Great

The journey of a lifetime has ended and I am back. Home, in the most literal sense, as I type these words from the Laura Ashley Doll room of my teenage years, I can’t help but to lament.

Living at my parents now for just over 30 days and I am starting to feel like I have done something wrong. Made a mistake. Joined the League of Losers that can’t take care and throw themselves onto the only people that will take pity upon them, parents.

I somehow feel redundant. I have done this before and I am not supposed to be doing it again. Like the snippets of conversation I overheard in a public restroom,

“How long does Fleet Week last?” Or “I like biographical biographies.”

I am repeating myself in a stupid and repetitive way. Like those snippets that are easily recognized by the receiver yet lost on the speaker, unless pointed out. And once done so, even in a fun loving way, makes the speaker feel like a trapped teenager whose timing is off and can’t recover quickly enough to laugh it off, and thus gets caught up in embarrassment and shame at being dumb. Yet that was not the intent in the first place.

I am meant to do great things.

Did you know this about me? I think you do. I feel it from many, in both a supportive and expectant way. I feel it from myself even more. Yet what are those great things? Did I just accomplish this by traveling around the world? Was that great? Many people seem to think I did great things, by volunteering in different countries, yet I still don’t feel like I have done something that is a big WOW. A definite difference that has made the world a better place.

And now, I am home. Off and running in a new direction, yet one that is definitely not a big WOW.

I am following another dream I have always had of being a waitress. People often pause after I tell them this, trying to decide if I am being snarky. Or they laugh, typically followed by a shrug and respond with something along the lines of You are great with people, or You do LOVE food. Yet now, there is reaction that gives me pause. People seem let down. They answer with a Really or Oh. In those instances, I quickly follow it up with that I will be looking into the nonprofit sector and hope to start on a new career there.

Or is it me who is giving myself pause? Is it I who is let down? I feel stress creeping in on me tangling with disappointment. Where is the big WOW!? The GREAT things I am to do?

During my travels I had hoped to get clarity on my next career. To find something that made me excited, hopeful, powerful, and passionate. Something I could throw myself into and in the process, do something great for the world and give back for all the greatness I have been given.

I did get clarity; just not on the topic I wanted. I found that, more than anything, I want to be a mother.

And while traveling that felt beautiful, yet being home, reality has set in and it just feels remote and unrealistic.

I don’t have a partner. I don’t have medical insurance. I don’t have my own residence. I don’t have a job that supports one, nonetheless, two. I don’t have the means to provide that which I believe every human should have the right to begin their life in this world with.

And that feels scary and sad.

But what I do have is a community of friends and family that make all my dreams come true. I do have a foundation of love, strength, belief in myself, founded by my parents, and built upon by friends and family, that teaches me that I will do great things- yet maybe just one step at a time. I do have friends that listen to me, and help me find the beauty that started me out on the path that became too cloudy and overcast to navigate without guidance.

So, I live at my parents. I have a job with an unsteady income. I have dreams yet to accomplish.

And, I have all of you. I have GREAT things that will make way for me to DO great things.

Sailing Sailing Over the Ocean Blue

I knew the guide book had said something about getting wet, yet I was sure I had built it up in my mind for dramatic affect, versus the book playing it down. The dark cloud in the sky seems to be gaining in size and speed towards us, deepening in its gloomy warning, a nod to the book‘s cautioning. As I step down into the dwarfing panga, against the rising swell of the sea, I assert my confidence to increase in the captain. Surley he has made this trip a 1000 times and would know when a storm was too big to chance a crossing. Surley?

The plastic black tarp is thrown from the bow to the stern, I look for the grommets with which to hook securely to the boat. Upon realizing there are none and we are to hold on to it, I suggest to the young mother struggling to hold both baby and tarp that we switch. As the panga draws away from the peer, I can only see out of a ghoulish tear that is no greater than the length of my eyelashes and affords me about the same squinted view. It is like we are suddenly encased, as the tarp is pulled down to the sides of the panga to keep as much water out as possible. The panga crashes down upon four foot and swelling waves, trying to break before being broken, a wild wrestling with nature that seems doomed to defeat.

Crash. Slap. Slam. Each downward movement of the boat sends shivers of doubt of our safe passage.

A burst of rain pours onto us and my ghoulish tear turns traitor, dumping water disproportionate to its size onto mother and child. The young mother lets out a shriek and drops down into the base of the vessel, both cowering and cradling her child, desperately seeking comfort and protection for herself and young one. The wind, rain, and sea rip restlessly against my grip, slowing but steadily sliding my fingers towards the edge and until I seem to suddenly lose my grasp entirely. The tarp wrenched free, it slaps mercilessly against my chest and face and I am at once grateful that mother and child had moved down as I gracelessly try to regain my hold upon it.

Crash. Slap. Slam. I can see the waves crash over the front and suddenly one of the sailors loses his footing.

I regain control of the tarp, this time trapping it under my left hand as I wrap my hand around edge, just as the sailor regains his stance. My right hand grips tightly in the air the back edge. The lack of give of the tarp forces my head into a bow, in order to escape the constant whip of surf and rain. This humble posture induces reflection of my life, and the others in my boat. I had had nothing to complain about, only gratitude for the many opportunities placed on my path. Yet the young child held tightly in its mother’s arms. What experiences can it claim? I can’t help but to think of the thousands of refugees that risk their lives in this very manner to cross an ocean to a land with greater chance at life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. How did they endure? A rush of admiration washes over me as I multiply this moment by a thousand, catching a glimpse at the fear and courage these people have faced, and will continue to face.

Crash, Slap. Slam. I cringe as the reverberations from my bum climb up to the base of my neck.

I look sideways past my left arm through the gap the tarp leaves between grasping hands of passengers. How do the waves look higher than the side of the boat, yet not just seep in? I can no longer see any signs of land, and try to arch my head to gain sight of the watch on my left wrist. How long had we been here? How much longer could I sustain holding my right arm in the air to keep the water off others? How is the mother able to keep her child either sleeping or feeding at her breast? Her love from her heart must flow from her breast and directly into her child’s heart.

Crash. Slap. Slap. Slap. The tarp is lose again and suddenly slapping me while I choke and am blinded by sea water.

I small hand wipes away the hair from my face. I look over into the deep brown eyes of a young girl, not more than 12-as she reaches over mother and child to help me regain control of the tarp. Under the dark low protection of the tarp we smile. Her kindness fills me with hope, and all fear is washed away. With bent head, I survey the other passengers and see a glimmer of white flash from the front. The tall Belgian who graciously loaned me one Cordoba to gain entrance to the pier is smiling! I smile back and we hold each other’s gaze as a second wave of hope washes over me.

Crash. Slap. Slam. I giggle at the plastic the man in front of me ridiculously placed under him to keep his bum dry. It is dripping with water.

His wife reaches over and takes the tarp from his hand to give him a rest. He turns to her with surprise and they smile. Hope, care and kindness are spreading through the tiny boat at high speed. I am able to catch a the face of my watch. Only five more minutes left. What other beauty can I find before we beach at the dock? I peak my head back and out over the tarp. The waves are still large, the sky gray and then for just a second I see land. I close my eyes and smile peacefully as the elements bless my face.

Splash. Tap. Calm. We pull into the harbor and disembark.

As the passengers in the front amble out, the baby is roused from its tranquil rest. I crawl over the backside of the panga and onto the pier. I reach down and mother passes me her child. I look at the child and it lets out a loud cry, letting me know, that it knows, I am not mom. The sailor walks over and takes her out of my arms and I help mom out and onto the pier. Hawkers envelop the pier and try to get the passengers into their hotels or restaurants.

Adam, from the dive shop that I had emailed, is there and asks me how the ride was. I take a moment to answer, smile and say,

Beautiful.

Airpot Abuelitas

A child was carried away from the security gate at he airport in her father’s arms screaming “Abuelita” over and over while grasping a Coca Cola in her hands. The love for her grandmother, audibly evident. The attempts by her parents to pacify her were evident as well.

Last night, instead of boarding a plane to Cartagena, I was given a bottle of Coke.

The airlines did not have a record of my flight, they said I didn’t pay, and therefore could not let us board-unless we paid again on the spot. In all my travels, this problem had never happened. This was totally unexpected, and as I had my brother and his wife with me, this being her first experience leaving the country, I felt double embarrassed and agitated that this was happening. After arguing for over an hour, producing the requested flight confirmation from our email, we were sent to a 5 star hotel and asked to print up my bank account statement that contained the record of payment and bring it with us back to the airport the next morning.

We did just that.

At the airport the next morning, upon delivering requested documents proving payment had been made to the airlines, we were yet again denied boarding passes. Supervisor one was brought out. Supervisor number two. Finally, Alejandro the head hancho arrivo‘d.

Twenty minutes of broken record talks resumed.

In efforts to find a solution, Alejandro asked me if I had made any other reservation. I told him that I had, yet it expired after 48 hours with payment, so I had to restart the payment as I had missed the 48 hour window of time. He asked me if I knew what times the flights were for the previous reservation, and I told him I did not. He could give me some times and I could guesstimate, or if they gave me access to internet, I could log in to either my email or their airlines and look for the old reservation. Alejandro looked at me and said in a seemingly sharp tone, “You don’t know your own itinerary?”.

I lost it.

It was about 11am by then, (we had arrived at 9am). I had gotten to the hotel the night previous at 11:30, and I had not been able to fall asleep until after 2am. To put it mildly, I was cooked. I shouted at him that it was HE who should know the timetables of his flights, not me. That I knew my present itinerary, yet not one that I could not reserve or pay for, hence it was not an itinerary at all. That I had done everything they asked for and they still would not let us on the plane. His airline had made the mistake, not me…and blah blah blah.

I am not to sure how long my solo shouting match went on for, yet the bun on my head fell apart along with me. Solidarity, now that’s what I am talking about.

A couple of minutes two army soldiers made their way over to us. They asked what the problem was. I threw up my hands in disgust, and let Jordan and Jessica talk with them and explain. I took a short lap around the ticket counters.

I returned beaten. J&J and I discussed it, and decided not to go to Cartagena. I would fight the payment that the airlines said they never collected when I got home and we would take some side trips from Bogota.

I explained to Alejandro the head honcho that I needed a statement from him, saying that we never got on the plane. That the airlines denied my bank statements that I paid, and that I should be full refunded as we did not use the flights if the banks could prove the payment was made. He said he could do it in 10 minutes.

With the decision made I felt lighter. Jessica and Jordan were ready to return to the US, and they decided we would go look at changing their flight to that day. Weight descended rápidamente on mia.

Alejandro approached me again and asked if I had any other record number from the reservation I had tried to make. If so, perhaps the could find the proof of payment that way. I said yes, again- I needed an internet connection. I was a bit annoyed, as I had requested access to the internet before to do just that.

It worked.

When I had logged back in to the airlines to pay for the tickets, it had dissolved my reservation as I had not paid within 48 hours. A message told me I had to make a new reservation. So I did, and this time paid with my credit card online at the same time. Apparently, the airlines applied the payment to the ‘original’ reservation and not the one I had just made. Hence, confirmation numbers were different, and flight times were different too.

So, we were back to going to Cartagena. The next flight was at 4:45pm. We had five hours to kill. I asked if we could go back to the hotel. Alejandro said yes. I asked if we could keep the return flight for the same time, and they were able to give us a one four hours later. I wanted lunch, and assumed we could eat at the hotel. As it turns out, no. In fact, El Jefe Andro thought I meant our hotel in the Candelaria area-at least an hour away without traffic, versus the 5 star hotel only 10 minutes away.

It all started to go back down hill. We could have fast food in the airport. The would pay for 10 USD of it.

I was sullen.

J&J went and had crepes and waffles while I wasted time arguing with El Jefe Andro about the ridiculousness of staying in the airport when we could rest gently in the lounge at the hotel and enjoy a real meal. I lost those negotiations badly and walked out of his office with $20 USD for lunch for the three of us.

The plane was on time, we arrived to our hotel that evening after 7pm. We had left our hotel in the Candelaria of Bogota the previous night at 8:30pm. My Dad did the math and sent me a message on Facebook.

"Sorry about the 30 mph plane trip, was it a glider?"

I opened my imaginary Coke, and thought to myself- Why yes it was a glider, but a very bumpy one.

The Streets of San Francisco

Depending on my Chinese trip batteries, I try to capture the hussle and bussle of one of my favorite places on earth: Tartine’s Bakery. Charge battery symbol flashing red, I get about 3 crap shots and the camera switches off, rolls in the lens as if to say, I tried to warn you.

San Francisco California. My home, almost. And yes- I meant to delete the comma between city and state. I am back, and- well the city did not notice my absence-but that‘s okay. In fact, its how it should be. I believe, besides my family, this city, this beat, this constant move and groove left my heart aching for more. I missed it. I craved it. I had left my heart in it.

Walking through the Mission District, I take in all the sites and scenes that my soul carefully stored and used to measure the worth of each new city I entered. All came up short, as they lack the people, colors, smells, tastes that connect me to the human race. This place has it all…all of US. Each one is represented vividly, some with more pride and power than others…yet represented none the less.

Searching for parking, we slowly pass two vaqueros carrying their guitarras like peacock tails as they saunter pass the bright and bold murals that tell the historias of the progenitors. Metal piercings glitter in the bright sun as we walk passed young kids having a lively discussion that only Jerry Springer could rival for its shock and relevance. Stretching calves past their natural capacity we hit the top of a hill, just to slide right down to the distant sizzle of marimbas in the park. Wind whipped yet warmed by the sun, Sasha drops her slobbered tennis ball at our feet, and quickly finds a hiding place in the folds of Jessica’s black skirt, either relishing or unpulsed by our hands’ instant attention to her sleek fur and muzzle.

Long haired boys, muscled girls, and hairless dogs comb the streets. The young, the old, the fashion minded and the absent minded each add to this jigsaw of culture and couture. When men in tights with red boa-ed outlined wings are met with knowing smiles and SUVs with scowls. Ukuleles strummed by white hands, salsa swung by narrow Chinese hips, skirts swayed by bearded men- these everyday occurrences bring relief to my sense of being. Surround by so many bucking the norm, it is easy to be the norm, and lose any compulsions to live up to ‘expectations’.

Sitting here, at the family size (even Headley family sized) common table in Tartine, looking out into the intersection of 18th and Guerrero I am overjoyed to be me. Such an array of the world saunters past, unawares to my eye, and it fills me with a sense of belonging-without pressure. I become aware of this confidence of self- my intelligence, beauty, and worth- just from choosing to love and accept them, my world wise brothers and sisters.

It’s good to be home, even if its just for a bit.

Comadres

On a wall in my parents house hangs a picture entitled, “Las Comadres” by Simon Silva. Two women, one carrying a child, while the other is holding a laundry basket and leaning over a wall to whisper something to her beloved friend, sister, confident. I acquired it from a street vendor in Los Angeles thanks to the bargaining skills my friend, Sister Chase. Chase and I served together as missionaries, and we referred to each other as sisters, as well as to over 100 other women we served with during a one and half year period. This picture, although showing two mothers, reminds me of my cherished relationships we women had as we worked to provide Christ like service. There were many difficulties and personal tribulations during that time, and we were there to listen, confide, and comfort each other.

Most of you know of my usual upbringing, that of being sandwiched between six brothers, three older, three younger. I often sought after their acceptance, approval, and alliance without much success- as after all, I was just a girl. My sister moved out while I was still in elementary school, so we did not develop our relationship until I was much older. That left me with my girlfriends. Luckily, my neighborhood, church, and school provided me with many opportunities to whisper my secrets to other girls that handled them with care.

Tonight I watched a documentary called, Born into Brothels. You can easily guess by the title its subject matter. The beauty of this film, was the hope the film maker brought to it. She provided photography lessons to the children of the women that worked the Red Light District in Calcutta. She became an advocate for the children. She worked to get them into a boarding school and out of the life that chained them to a brothel. I was so proud of this woman, for finding a way to bring attainable beauty to the children, and for showing me their gifts and talents.

I wanted to be her comadre.

I thought back to my travels, and wondered at what impact I had. Any? Was it positive? Anything long lasting? What lasting change could I really hope to attain in a short few weeks here and there?

Throughout the movie, an agitating conversation I had with some American boy while in Bangkok kept repeating itself in my mind. He had asked out host if she had been to the Red Light District (RLD) in Bangkok. He wanted to go. He had heard that women there did some freaky stuff, and he wanted to experience it first hand. Of course he did not want to have sex with one, he doesn’t need to pay for that- only to see them do the bizarre and humiliating stuff would be enough.

From the moment I heard him ask my skin began to crawl, and my anger was pricked. What a prick! Doesn’t he realize that most these women didn’t have a choice? Were forced , blackmailed, beaten, or sold into this? Mostly likely as children?

I tried to be calm. I tried to sound neutral. Logical. Statistical.

I asked him if he thought that these women, sex workers, worked in this ‘profession’ by choice. How many did he think chose freely and willingly this career? He figured at least 70% did. I believe he had his percentage backwards, and I felt that it was even higher. He laughed at my prudishness and replied something to the effect that the RLD did not want to lose any business, and they made a good living.

Again, I tried not to explode.

Who? The women? Perhaps the madams do, I spitted out, yet the average worker gets nothing. Perhaps enough food for herself and children, perhaps not beaten that evening for bringing in a good price. Then another guy at the table chimed in that NGOs had gone into the RDL, and they were kicked out. Nobody wanted their medical assistance or education.

Again, I was stupefied.

Who didn’t want it? The workers or the owners? Of course the workers did not want anything that would bring them trouble: beatings, gang rape, disappearance of children or other family members…the atrocities go on and on that their pimps could rain down on them in retribution for cutting a profit, or lessening their control over the workers. The owners? They don’t want anything to hurt their business.

I was in shock. I don’t know why. The sex industry would not be around if there weren’t customers. And those customers are men, like them.

I implored, don’t you see by going and paying for a ‘show’ you are supporting the selling of children, kidnappings, and inequality of women? You could instead use your time, money, and interest to show that this industry is losing its customers, it men, because they want women to have equal access in life.

I was rebuffed by the boy with, I’ll just go to the women that are there by choice. He and the other paying customer laughed in camaraderie.

I left the table at this point and headed upstairs to the restaurant’s balcony. It had been raining for the last couple of hours, but the rain had stopped, and the clouds were wondering off.

I felt so defeated. So un…unhelpful. Like I had just left all my comadres of the world down. I thought of the many different women and girls I had met during my travels, and my heart ached that they would all be able to carry hope in their hearts. Win their battles, ‘cause I had just lost one of mine.

In the film, one of the boys that is especially talented is invited to go to Amsterdam to meet this other young photographers from around the world. During the filming of the documentary and prior to his departure, his mother is burned to death by her pimp. This boy said that at one time he wanted to be a doctor, then an artist. Then he says, “There is nothing called “hope“ in my future.”

I am not too sure why I am writing this. After watching the film, the sad birds are resting on my heart.

Maybe I want to say our actions matter. That our decisions can make for positive change. I am not trying to imply that many of you visit brothels and should stop, or that you don’t care for the equality of women. What I think that I want to articulate, it that I am very grateful for the women in my life. My mother, my sister, my SILs (sis-in-laws), my friends, my nieces, and my acquaintances. I am also very grateful for my CO-, padres, brothers, guys, boys, etc. that prove that the women have a chance to move on and up in the world.

I love, that of the child rearing brothers I have, they all have girls. I love that they love them. I love that they will fight for them to have the best of it. I love that I am supremely confident that my bros will put every effort forward to do right by their girls. I love that they can be copadres.

I love that as I believe woman play a special role in women’s lives, men can too play a supportive role in each other’s lives. That although I am powerless to stop the RLDs of Bangkok or Calcutta, I am powerful in COtributing to my brothers’ daughters’ -and sons’- equitable and bright futures.

That perhaps soon, I will see a painting that depicts two men at a wall, one with child, one with laundry, sharing each other’s burdens or hopes. And somehow, somewhere that will mean there is one less born into brothels.

trailer documental "Born into Brothels"

Vendors' Value

The greatest love hate relationship a tourist can have is with the many street sellers trying to push their wares on you.

I am on a ferry cruising down the Lijiang River in Guilin, one of the most beautiful scenic routes of all of China. There are peaks, cliffs, and crags surrounding me and all I can pay attention to is the he man yelling, “Hello!”.

At the beginning of the tour, our first local guide had told the group about the Helong people. They will shout at you and try to sell you postcards, hats and other tourist paraphernalia. I thought it so interesting that a ethnic group had the corner on tourist sales.

Two days later, I overheard someone in our group making a joke about the Helong people. I was at very saddened and annoyed that people thought it was okay to be making jokes aimed at a group of people, and then I realized the joke was on me!

The tour guide had been making a joke, yet with her accent I had not understood it. She had dubbed the people selling tourist trinkets as the “Hello” people, because they shout hello to get your attention to what they are selling.

This is true everywhere that I have traveled in the past 8 months. Sales people learn this English word and shout it, and repeat it over and over. It has become a sort of tourist depression cycle for me. At first I find it entertaining and I smile and say, “No thank you over and over.” Then I start to find it annoying, feeling that I cannot go anywhere without being accosted by the shout. After a couple of days of the constant barrage it my reaction moves into anger, why won’t these people just leave me alone? Can’t they see the weariness in my eyes? And finally acceptance, which leads me to keep my eyes glued to the ground and employ my best snubbing skills.

During all these stages guilt is neatly folded in and weighing down on my heart. I feel bad. I have a rich and privileged life compared to these hard working folks. If my one or two dollars can provide an income for them, then why not? But then I think…they don’t want my pity. But then I think, is it pity? No! This is business. But then I realize, it’s not really business if I am buying something I don’t want. Do they even get the profit or do they have some type of tourist trinket lord that takes all the profits and makes them go out to work everyday. Then I think not everything is a special CNN report. Then I think…I can’t thing straight! ARGGGH! I become trapped in a crazy circle of guilt.

I have also found there is a direct correlation to the size of my guilt to size of town. For example, if I am in a big city my guilt is almost nonexistent. Whereas, if I am in a little or remote village-then I feel more compelled to use my money to support their way of living. I can’t help but to think of how hard difficult there life is compared to mine.

Which bring me back to what inspired these thoughts.

Here on the river we are on a large ferry. The tour is 3 hours long. I am sitting inside the ferry on the bottom level surrounded by windows when I realize there is a man outside the window yelling ‘Hello!”. He is holding ‘jade’ carvings of Buddha and other images of China. I let out a laugh.

The Hello people found a way to sell to us even when surrounded by water.

They paddle out to the boat on a small bamboo canoe, then hold the ornament up and shout to get the tourists attention, “Hello!” Then they start to say prices, try to catch your eye, and basically- break your heart…okay mine. Most other people at stuck in annoyance at this point.

Over and over again, from country to country I am impressed with how hard people will work to try and support themselves and their families. I sometimes wonder why they would pick the job they do, and then a resounding thump on the back of my head sounds, and I remember they are doing the best they can with what they can. I would never want to have to hock or sell goods to anyone. The hundreds of rejection a day, the annoyed looks, the diverted eyes, and the hands constantly brushing you away.

Now, I know there are some that are out to cheat and swindle you. Even those that lie and wish you ill. Yet more than not-there are those just out to make the best deal that they can for themselves and their families. It is my responsibility to check to make sure that what I am buying is the quality I am expecting. It is up to me to be just as smart and savvy as the sellers.

It took me a long time, but it seems within the last 6 weeks I have somehow gained acceptance for the hawkers. I have found that 4 out of five times, if I look the person in my eyes, smile politely yet with compassion and say, “No thank you” that I am left alone. It is amazing! It gives me a sense of mutual respect. I am able to continue walking on with an open heart and a growing love for the people of different cultures in our world.

We are all trying to carve out our place in the world. Some of us have been given butter knives to do the job, while others of us have been provided with powerful diamond tipped stone cutters. In the end, we all hope to create something of value.