Today in like an hour from this posting the Disaster Response Teams will deploy to the East Coast to help relief efforts after Hurricane Sandy.
I wish with my entire heart I was going.
I did my best to help out in my branch of journalism, but they (people at the top) decided there was no room for me.
I had attended the Emergency Operations Center briefings and taken pictures and gotten quotes for possible articles, and ended up updating a whiteboard with the latest on the Hurricane.
All this got me thinking about the time when I will be doing this for a living.
I will be exhausted pretty much all of the time, but I think in the end the rewards will outweigh the sacrifices.
Then, it took me to when I will have decided enough is enough. I'm not sure I want to do conflict zone/disaster journalism for the rest of my life. This is a highly demanding field, and I'm not sure I want to pursue it until I retire. I have the odd feeling I would end up like Ernie Pyle . . .
I've always had a dream of living where I can see the stars, up in a mountain somewhere. This was my goal when I was still pursuing a missionary doctor role.
Still, I really want to be able to do that. I want to live where the pace of life is slower, where at night my view of stars will be unhindered by city lights.
I don't know. Sometimes I dream too big.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
De la pluma inconforme de Miguel Otero Silva
Encrucijada
Nos separaba de la calle
el cristal empañado de lluvia.
Yo estaba lejos del mundo,
hoja caída en el remanso de su llanto.
Ella era menuda y tierna
y se hacía más menuda entre mis brazos
y más tierna bajo mis ojos.
Entre nosotros y la calle
y la lluvia y el cristal de la ventana
eran dos abismos de plata.
La vida estaba allí naufragando en sus ojos
la belleza dormía en sus senos perfumados
la luz -toda la luz- se me daba en su boca
la humanidad - mi humanidad - era ella.
Más allá del cristal
más allá de la lluvia
pasaron...
Yo separé los ojos de los ojos de ella
para verlos pasar.
Marchaban chapoteando en el barro
los pies descalzos.
Desfilaban los rostros anochecidos de hambre.
Y las manos encallecidas de miseria
y las almas curvadas de injusticia
y las voces amanecidas de odio
desfilaban los pies descalzos.
Iba la madre con el hijo al cuadril
y el anciano rumoreando penas.
Y el mozo flameando la bandera,
iban de frente hacia la vida
armoniosamente rebeldes.
No sé si me lo gritaron ellos
o si me lo grité yo mismo.
Pero en las filas, de los que pasaban
estaban mi puesto, mi bandera y mi grito.
El cristal empañado de lluvia
esfumaba los rasgos de la calle
por donde pasaban los míos.
Volví los ojos hacia ella
que se hacia casi yo entre mis brazos
y le dije:
-Me llaman los que pasan.
Sus ojos empañados
me separaban de su alma
como el cristal con lluvia
me separaba de la calle.
Me dijo lentamente:
-No te vayas.
Y se hizo más menuda entre mis brazos
y me ofreció su boca palpitante
y sentí junto a mí, temblorosos sus senos.
Yo escuchaba chapotear en el barro
los pies descalzos
y presentía los rostros anochecidos
de hambre.
Mi corazón fue un péndulo entre
ella y la calle...
Y no sé con qué fuerza me libré
de sus ojos
me zafé de sus brazos.
Ella quedó nublando de lágrimas
su angustia.
Tras de la lluvia y del cristal
pero incapaz para gritarme:
-¡Espérame! ¡Yo me marcho contigo!
Nos separaba de la calle
el cristal empañado de lluvia.
Yo estaba lejos del mundo,
hoja caída en el remanso de su llanto.
Ella era menuda y tierna
y se hacía más menuda entre mis brazos
y más tierna bajo mis ojos.
Entre nosotros y la calle
y la lluvia y el cristal de la ventana
eran dos abismos de plata.
La vida estaba allí naufragando en sus ojos
la belleza dormía en sus senos perfumados
la luz -toda la luz- se me daba en su boca
la humanidad - mi humanidad - era ella.
Más allá del cristal
más allá de la lluvia
pasaron...
Yo separé los ojos de los ojos de ella
para verlos pasar.
Marchaban chapoteando en el barro
los pies descalzos.
Desfilaban los rostros anochecidos de hambre.
Y las manos encallecidas de miseria
y las almas curvadas de injusticia
y las voces amanecidas de odio
desfilaban los pies descalzos.
Iba la madre con el hijo al cuadril
y el anciano rumoreando penas.
Y el mozo flameando la bandera,
iban de frente hacia la vida
armoniosamente rebeldes.
No sé si me lo gritaron ellos
o si me lo grité yo mismo.
Pero en las filas, de los que pasaban
estaban mi puesto, mi bandera y mi grito.
El cristal empañado de lluvia
esfumaba los rasgos de la calle
por donde pasaban los míos.
Volví los ojos hacia ella
que se hacia casi yo entre mis brazos
y le dije:
-Me llaman los que pasan.
Sus ojos empañados
me separaban de su alma
como el cristal con lluvia
me separaba de la calle.
Me dijo lentamente:
-No te vayas.
Y se hizo más menuda entre mis brazos
y me ofreció su boca palpitante
y sentí junto a mí, temblorosos sus senos.
Yo escuchaba chapotear en el barro
los pies descalzos
y presentía los rostros anochecidos
de hambre.
Mi corazón fue un péndulo entre
ella y la calle...
Y no sé con qué fuerza me libré
de sus ojos
me zafé de sus brazos.
Ella quedó nublando de lágrimas
su angustia.
Tras de la lluvia y del cristal
pero incapaz para gritarme:
-¡Espérame! ¡Yo me marcho contigo!
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Genuine
I turned in my mid-term to my teacher and with that burden off my shoulders I headed to the caf, where I would sit behind a table and try to get people to write letters.
Who writes letters anymore? Well, apparently, my college's Amnesty International chapter still believes in the trusty quill and parchment.
I sat down and decided the best way to convince others was to write one myself and do what teachers call "lead by example." I read the info sheet on who we were writing to and it turned out to be a pastor in Nepal who was receiving death threats from sex trafficking rings he had been busting. All the info sheet asked was to send him a word of encouragement.
That seems doable, right? All it takes is two sentences to encourage the guy.
Granted, both Ben--who was also helping at the table--and I wrote long letters, but that's because we were sitting there for a couple of hours and had time to go deeper.
Still, I was not expecting the responses we got from people.
To be fair, our pitch could have been different: when someone walked by we would ask "Would you like to write a letter?" and for the most part we got blank faces and had to explain. We changed tactics a couple of times and that made it better--a bit.
There rose different groups of people, though, and it was interesting to step into the psychology major's shoes and analyze the students.
Our favorite were the ones who stopped and wrote long letters. These were the vast minority of the people. Only like two or three actually wrote more than a paragraph, and it was good seeing them stop and take time to thank/encourage someone else for something that does not impact them in any relevant way whatsoever.
There were the students who stopped and wrote two sentences. These were the vast majority of people who actually wrote. Maybe in a rush, whether a genuine rush or just a rush to sit with their friends it doesn't matter, but they made the time to write the two sentences.
Then were the ones that said they would...later. Only one person who said they would later actually did come back later and wrote.
Then, there were the creative deniers. These were the ones who never actually said no, but between jokes and excuses they left and never wrote anything. One, for example, was the campus chaplain. When we asked him to write a letter, he said "Of course not!" in a sarcastic tone and laughed. Then he walked away. The most creative was a guy who made a movie script, essentially. He made a plan to stop whoever it was that was sending the threats using only a machete and other "household" items. Then he left.
Then there were the straight up deniers. Also in this category (sadly, all of them) were the Bible holders. I'm serious when all the ones who routinely carry their Bible and hold impromptu worships (some were holding the Bible at that moment) all said no. No questions asked. When we asked "Hey, do you want to help us out encouraging a pastor?" or "Would you like to write a letter to someone who needs it?" They all looked away, never stopped walking, and said, "No, not today." Of course, there were other people who did that, too.
The saddest group were the ones with illegitimate excuses. Like, "I'm hungry, though." Or, "I don't know this guy." We got more of those than you might think. This group was the vast majority.
Then, there were the ones with legitimate excuses. This is mid-term week, so when someone said "I'm headed to a test/study group," we let them pass.
Last, were the ones who were honest. They looked at us and said, "Honestly, no. I don't want to right now." Although they were denying us, I was thankful they were honest and was refreshed at their not trying to make an excuse as to why not.
I thought it was interesting, so I thought I would share. Assuming, of course, you're still reading this . . .
Who writes letters anymore? Well, apparently, my college's Amnesty International chapter still believes in the trusty quill and parchment.
I sat down and decided the best way to convince others was to write one myself and do what teachers call "lead by example." I read the info sheet on who we were writing to and it turned out to be a pastor in Nepal who was receiving death threats from sex trafficking rings he had been busting. All the info sheet asked was to send him a word of encouragement.
That seems doable, right? All it takes is two sentences to encourage the guy.
Granted, both Ben--who was also helping at the table--and I wrote long letters, but that's because we were sitting there for a couple of hours and had time to go deeper.
Still, I was not expecting the responses we got from people.
To be fair, our pitch could have been different: when someone walked by we would ask "Would you like to write a letter?" and for the most part we got blank faces and had to explain. We changed tactics a couple of times and that made it better--a bit.
There rose different groups of people, though, and it was interesting to step into the psychology major's shoes and analyze the students.
Our favorite were the ones who stopped and wrote long letters. These were the vast minority of the people. Only like two or three actually wrote more than a paragraph, and it was good seeing them stop and take time to thank/encourage someone else for something that does not impact them in any relevant way whatsoever.
There were the students who stopped and wrote two sentences. These were the vast majority of people who actually wrote. Maybe in a rush, whether a genuine rush or just a rush to sit with their friends it doesn't matter, but they made the time to write the two sentences.
Then were the ones that said they would...later. Only one person who said they would later actually did come back later and wrote.
Then, there were the creative deniers. These were the ones who never actually said no, but between jokes and excuses they left and never wrote anything. One, for example, was the campus chaplain. When we asked him to write a letter, he said "Of course not!" in a sarcastic tone and laughed. Then he walked away. The most creative was a guy who made a movie script, essentially. He made a plan to stop whoever it was that was sending the threats using only a machete and other "household" items. Then he left.
Then there were the straight up deniers. Also in this category (sadly, all of them) were the Bible holders. I'm serious when all the ones who routinely carry their Bible and hold impromptu worships (some were holding the Bible at that moment) all said no. No questions asked. When we asked "Hey, do you want to help us out encouraging a pastor?" or "Would you like to write a letter to someone who needs it?" They all looked away, never stopped walking, and said, "No, not today." Of course, there were other people who did that, too.
The saddest group were the ones with illegitimate excuses. Like, "I'm hungry, though." Or, "I don't know this guy." We got more of those than you might think. This group was the vast majority.
Then, there were the ones with legitimate excuses. This is mid-term week, so when someone said "I'm headed to a test/study group," we let them pass.
Last, were the ones who were honest. They looked at us and said, "Honestly, no. I don't want to right now." Although they were denying us, I was thankful they were honest and was refreshed at their not trying to make an excuse as to why not.
I thought it was interesting, so I thought I would share. Assuming, of course, you're still reading this . . .
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Not that I get tons of mail . . .
. . . but the reason why I didn't get any today isn't because no one loves me.
It was the day to celebrate that ill-fated Italian cartographer/dreamer Cristoforo Colombo. Yes, his achievement in reaching this continent for the first time since the Vikings was great, and thanks to him I now know Spanish and English.
Still, I wish I had been taught the languages of the earth, those that were there before the invasion. I wish the sole purpose of the voyage was not as selfish as getting rich and getting the crown rich. I wish those pseudo-christians would have never "converted" and force-volunteered the indigenous into slavery. I wish they would have never thought they were superior because of the color of their skin or a worthless last name.
I'll pretend that the reason I didn't get my mail today--and the reason I got free pie at school today--was the Canadian Thanksgiving.
Thank you, Mr. Colombo, thanks.
It was the day to celebrate that ill-fated Italian cartographer/dreamer Cristoforo Colombo. Yes, his achievement in reaching this continent for the first time since the Vikings was great, and thanks to him I now know Spanish and English.
Still, I wish I had been taught the languages of the earth, those that were there before the invasion. I wish the sole purpose of the voyage was not as selfish as getting rich and getting the crown rich. I wish those pseudo-christians would have never "converted" and force-volunteered the indigenous into slavery. I wish they would have never thought they were superior because of the color of their skin or a worthless last name.
I'll pretend that the reason I didn't get my mail today--and the reason I got free pie at school today--was the Canadian Thanksgiving.
Thank you, Mr. Colombo, thanks.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Reality check: A bit of birthday sobriety
It's my birthday today, and I am blessed to have lived 20 years.
Sometimes I complain too much, and look down on the people who obviously have not had it as hard as I, and I feel justified--for a while anyway.
So today, I watched a documentary called Behind Forgotten Eyes.
Just like every single time I see something of the like I vow to not complain again. Hopefully this time I actually come through with it.
It's the story of women who were taken as sex slaves during World War II to help "comfort" Japanese soldiers and to cut down on STIs spread by the Japanese raping of women prisoners.
Their stories are horrible, and it broke my heart to hear that they feel ashamed about what other people did to them.
Korean women, the vast majority of the over 200,000 women taken, have asked the Japanese government for some kind of compensation and apology.
To add insult to injury, Japanese officials refuse to believe that this ever happened, and if it did, the treaty made at the end of the war set everything even.
The Japanese government made a charity which received donations that totaled to $20,000 per woman, but some women did not want the money because the government never gave a cent. For all they knew, the money could come from Korean homes as well.
Although efforts are being made to make this an international issue, no clear end is in sight as the official history still doesn't acknowledge the trespasses.
Oh yeah, the women recruited were from 14-18 years of age.
Just like every single time I see something of the like I vow to not complain again. Hopefully this time I actually come through with it.
Sometimes I complain too much, and look down on the people who obviously have not had it as hard as I, and I feel justified--for a while anyway.
So today, I watched a documentary called Behind Forgotten Eyes.
Just like every single time I see something of the like I vow to not complain again. Hopefully this time I actually come through with it.
It's the story of women who were taken as sex slaves during World War II to help "comfort" Japanese soldiers and to cut down on STIs spread by the Japanese raping of women prisoners.
Their stories are horrible, and it broke my heart to hear that they feel ashamed about what other people did to them.
Korean women, the vast majority of the over 200,000 women taken, have asked the Japanese government for some kind of compensation and apology.
To add insult to injury, Japanese officials refuse to believe that this ever happened, and if it did, the treaty made at the end of the war set everything even.
The Japanese government made a charity which received donations that totaled to $20,000 per woman, but some women did not want the money because the government never gave a cent. For all they knew, the money could come from Korean homes as well.
Although efforts are being made to make this an international issue, no clear end is in sight as the official history still doesn't acknowledge the trespasses.
Oh yeah, the women recruited were from 14-18 years of age.
Just like every single time I see something of the like I vow to not complain again. Hopefully this time I actually come through with it.
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