didn’t turn on the TV. It was just us, some sheep and horses and the muddy, wild, wilderness. At one point, we saw a horse standing across a field. I blew on a piece of grass to whistle and it came charging over to where we were standing. When I made the noise a second time, he stuck his nose over the fence and nuzzled at us. We stroked his white nose. What a massive and beautiful animal.
The Nant Ddu Lodge was recommended to us for lunch and we found it after a bit of hunting. Sitting next to the fireplace, we ate Welsh dishes and shared a pot of drippy dark chocolate fondou with fresh fruit and sweet marshmallows for dessert.
As the sun was setting, we drove back down the narrow, nearly-deserted roads. They were one lane, meant to be for two-way traffic, round curves and down hills. Any oncoming traffic meant pulling over and hoping you do it in time in case they don’t see you while coming fast round a bend. Lucky, there were not so many cars out that night.
.
We ate dinner of Welsh lamb chops on a giant wooden table in front of a burning fire in our inn.
.On the way back toward England Sunday afternoon, we flew through throse country roads, feeling the freedom of open spaces and no speed cameras. After driving through Brecon and Hay and finding not much to see there, we decided to stop over in Bath for lunch.
.
Bath was as I remembered it, the sand-coloured buildings standing proud and overpriced tickets to see the ancient roman baths. K had never been so he paid our entrance and we wandered about dipping our hands in places next to “Don’t touch the water” signs. It was green and full of algae, steam rising like a cloud from the surface. We abandoned our audio tours, both of us agreeing that modern culture, the way people live today, is much more fascinating than the lives of ancients.
..
Bath was as I remembered it, the sand-coloured buildings standing proud and overpriced tickets to see the ancient roman baths. K had never been so he paid our entrance and we wandered about dipping our hands in places next to “Don’t touch the water” signs. It was green and full of algae, steam rising like a cloud from the surface. We abandoned our audio tours, both of us agreeing that modern culture, the way people live today, is much more fascinating than the lives of ancients.
When we approached the edge of London and the city lights spread out in front of us, I felt a surge of excitement rush through me. Any time I leave the city and come back, it’s always exciting. Even K, who has lived here his whole life, said he gets that feeling coming back into the city. We were both high on the glory of a perfect weekend escape, flying quickly into the city surrounded by headlights and music. I felt like I was on top of the world.
.
.
Happy New Year
2009.
A time of the future, full of 365 days to make do with whatever we please.
365 days to live rather than exist, to watch the seasons change, from the icy cloud breaths of short winter days to the scent of pink flowers poking out of soil in the spring, long summer nights of crackling bonfires, BBQs and conversations under the stars and then the changing leaves of autumn falling to the ground and rustling along city streets.
365 days, each one with minutes and hours to better understand the world and push ourselves closer to our dreams and goals.
Days for travel, for hard, honest work, for losing ourselves in books, meeting strangers, exploring, discovering, building our personalities and making love. It’s exciting to think about the year ahead, about opportunities, experiences. Life is the most beautiful thing we have and a new year is always a reminder not to waste it.
.
A time of the future, full of 365 days to make do with whatever we please.
365 days to live rather than exist, to watch the seasons change, from the icy cloud breaths of short winter days to the scent of pink flowers poking out of soil in the spring, long summer nights of crackling bonfires, BBQs and conversations under the stars and then the changing leaves of autumn falling to the ground and rustling along city streets.
365 days, each one with minutes and hours to better understand the world and push ourselves closer to our dreams and goals.
Days for travel, for hard, honest work, for losing ourselves in books, meeting strangers, exploring, discovering, building our personalities and making love. It’s exciting to think about the year ahead, about opportunities, experiences. Life is the most beautiful thing we have and a new year is always a reminder not to waste it.
.
In 2009, what I really want is not to lose sight of the happiness and clarity I have right now, not to fall into a stagnant state of mind. I said last year, I wanted to live instead of exist and not take life for granted. Well, that still stands. 2009 will be a year of laughter, love and life. Cheers to that for everyone.
.
.
D, me and K welcoming in the new year with mulled wine in Trafalgar Square.
.
.D, me and K welcoming in the new year with mulled wine in Trafalgar Square.
December 16, 2008
Fresh Air for Christmas
One part of growing up I always looked forward to, and still now, of course, were vacations or holidays, time away from my everyday environment to experience something new.
I was one of the lucky ones who went away nearly every year - sometimes across the country, sometimes across the ocean, sometimes just camping a few hours away. But what was important about it was the time to discover something about the world and about myself. These were, and continue to be, times of growth.
There are many people who grow up not so lucky. Maybe they don't have the money or the right situations in their lives to be able to go away. Going away from the place you were born and where you spend your days, especially as a child, is an essential experience.
And there is actually a group who help make that a possibility for kids who can't put together a trip for themselves. It's called the Fresh Air Fund, a group based in New York City which has been around for more than 230 years. They send kids on camping trips or to stay with host families.
.
.
The kids are from New York City. They range in age from 6-18. This sort of thing lets them forget about the chaos of the city for a while. One of them said: "In the city, you have to think about what is going to happen around the next street corner. In the woods, you walk with a group of friends and counselors. You don't even think about city problems."
.
Need a feel-good project for the new year? They're looking for hosts, and of course, donations. Though, hosting sounds quite interesting if you ask me. If I lived stateside and had my own place, I would probably do it. I think you can take a lot away from an experience like that - maybe even as much as the kids do.
.
I was one of the lucky ones who went away nearly every year - sometimes across the country, sometimes across the ocean, sometimes just camping a few hours away. But what was important about it was the time to discover something about the world and about myself. These were, and continue to be, times of growth.
There are many people who grow up not so lucky. Maybe they don't have the money or the right situations in their lives to be able to go away. Going away from the place you were born and where you spend your days, especially as a child, is an essential experience.
And there is actually a group who help make that a possibility for kids who can't put together a trip for themselves. It's called the Fresh Air Fund, a group based in New York City which has been around for more than 230 years. They send kids on camping trips or to stay with host families.
.
.
The kids are from New York City. They range in age from 6-18. This sort of thing lets them forget about the chaos of the city for a while. One of them said: "In the city, you have to think about what is going to happen around the next street corner. In the woods, you walk with a group of friends and counselors. You don't even think about city problems."
.
Need a feel-good project for the new year? They're looking for hosts, and of course, donations. Though, hosting sounds quite interesting if you ask me. If I lived stateside and had my own place, I would probably do it. I think you can take a lot away from an experience like that - maybe even as much as the kids do..
November 23, 2008
Morning London Photos
One of the best (and free) things to do in London is walk around the city in the early hours of the morning and watch it unfold. It takes some motivation to get out of bed at 6am on a weekend, but when I do, it is always worth it.
.
. 
.
My favourite place to go that early is Brick Lane. There is nothing like sitting in Coffee @ Brick Lane with a cup of tea and a notebook, watching the market come to life the vendors pulling boxes from vans to set up the markets and the pavements and streets slowly filling with people.
.Besides Brick Lane, I love to wander around the near-deserted South Bank in the early morning light. So when I found myself on the train pulling into Charing Cross at 9am yesterday morning, I decided to go for a walk instead of jumping straight onto the tube. The air was so cold that the only hands visible were the pink ones shaking cameras at the London Eye and Parliament. The Christmas Market stalls had yet to open. And I was grateful for my Starbucks caramel macchiato to warm me up.
.
Here's a few photos:
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Here's a few photos:
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November 21, 2008
The Homicides of a Marine and his Wife
There are a host of issues that come into play in the recent homicides of Marine Sergeant Jan Pawel Pietrzak and his wife of only two months, Quiana Jenkins-Pietrzak, an interracial couple. They were shot in their own home after Quiana was raped.
Speculation says race was a major contributor to the case as Jan Pawel was white, married to a beautiful black woman and all four men involved in their deaths were black. Though authorities say robbery was the motive, the facts suggest otherwise.
I was asked to write an article this week for Seven Magazine about the story so if you're interested in reading, you can find it here. Please feel free to start a discussion as it is an important issue.
Other than that and a lot of editing, I've been Christmas shopping, spending a bit of time with Dr. K and having a very annoying cold. On the plus side, I also bought an ultrasonic mouse repeller and, despite having about 15 other snap or glue traps lining my walls, I think it may finally have gotten rid of the evil rodent - *fingers crossed* anyway.
Speculation says race was a major contributor to the case as Jan Pawel was white, married to a beautiful black woman and all four men involved in their deaths were black. Though authorities say robbery was the motive, the facts suggest otherwise.
I was asked to write an article this week for Seven Magazine about the story so if you're interested in reading, you can find it here. Please feel free to start a discussion as it is an important issue.
Other than that and a lot of editing, I've been Christmas shopping, spending a bit of time with Dr. K and having a very annoying cold. On the plus side, I also bought an ultrasonic mouse repeller and, despite having about 15 other snap or glue traps lining my walls, I think it may finally have gotten rid of the evil rodent - *fingers crossed* anyway.
November 15, 2008
LaVena Johnson Article
Tons of amusing things have happened lately, but I think I will just post this for now. On Wednesday night, I was asked to write an article for Seven Magazine on LaVena Johnson. It went out in the mailout for the magazine Friday morning as the lead story. Thought I would share - not because it is my article, but because it is an important issue that everyone should be aware of...
It starts:
November 11 was Veterans Day in the United States, a day to honour and respect those who risked their lives for American freedom, and those who died for it. As in many other cemeteries where veterans are buried, endless rows of white gravestones line the grass of Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. Among them, with the simple black outline of a cross and an American flag waving at its side, there is one that reads: LaVena Lynn Johnson, PFC US Army.
.
LaVena, an honours student from Missouri, died on 27 July, 2005 - just ten weeks after she was deployed to Balad, Iraq, as a weapons supply manager for the 129 Corp Support Battalion. She was just 19-years-old when a shift supervisor from a nearby military cafeteria heard a bang and found her mutilated body inside a contractor’s tent. Though many remembered her bravery on Veterans Day, her death has not been given the respect and honour that this day commands.
.
A broken nose, loose teeth, acid burns on her genitals which were presumably to eliminate DNA evidence of rape, a dislocated shoulder, abrasions on her body, a long burn from her shoulder to thigh, torn vaginal area and a bullet wound through her head, LaVena was lying on the stony earth with gashes on the sides of her mouth, her hair tangled in the dirt, a bench turned upside down on top of her.
“Suicide,” the US Army Criminal Investigation Command claimed, despite nine months of investigation. Case closed.
.
To read the whole article and help LaVena's family, go to the Seven Magazine page.
It starts:
November 11 was Veterans Day in the United States, a day to honour and respect those who risked their lives for American freedom, and those who died for it. As in many other cemeteries where veterans are buried, endless rows of white gravestones line the grass of Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. Among them, with the simple black outline of a cross and an American flag waving at its side, there is one that reads: LaVena Lynn Johnson, PFC US Army.
.
LaVena, an honours student from Missouri, died on 27 July, 2005 - just ten weeks after she was deployed to Balad, Iraq, as a weapons supply manager for the 129 Corp Support Battalion. She was just 19-years-old when a shift supervisor from a nearby military cafeteria heard a bang and found her mutilated body inside a contractor’s tent. Though many remembered her bravery on Veterans Day, her death has not been given the respect and honour that this day commands.
.
A broken nose, loose teeth, acid burns on her genitals which were presumably to eliminate DNA evidence of rape, a dislocated shoulder, abrasions on her body, a long burn from her shoulder to thigh, torn vaginal area and a bullet wound through her head, LaVena was lying on the stony earth with gashes on the sides of her mouth, her hair tangled in the dirt, a bench turned upside down on top of her.
“Suicide,” the US Army Criminal Investigation Command claimed, despite nine months of investigation. Case closed.
.
To read the whole article and help LaVena's family, go to the Seven Magazine page.
November 05, 2008
Now This is America....
For the first time in quite a while,
when I woke up this morning
(after very few hours of sleep),
I woke up
proud
to be an American.
when I woke up this morning
(after very few hours of sleep),
I woke up
proud
to be an American.
November 02, 2008
Paris
Paris, je t’aime. It’s a good thing too because I have a free return ticket to go back. A cigarette butt started a small fire in the carriage nine toilets so we had to pull into the emergency tunnel. In the end it took longer to get from London to Paris than it usually takes me to get from London to New York. So they gave everyone free return tickets.
The best thing about Paris was the language barrier. The French protect their culture by not speaking English even though you know most of them are fluent. Though it was occasionally a challenge to form the correct sentences, they appreciate the effort to communicate in their language.
I had quite a bit of time to myself while D was at work. I wandered along the Seine checking out all the old books and bric-a-brac in the green wooden stands that line the river. Walked across Pont Neuf bridge, which is the oldest one, and down to Notre Dame through a flower market, into some random little boutiques along the way and saw a rollerblade dance team and a few street artists. Some police are also on rollerblades. Discovered the Pompidou Centre which is the modern art building with Crayola-coloured piping on one side and a set of escalators scaling the other.
Went to Place de Clignoncourt to investigate a small part of the market. The beginning is all hip hop culture selling "designer" bags, shoes, tee shirts, bling, etc. Lots of rap blaring from speakers. Then I cut through a small alley and it was like a completely different market. Old guys were sitting in front of antique displays whistling Then I found myself in a huge lot with blankets spread out and garage sale type of stuff everywhere.
Saw Edward Scissorhands, or Edward aux Mains d'Argent, for free in the sound box on night and Jamie Cullum for free in box seats the next. Both were absolutely excellent.
Ate tons of crepes, spent one day with a French girl who took me around the Jardin des Tuileries, Musee d’Orsay, Angelina’s for delicious hot chocolate and on a river cruise to see Paris la nuit. The Eiffel Tower glittering which it does every hour for 5 minutes at night. In between, it was blue and lit up with the stars from the EU flag on front to mark France's term as EU president. Hung out near the weeping willows on the Ile de la Cite.
Spent some time in Montmartre, walked through the small market area of artists who were drawing portraits in all styles, went into the Sacre Coeur, into some cool little shops and down to Pigalle where we saw the Moulin Rouge and walked around the sex shops.
We went to the Cimetiere de Montparnesse where Simone de Beauvoir and Paul Sartre are buried and to Cimetiere de Pere Lachaise to see the graves of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde.
All in all, a fantastic time. I just put a massive four-entry write up in my other blog so this is short and sweet, but here’s a couple of the 400 photos I took while I was there:
.
The best thing about Paris was the language barrier. The French protect their culture by not speaking English even though you know most of them are fluent. Though it was occasionally a challenge to form the correct sentences, they appreciate the effort to communicate in their language.
I had quite a bit of time to myself while D was at work. I wandered along the Seine checking out all the old books and bric-a-brac in the green wooden stands that line the river. Walked across Pont Neuf bridge, which is the oldest one, and down to Notre Dame through a flower market, into some random little boutiques along the way and saw a rollerblade dance team and a few street artists. Some police are also on rollerblades. Discovered the Pompidou Centre which is the modern art building with Crayola-coloured piping on one side and a set of escalators scaling the other.
Went to Place de Clignoncourt to investigate a small part of the market. The beginning is all hip hop culture selling "designer" bags, shoes, tee shirts, bling, etc. Lots of rap blaring from speakers. Then I cut through a small alley and it was like a completely different market. Old guys were sitting in front of antique displays whistling Then I found myself in a huge lot with blankets spread out and garage sale type of stuff everywhere.
Saw Edward Scissorhands, or Edward aux Mains d'Argent, for free in the sound box on night and Jamie Cullum for free in box seats the next. Both were absolutely excellent.
Ate tons of crepes, spent one day with a French girl who took me around the Jardin des Tuileries, Musee d’Orsay, Angelina’s for delicious hot chocolate and on a river cruise to see Paris la nuit. The Eiffel Tower glittering which it does every hour for 5 minutes at night. In between, it was blue and lit up with the stars from the EU flag on front to mark France's term as EU president. Hung out near the weeping willows on the Ile de la Cite.
Spent some time in Montmartre, walked through the small market area of artists who were drawing portraits in all styles, went into the Sacre Coeur, into some cool little shops and down to Pigalle where we saw the Moulin Rouge and walked around the sex shops.
We went to the Cimetiere de Montparnesse where Simone de Beauvoir and Paul Sartre are buried and to Cimetiere de Pere Lachaise to see the graves of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde.
All in all, a fantastic time. I just put a massive four-entry write up in my other blog so this is short and sweet, but here’s a couple of the 400 photos I took while I was there:
.
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