hate mail / hate male: i did it for the jokes.

At the start of my collegiate writing career I experienced one of my then most exciting comedy breakthroughs — an opportunity to write The Ledge, a weekly joke column for my school newspaper, The Daily Iowan. Being offered this chance to deliver to the masses a social comedic commentary that would truly influence lives (!!!) was like being offered Saturday Night Live directly by Lorne Michaels himself. It was something I never imagined I would get to do, but there I was, doing it —as a sophomore, no less. (I would like the record to reflect that I am now able to see that my sights were not set high enough.)

The previous week Michael Moller, a DI colleague of mine, wrote a Ledge titled, "Sexual Things Women Don't know About Men." It was funny, if generic, and having grown up with four brothers, I got the jokes. What I didn't get at the time was that for many college boys, that bulleted list wasn't a joke like I saw it — a list highlighting the "funny" things that used to be true, things that are so ridiculous that they're clearly a joke. No, Michael's list for many guys (at least at the University of Iowa, and continues to prove elsewhere) was the Truth List, funny because it belittled their female peers.

On one end of the scale, the column read, "Every guy has measured his penis..." (laugh-worthy, sure) and on the other side of the jaw-dropping chuckle fest, "If they have an STD, they will not tell you" (a pretty blatant violation of sexual trust).

But, hey, it was a joke. I love jokes. Still do. And, I am absolutely positive all those gals with HPV have been laughing nonstop about this one.

So, I decided to write a "Come-back" column. At the time I thought I was on the cusp of some major Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus precipice, ready to discover something truly original in what I now know is a never ending conversation about gender roles that I hate. I was young. I didn't know!

I wrote my list, my hilarious, insightful, indignant and violently hyperbolic list: "Things Men Should Know About Women." I proclaimed things like, "We all are smarter than you, wherever you went to
school and whatever your GPA is." God, I was good. I played with words like Seshat would, spilling my outspoken female psyche onto giggling co-eds. "We’ve got feminine wiles. Did anyone ever hear of male wiles? No." And, they didn't, and don't.

I was a brilliant mastermind falling right into a clichéd collegiate squabble. But, hey it was a joke! I did it for the laughs! I only wish I knew that it wasn't some dumb playground back-and-forth. I wish I knew that this conversation, these sorts of "men do this, and women do that," ping-pong competitions, jokes or not, are so, so dumb.

Shortly after my list was published I received a melee of hate mail, or rather hate from males. I was harassed on Facebook. I was harassed over email. No one ever harassed me to my face because, God, there's something so...what's the word, oh, EMPOWERING, about attacking people through the thick vat that is the Internet.

I got messages from an idiot named Eric (can't remember his last name) telling me in no uncertain terms that due to my lack of sexual prowess he could "guarantee" that "no guy had ever bought [me] a drink in a bar." Oh, man. Stinger. Like the class-act I've always been I wrote a bunch of trite sassy responses, none of which I actually sent him, instead opting for the high road. I informed him that "I'm a person," and he had offended me. Obviously, it only made sense to thank him for reading my column. The honor to have him as reader. I was so, so blessed with his presence.

But, the most malicious response came in the form of a terribly crafted email written by a University of Iowa football player, Jovon. I only shared his email with a few people, including my boyfriend at the time, Brian, and my two roommates, both named Elizabeth.

Then that was it. I don't think I ever responded to Jovon. He hurt me more than I even knew then. I don't remember the whole email, and I've long since deleted it, hoping that with a quick hit of the button I'd never think about him calling me a "beat ass chicken head," among other things again. But, I do. It's been eight years of randomly remembering Jovon's hateful words. I remember thinking that receiving hate mail was part of what being a journalist was. I remember Brian telling me that Jovon's email was garbage. I remember him telling me he loved me, and he would definitely buy me a drink in a bar. I remember laughing about it with my friends, and I remember crying about it alone.

The Elizabeth's encouraged me to forward the emails to my editor, as did Brian. But, I thought having a brave face, ignoring this incessant gender warring faction, was the way to really prove I was an equal sex. I don't know if I was right to ignore the advice of my peers, opting to "not be a tattle-tale." But I will say now, I wish I spoke up, rather than becoming silenced. What I didn't realize then was that I wasn't just being attacked for being a jokester of a female, I was being attacked for daring to joke about gender inequality, daring to just kid around about women being superior to men, about not wanting to get into the kitchen to make a sandwich, etc. Joking. I don't believe women are superior, nor do I believe men are, but plenty of men do think they are — and even kidding that it could be the other way around was too much for some male counterparts, then and clearly still, now.

Since then I have grown as a comic, as an improviser, as an actor, as a writer. That experience long ago sticks with me, and there have been others since then, too, perhaps not as sticky in my mind, but they are there.

I've made jokes about males. I've made jokes about females. I've delivered stand-up about how people don't say what they want. I've delivered stand-up about my fears that saying what I want will make me look like a weak little girl. I try to tackle the things that matter to me, whether it's through comedy, writing or just regular conversation with friends. And still, I find myself self-censoring because sometimes I am still scared of rocking the boat, of offending, of saying something or doing something that will make someone not just write me mean things or prank call me spewing hate, but really hurt me.

There is nothing worse for a person's soul then to feel like they have to hide who they are because of the fear of what someone could do to them.

I don't want this for my fellow peers, male or female.

Open Your Eyes, 2007

“It's fine,” I yelled up the stairs. “Don’t worry about the converter. I don’t need it.”

She shouted to me as I opened the door to leave something about outlets and voltage.  That was one thing I would sometimes get impatient with, all the shouting, not even anger, just loud voices; I loved her, but there was simply no way.  Outside a jet black Buick honked notifying me of its presence.

“I have to go Katy.”

The creaking wood floors beneath her soft footsteps and the smell of her as she brushed up against me for one last embrace made me want to stay, but I couldn’t.  I just couldn’t.  Again I opened our front door, which now seems not mine at all, but hers, all hers.  We painted it the day we moved in.  She told me on our first date that her favorite color was red, but not just red.  She described it with her hands, brushing through the air of my imagination a violet-red-rouge color that at the time I never knew I would one day see.  We painted our front door a year into our relationship later.  She picked it out at Inman’s Paint on the corner of Ledge and Morningside just past Don’s Finest Foods downtown.  I remember her coming home with three large cans for about six square feet.  She always knew how to make me laugh, even if it was unintentional.

That was two years ago, and we were still in graduate school at Stanford.  She was there for a Masters in Art History and printmaking.  I was finishing graduate school and beginning the strenuous process of receiving a PhD in International studies.  We met at O’Keefe’s, a local bar rarely visited by the loads of undergrad students who frequented the downtown scene.

***

She tapped on my shoulder. 

“Do you have a cigarette?”

I turned around to find a short brunette woman smiling coyly.  The freckles across the bridge of her nose danced as she smiled at me.  At that moment all I wanted was a cigarette to give her — Parliaments, Virginia Slims, anything.

“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said.  Feeling like an idiot for listening to the Surgeon General, I leaned back around to pick up my Heineken.

“Great. I don’t either,” she said taking the seat to my right. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t because man, I hate it...Hi, I’m Katy.”

“I’m James,” I said extending my hand.

And that’s how we started.  Shortly after the pop quiz we left O’Keefe’s.  It was only about 7 p.m so we strolled about looking into boutique windows and speaking about ourselves, then I walked her home.  She gave me her number and we just sort of started being a ‘thing.’  At first she was pretty anti-titles, so I never called her my girlfriend and she never called me her boyfriend.  We just sort of, were.

***

I got into the car bound for the San Jose airport to make my 10:53 a.m. flight.  That’s one thing I never could quite understand, the way flight times are — never 11 a.m. or 6 p.m., simply 1:38 a.m.  Be there or be square.  I felt so old planning my flight, taking action in the decisions I know will affect me wherever I end up ten years from now.  It’s May, and I just graduated.  I’m now Dr. James Napier.  I wasn’t trained to clean wounds or heal the lame, I wasn’t taught to listen to the problems of others or use a stethoscope.  Being a doctor of International Studies, doesn’t seem like much of a doctor job.  My specialty’s in human rights, while I mostly deal in issues of human trafficking in third world countries from Bangladesh to Laos.  Straight out of the University of Chicago where I attended undergrad, I applied to work for the United States Peace Corps in Malaysia, but I pulled out after only six months on sight.  Since then I haven’t been able to sleep through the night.  

Even after I came back to the states and started with school again, I knew I couldn’t live as an academic forever, and Katy always knew I wasn’t planning on being stagnant in California forever.

“So where are you off to?” asked the driver.

“Going to Cambodia.”  Hearing myself say it made the tiniest hairs prick up on the nape of my neck.  I was surprised that my hands weren’t shaking, but as I repositioned myself in the back of the car I rubbed my clammy palms against the soft black leather seat.

The driver’s eyes darted back at me in the rearview mirror as I said it. “Off getting yourself a tan?” he asked.

I cracked a smile and said, “I can get a tan here. No, I’ll be going there to research human trafficking.”

“Oh,” he said. That was it.  

“Have you heard of what’s going on over in East Asia at all?”

He seemed to be concentrating on the road as I tried to pry my way into his mind.  Holding the wheel with two hands he slid in and out of lanes passing the green exit signs with caution as not to miss the terminal.

“I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”

His voice seemed tired, slightly distressed and very uninterested.  Glancing out the window I starred up at the clear skies and then down at the shadows of palm trees gliding along the pavement.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

***

When I got to Cambodia it was 96 degrees and the locals were getting ready for the autumnal floods headed their way over the next few weeks.  I was stationed in the country’s capital to do most of my research through one of the NGOs I randomly picked after scanning through the list the previous spring.  I chose the Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association and when I told one of my professors of my decision to work there he told me it was the leading organization in the fight against Cambodian human trafficking.

The airport was a sea of colors and languages and music and animals.  I had never seen anything like it.  I got off the plane headed for the baggage claim along with the hundreds of other foreigners streaming into Cambodia’s singular international airport.  “Sir, sir, sir, sir!”  Those were the first attempted English words I heard people shout at me as I picked up my luggage in Phnom Penh International Airport.  I suppose my dehydrated, pallid face nearly pristine white to them gave me away as an outsider.  My pathetic attempt to disguise myself rather as an experienced traveler was clearly a failure upon arrival as my camping-styled Mountain Hardware hiking bag’s front pocket exploded with about twenty Ralph Lauren Polo socks.  Immediately I was taken up by the flood of invitations from Cambodian’s to ‘come with them’ and ended up getting a ride to a hotel around the corner from my new place of business by way of a kind gentleman named Prahsuit.  He seemed to know English well and after speaking with him for a few minutes I had found out about nearly his entire family and learned of how he had been learning English for the last fifteen years driving tourists here and there.

“Where you from?” inquired Prahsuit.

I hadn’t been expecting much conversation initially, but I answered plainly, “The United States.”

He laughed showing his rotted out gums reminding me that I hadn’t gone to the dentist myself in close to a year.  

“I know you from U.S.A., but where you from?” he continued.  “I know people who live there.”

Of course he knows people who live there. Of course, already I was the American guilty of underestimating the rest of the world.

“I’m from Michigan.  It’s close to Canada.”

“Canada?  Oh, Canada.  Not French.”

It struck me as odd that he seemed to know a little about French colonization in the Western hemisphere.  Taking out a reporter notebook I bought at Walgreen’s a few days before I wrote down the remark and placed a large star beside it.  Below it I wrote to buy an international cell phone, but in the mean time to call Katy using the hotel line.

***

“James Napier?”

A loud receptionist at the head of the waiting room finally called my name.  She said it like it was doubtful if I would actually be there or not—like they didn’t have faith that a real down on the farm Michigan boy couldn’t possibly find himself at the other side of the globe.  Maybe it was just my insecurities shouting into my psyche.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.”

She nodded her head, which carried with it a code of ‘come with me.’  I followed the tiny woman to a small, vacant room with two chairs, one desk reminiscent of post-Soviet Union classrooms, and a small window that had large steel beams cross over it.

“Your advisor will be with you in a moment.”  She left me in the room where I made myself comfortable sitting in one of the chairs.  The linoleum floors and cement block walls reminded me of my first dormitory at UC.  There were traces of foot prints and dust bunnies everywhere.  Before I could speculate more Dr. Marvin Shuckhorn preceded into what I learned was his office.

“Hello,” he said extending his large callused hand.  “So how are things so far?  You’ve been here, what, a few days?  Have you met your colleagues?  How are they?  Do you guys get along?  Are you all here for the same purpose?”

After his machinegun shoot-off of questions I was finally able to answer.

“Things so far are, well, for sure they’re different.”

“Well of course they’re different,” he said with a Santa Claus-like twinkle in his eye.  “You know it’s not USA college life out there, is it?”  He trailed off laughing at his own ‘dad joke.’

“Yeah, it’s no USA,” I said skeptically.  “Anyway, I’ve met a few people.  I noticed that this is much more of an international workplace than I had expected.  I was sort of thinking I’d be the only American in a predominantly Cambodian office.  It’s interesting for sure.”

“So you think the ‘melting pot,’ if you will, works here?  Good, I’m glad.  You know, we were a bit worried that a multinational group would lose sight of the human rights for Cambodians would be a problem.”

“No, no, it’s good.”

“Good.  Yeah, I guess it does work.  Yeah, because, hey, we’re all people here.  We all need rights, and have them, innately, that is. Hmm, so who do you have a connection with in the group so far?”

“Oh, well, I met a French woman named Marion Clair.  She’s from the town in France my sister studied in.”

“Yeah, Marion, she’s a good girl.  Very smart.  Interested in reporting human rights issues, I hear.  Good girl, yeah.  Very pretty, too, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Oh, yeah, well, she’s fine, but I have a girl at home, so,” I said.  Then trying to change the subject, I added, “So yeah, the other members are great so far too.  I met a Belgian some other Americans and a few Spaniards—yeah, we all live in the same housing complex up the road.”

“Right, ok,” he said.  Getting down to the real meat of the meeting, he said, “Now, let me see here...”

Adjusting his bifocals so they’d sit on the brim of his large nose rather than the tip where they continually fell, he said, “So, I see you’re a doctor?”

“Yeah, but not in the way you might think.  I’m a researcher.  I study human development and specialize in the human trafficking that has become a phenomenon over the past few decades.”

At this he gave me a half smile and said sarcastically one word, “Phenomenon?”

I had heard all the arguments before regarding the time period before, but I was prepared for Shuckhorn’s undoubtedly longwinded explanation of the time frame.

“Phenomenon?” he repeated.  “Let me tell you something, human trafficking is anything but a phenomenon. It’s a damn catastrophe.  I tell you, if people think major environmental disasters are a problem, think about the estimated 600,000 to 820,000 men, women, and children that are trafficked across international borders each year.  I mean, Jesus.”

At that he placed both hands on his brows.  His brown eyes darted from side to side as he meticulously calculated the amount of human suffering that must occur each day in this godforsaken world we live in.

“We live in a world where crafty businessmen think it’s their birthright to suppress the suppressible, stomp on the weak and sell the ones left over.”

As he said this I starred up from my hands which I had been cracking rapidly during his much deserved soliloquy.

“You want to see your life here researching ‘phenomenal issues’ matter?” he asked in a tone more like a statement.  “Then don’t go on telling people things that are just plain false.”

For a while we both were quiet.  I was back in my place as a subordinate to a much higher ruling party than I and was ready to receive information about my time constraints, financial measures and permanent living assessment.

“Now, you’re here to get your assignment and to explain your proposed research inquiry.  At the end of your session here you will turn in a short report regarding your position on the issue of human trafficking in Eastern Asia, in specific regard to Cambodia.”

He stopped to breathe.

“Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.  “It’s clear.”

“So, go ahead.  Explain briefly your reasons in working for the CHRD.”

I was taken off-guard.  I hadn’t realized until that very moment why I had decided CHRD, why I had decided on human rights.  I couldn’t remember for the life of me why I was there, why I felt like I needed to make a difference, why my life could impact the lives of others.  For a while, probably a few seconds that felt like a few hours we both sat in silence.  Dr. Shuckhorn’s clothing smelled unwashed and faintly of river water and sweat.  His odor made it difficult to concentrate.  Perspiration pockets built up beneath my armpits and a single bead floated down my spine dipping into the small of my back.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “You want me to explain right now my position on trafficking in brief and give a smaller version of my research topic?”

Shifting in his seat leaning toward the open window, he said, “Yeah, if you can.  If you aren’t prepared or need a few minutes, that’s fine.”

“No, no, that’s alright.  I can explain it now,” I said.  Then it came to me.  All my ideas surged out in one big splat of an idea.  “Ok, so the United Nations has in the past put sanctions on Cambodia after various other nations have left their footprint in the Cambodian sands — well, the UN ruled under transitional authority from ’89 to ’93, but they left the country to the restored monarchy in ’94.  That said, serious sex trafficking was witnessed and reported increases after peacekeeping forces moved in and after they left.  I plan to explore the link between these peacekeeping forces like the UN and NATO and increased amount of sexual human trafficking in Cambodia, while also using countries like Bosnia and Kosovo as other examples.”

I came out like tidal wave of well-researched thoughts.

“What do you think?” I asked Shuckhorn.

“Sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you’ll uncover something those other payroll researchers haven’t yet.”

With that he stood up to shake my hand and bring me out of the office.  Walking at his heels I noticed his balding blonde and grey swirl of hair on the top of his head and the sun marks like wrinkles and sunspots popped up at me.  I suppose that’s what one would look like if they lived her for the rest of their days.

“You’ll need to set up an appointment for every third of the month to check up with research and theories.  Let yourself out.  It’s been nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I said. “Thanks for the input on ideas.  I’ll see you in a month.”

By then he was practically at the end of the hallway, but then turned around slightly to add in another tidbit of wisdom.

“Don’t forget what I said about phenomenon.”

***

I had been researching on the local trade culture regarding the deals involving slave trades or similar trades like sex trades and favors for about a month already.  So far it didn’t seem anything out of the normal in regard to the nature of selling humans for financial gains.  The UN had pulled out of the country just over a decade before and the bulk of my studies dealt with the overwhelming aftermath of their lack of paying attention, while they were in country, to the underground thriving industry of the sale of men, women and children.  According to past statements they said the ‘phenomenon’ of human trafficking in Cambodia is relatively new, although globally it has been a problem for centuries upon centuries.  The issue has come to light as a problem in the ‘90s, but very little knowledge of why it is occurring there or who is participating is known.

After reading up on the sexual exploitation of mainly women and children who live in the country region of Cambodia and their recruitment into this line of work under the guise of factory jobs I couldn’t look out my window without feeling like all of these people were victims.  Even the victimizers have their reasons for exploiting others.  It’s a cycle of country self-destruction forming from the alarming amount of poverty.  For days at a time I couldn’t read anything on the issue without throwing up in sheer disgust and pain for the abused.

***

“There’s no way I can get into the field work part of the job and have it count as ‘research’ Shuckhorn?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I was pissed.  After two months in country and after having read every article, book, seen every amount of video coverage and scoured the Internet for anything else I missed, the last thing I had to complete was to see it with my own eyes.

“I’m sorry James.  It’s just not part of why you’re here.”

“Not part of why I am here?  Not part of why I am here?” I was shouting now and couldn’t for the life of me come to terms with the amount of my very heart and soul I had placed in my work.

“I need to see it Marvin.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He left the sterile office from our first meeting and returned fifteen minutes later with a consent form and a visiting journalist named Brimt from Laos.

“This is Brimt, he needs someone to bring him up to speed in mini detail on the topic,” said Huckshorn, sighing in relief that I was no longer going to be at his heals begging for an opportunity to see the story I’ve been reading about before my eyes.

A week later I had filled in Bremt, no gaps without a line to fill it in.  He was just as passionate about it as I was, but perhaps less, as I did have a much stronger foothold in the topic.  We were set to leave for Battambang where sex trafficking has been known to occur and appear on and around the streets frequently.

***

“When are you going to be home James?” asked Katy.  Her connection was going in and out.  All week I had trouble getting a hold of her.  She was either working or our time zones were off or the phone simply wasn’t working.

“Home?” I said. “Yeah, home, I should be home within the next month or so, hun.  There are just a lot of new things happening every day.”

I sounded like one of those workaholic fathers that never got the chance to make it to one of their son’s soccer games.  I never meant to become that guy, but while big things are going on its easy to loose sight of certain things, no matter how important what a person may be doing at the time.

“You’re not sure then?” she said.  “Well, if you aren’t sure then I can’t figure out when to book your flight for and I don’t know if I should get you a ticket to Chicago to visit my parents over Christmas because if you do come then we have to go to Michigan because it’s your year.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Kate.  The line’s getting fuzzy and I can’t understand everything you say.  I’m getting about every third word or so.”

“O-K-well-never-mind-then,” she said slowly.  “I-will-just-get-the-tickets-late-then-if-that-is-O-K-with-you.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I gotta go now Kate,” I said.  “I, I gotta go.  I love you.”

“I love you too,” she answered back. “Bye.”

***

Bremt and I boarded a bus bound for Battambang the following morning.  He was to pose as a possible costumer at a local restaurant who was also looking for other types of appetite-feeding activities.  I was his uninterested friend who was married with four children, just in case anyone asked.

“Hello, do you speak English?” I asked a waitress at the front of Angkor, a well-known eatery in the middle of the city.  We would have stayed in the capital, but while I hadn’t been to every place in town, the identities of most of the employees working against trafficking are known among sellers, so we had to go outside the walls into more rural parts then into other slightly larger locations.

Entering into the restaurant was almost surreal.  One moment we were offered a place to sit and offered beverages.  As a side course the restaurant manager offered Bremt and I an added pamphlet.

“This is only for special costumers,” he said.  “Special price, just for you.”

I looked at the paper written in poor English with little consideration as to punctuation, spelling or grammar, but these were the least of my worries.  I handed the paper to Bremt.  Then I proceeded to take my camera out and take a picture with the manager, smiling and posing as though we were interested participants.

“I bring you out three ladies, and you chose,” he said.

“Oh, oh, no, no, I am not interested,” I said, “but my friend here is.”

I pointed to Bremt, who was holding the pamphlet with an eager facial expression.

“Oh, ok, I bring them out for him.”

Ten minutes later a procession of three girls, eight, twelve and fourteen years old wearing thrice recycled clothing from when I was a boy came out of the back food preparation area.

Bremt and I looked at the faces of these three children.  I took a picture of the girls without the knowledge of the manager so later someone would come back for them.  Walking out of the restaurant completely famished and aching all over in pain and  distress I got back on the bus to Phnom Penh with Bremt.  Their faces were etched in my mind, and the last thing I wanted to do after I saw their faces was leave.  I wanted to punch out the manager and raid the place in search of the multiple victims.

***

“No honey, I won’t be back for Christmas...Hello?  Shit.”

Standing in the middle of Phnom Penh in a bad excuse for a telephone booth almost two months after I left California, one month over due to return home, I realized that I simply couldn’t leave yet.  Katy and I just had our first trans-country fight.  I skulked back to where other researchers and volunteers of the foundation were standing waiting for me so we could get back to the office.

“Are you alright?” asked Marion.  “You look really upset.  I can tell, because you have those concerned eyes.  I haven’t seen them since the first day you got here.”

Opening my now quite worn Marmot backpack I grabbed one of the granola bars my mom had mailed to me earlier last week.  Food like that here was a precious commodity, but in reality I actually didn’t mind chomping on curry at every meal, or trying new things when the option arose.

“Things are fine,” I said. “— No, they’re really fine — they’re fine.”

I tried to convince myself of this as I crouched down balancing on the balls of my feet, but I kept thinking of those children in Battambang.  I rubbed the sweat beads gathering on my dusty forehead dripping down the sides of my bearded cheeks.  After I broke my razor during the orientation days I skipped shaving entirely and instead favored a pair of Crayola scissors for mere trims.

“No, it’s just, my girlfriend.  She’s there, and I’m here, and we’re not together.  And, god I just don’t know.”  I could have gone on and on like that forever.  There seemed to be no way out of this perpetual letting down process I was doing to her, myself, my colleagues and to the victims of these violations of human rights.

She bent down next to me and placed her hand on the soft spot of my back in between my shoulder blades and rubbed her hand around like a mother after a bad day.

“I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”

I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of sunlight coming through the splits between her straight honey-colored hair.  All I could think was that she didn’t know how hard this was.

“Don’t give me that, you don’t know what I’m even talking about,” I said standing up leaving her on the dusty side walk.

I had met Marion on my first day of orientation at the foundation.  Her French accent stuck out amid the numerous American’s, along with a few international citizens of humanity.  I had studied in France for a semester during my sophomore year of college because I was originally an International Studies and French double, but mid-way through college I switched from French to Human Relations.  Marion and I hit it off right away.  She had been working there for close to six months at the time and had already invested herself in the people and culture much more than I could have thought possible.

I could hear the racing footsteps behind me as Marion came nearer. “You know, just because you think you know everything about me and why I’m here and who I am, doesn’t mean that you actually do.”  She was out of breath and annoyed by the time I slowed down to hear her out.

“I may not know your relationship with this girl and what exactly you hoped to accomplish in a few months in one of the poorest countries in our world today, but you know what, fine,” she said, gaining momentum. “You’re an arrogant ass —”

Before she could go on and on and on, I said, “Perhaps, I don’t want to tell you everything or whatever, but you can’t just go giving advice without knowing something.  What do you know anyway?  We’re here in this country and it seems like no one cares and nothing is getting done and people are still being treated like cattle, and my girlfriend a million miles away is upset that I can’t foresee myself coming home for Christmas —”

She stopped to look at me again.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I just, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  I just never thought she could be so selfish.”

Marion stood up from where she was sitting and turned toward me.

“She isn’t being selfish James.  She’s being, I don't know, a person on the other side of the world who just, just...she doesn’t know.  That’s the fault of the rest of the world, and you’re assuming she has seen everything you’ve seen over the past weeks.  You’re assuming she knows what its like to see thousands of women per day be scooped up from the streets and thrown into a situation where they’re forced to have sex or die.”

She sat back onto the curb outside a local pop shop.  Clasping her hands together and placing them on her knee caps she starred back up at me.  “She just doesn’t know James, and communication is key.  That’s why my concentration is journalism and human rights, how to get the word out in an affective manner.  People get desensitized.  They can’t help it.  If you’re not faced with it every day in a real way, then there’s nothing you can do but guard yourself against feeling.”

Putting my arms through the backpack straps I sat down next to her and didn’t say anything. Everything she was saying made so much sense.  We sat and looked out onto the street before us bustling with farmer produce, animals, juxtaposed with the honking of several Honda’s in a long polluting procession of vehicles.

“God, the third world,” I said, half-thinking to myself.

CNN Justice

I read a lot of CNN Justice online. But today my google widget for Top CNN articles threw me this one on the recent pre-election Philippine Massacre.

There's a part in the story noting that at least 12 journalists died in the massacre, according to the nonprofit Reporters Without Borders (a spin-off of Doctors Without Borders). And it shocked me. Not to the point of actual surprise, but more so, that journalists here in the US who have so much freedom, and so many rights, widdle those away with back-talk, opinions and really crap commentary. Being a reporter is a job. Shouting your opinion the loudest is a past-time. I wish that less crap would get through the system before landing on the pages of a magazine or newspaper. So much is taken for granted in this country, and because of that we're going to fall behind. According to Newsweek's recent issue, we already are when it comes to innovation and invention — thanks to our crap school system. There was a lot of merit to the latest Newsweek, but for me, a lot of that credit fell by the wayside when they decided to use a picture of Sarah Palin in short-shorts shot for the June '09 issue of Runner's World on the Newsweek cover. The magazine would never do that to a male political figure, so why the double standard?

I'm not a fan of SP, so my annoyance and argument against using a photo like that should have even more weight. It's just another stick in the spokes, and serves to discredit a publication that for so many years has been on the cutting edge. To quote a friend regarding the publication, "Yeah, it's all commentary now — no news." Perhaps it isn't all solely commentary, but for every bit of true story, there's someone's take on it for another three paragraphs.

And, isn't that just unfortunate?

Yesterday afternoon I spent about 7 minutes trying to answer questions to "The Interactive Proust Questionnaire" from Vanity Fair (one of my favorite magazines). One questioned had me mildly stumped.

"Which historical figure do you most identify with?"

I ended up writing Katharine Graham, but I'm not quite sure if that's true. I mean, I identify with parts of her, but honestly, she was a very weak woman for most of her life, and basically pulled it out toward the finish line.

In the end the questionnaire said I answered most like: Donna Karen and Eleanor Lambert. I thought it was sort of funny — I answered most similarly to fashionistas. Creators. DK, obviously of Donna Karen clothing and Vanity Fair's Eleanor Lambert, the pioneering "Queen of Culture."

It's sort of cool to have a look back at history and see who you emulate compared with who you want to emulate. What's cooler is when those two somehow match up.

Nobel (Un)Worthy

This morning I rushed to work, though no one is ever here to scold me for being late, and obviously, I ripped open my newspaper. OK, that last part may be a lie brought on by four years of pretending I'd read the paper before my journalism classes. Seriously, I would bring in three newspapers into class with me every day and maybe read two stories in each. I guess that should have told me something about the declining state of journalism as not even up-and-coming journalists such as myself at the time could get through a full paper even once a week.

I did today, however, look at my google hot trends and found these words glaring at me: Obama Nobel Peace Prize. I'd like to make this clear: I root for our Presidents. I root for the one that everyone thinks is failing and I root for the ones I like and the ones I don't like. I root for them because I don't think talking negatively about a President does anything constructive, and I root for them because most people do better when they have some form of positive support. Deductive reasoning: I rooted for Bush to do what was right, and now I'm rooting for Obama to do what's right. I have not said by any means that either of them have in the past or will in the future do what was/is right. I just am saying that I root for them to do such.

OK. With that all out there, I do want to say that I do not think President Obama's efforts over the past nine months warrant a Nobel Peace Prize. P.O. won the award not for his actual delivery on change, but his rhetoric about change. Those are in no way the same thing. This Washington Post article makes a quality point, effectively undercutting committee chairman Thorbjoern Jagland's decision to choose P.O.:

"In response to questions from reporters in Oslo, who noted that Obama so far has made little concrete progress in achieving his lofty agenda, committee chairman Thorbjoern Jagland said he hoped the prize would add momentum to Obama's efforts. At the same time, Jagland said, 'We have not given the prize for what may happen in the future. We are awarding Obama for what he has done in the past year. And we are hoping this may contribute a little bit for what he is trying to do.'"

But the best is yet to come, when pushed further Jagland sites not those concrete progress points, no, he sites:

"Obama's speech about Islam in Cairo last spring, as well as efforts to address nuclear proliferation and climate change and use established international bodies such as the United Nations to pursue his goals."

And to bring the point home that this award now means less than it did previously:

"'Think about it, it's so post-modern: a leader can now win the peace prize for saying that he hopes to bring about peace at some point in the future,' sniped Wall Street Journal deputy editor Iain Martin in an online post. 'He doesn't actually have to do it, he just has to have aspirations. Brilliant.'"

And doesn't he have a point? We might as well be giving it away to Beauty Queens saying that they wish for world peace.

Again, I root for our Presidents because they are our Presidents. I have respect for the Office of the President of the United States, but I don't think that necessitates my support for awarding something that actually has little to back up the trophy — or I suppose prize in this case. The committee's decision to award P.O. preemptively, in my express opinion, is meaningless and now hereafter the Nobel Peace Prize will be nothing more than another novelty award that doesn't actually say or represent anything. We should call it a Grammy or a Kids Choice Award.

Exchange/ Caricatures/ College: no cohesion

Recently I've been posting a lot of entries on OdeMagazine.com. It's been a nice change of pace. I'm writing short blurbs on interesting events, people and places—plus I'm commenting on other exchangers' posts. We're trying to drive more traffic to the web, and one way to do it is by adding more content regularly throughout the day. This is where I and my colleagues come in. Oh, and you too. We're planning on redesigning our site in the near future to make it more of a social utility allowing readers to have more of an interactive experience with Ode.

So far there haven't been a lot of comments on stories, posts or profiles. I've taken it upon myself to start writing on random strangers' exchange stories. Whether they're argumentative or in appreciation doesn't matter much. I pretty much just write a caricature of what I would have said in real life if an actual friend of mine had said whatever it was whomever wrote. I use the word caricature all the time, and what about those people who make funny drawings of people who pay a rather large sum for something a 6-year-old would have done free and with more enjoyment. Anyway, I always used to want an actual picture caricature of myself, but now I'm glad I don't have one—though there was this one time a neighbor of mine had an artist friend visit from Finland or somewhere in Scandinavia, and he drew me. It was too true to form though to be a caricature. Anyway, caricatures are neither here nor there.

ODE. Yes, Ode's been cranking out web pieces left and right. I've been writing around 3-6 web stories per day along with completing various other tasks. My point in all of this is to simply say, check it out, here, if you will. You can even add your own pieces. I like interactive story sites like Ode's offers. It's none of that iReport crap that CNN.com has. I seriously hate that stuff. Sometimes they'll write full stories based solely on iReporters. It's stupid. Plus, aren't they stealing that whole "i" thing from Apple?

Sorry this is scattered, I've got a lot on my mind, and it doesn't help that I cant' concentrate because I'm sick. I've had Dayquil, Nyquil, Zicam, Benedryl, Allegra, cough drops and chamomile tea—still, I am sick. Season changes never cease to ruin me (I had reunion me, originally, that's how scattered I am). Speaking of changes, or rather transitions, I'm moving back to Chicago in a bit. My last day at Ode is next Friday, November 14. My mom's flying out, we're going to spend the weekend in SF, then drive down the coast in a rented set of wheels to LA. We're visiting my sister and my college roommate, Elizabeth Steele, and it is going to be glorious. We'll be back by the 21st. Life is just going again. Pretty soon I'll be 40, and then what will I have to write about. Gees. I miss college. I never thought I'd be one of those people, but I am. I look at the photos of my friends who are still in college and really just want to be there too. I'm seriously thinking graduate school. International studies? History? We'll see. I miss classroom learning.

Happy Election Day.

Is it horrible that I am more excited for the election tomorrow just so I don't have to talk about politics with everyone left and right? It's not that I'm not jazzed about gaining a new leader. I'm glad that life is moving on and the political process is moving again. It's funny. The last time there was an election I accidentally voted twice. I think. To be honest, I can't remember. I know I requested an absentee ballot for Illinois, but I distinctly remember voting at Quad freshman year at the UI.

In any case, my roommate at the time was very much into a Kerry presidency. Having just left home, ie the land of Catholic small business owners along Chicago's north shore, I was effectively brought to vote for President Bush. I mostly did it in protest of my roommate. She was really annoying with all the Kerry campaign garbage, and I was more interested in annoying her than giving an opinion. I suppose that's the 18-year-old way? If not, then I guess I was just immature. In any case, it didn't matter anyway. Iowa went to Bush and Illinois never had a chance to go to him.

I find myself in a similar situation today. I had the option of voting absentee in Illinois or at the booth in California. I enjoy getting the sticker more than anything announcing to everyone that I voted, so I chose California, naturally. I'm wishing I voted over the weekend at city hall. Tomorrow I have to wake up at 6 am to walk two blocks in order to get to the polling place. Oh well. My sleep is what I'm willing to sacrifice for democracy. Anyway, I know "every vote counts," but at the same time, both California and Illinois are going to Senator Obama. I could see it mattering if I voted in Iowa or Illinois. Swing states, and all. But, is it just me, or does it seem like the popular vote doesn't matter anyway? We all saw Al Gore lose, and we saw Florida fumble last time—I suppose it does matter. And I will be seen voting tomorrow, wearing my sticker proudly, and I'll be watching the announcement on television with other seemingly like minded individuals. I'll be toasting to a renewing four years, and I'll be glad that life is moving on, and Saturday Night Live will have more to coast on.

But what I'm most happy about is that this is a time where the United States gets a chance to revitalize our stance in the world. We get to not so much get a do over, but we get a chance to remake ourselves. I'm just happy that it seems we'll have a president that cares about how we look to the rest of the world. Honestly, that's one of the most important things to me. There's nothing more detrimental to a country than to boast, and say you can go it alone. Because, really, we can't. We're one country in one world, and everyone else matters.

Not so light reading.

Each week I leave work a little early to head downtown San Francisco in order to get my allergy shots. It's also the time that I catch up on celebrity gossip and the like while in the waiting room. This Tuesday I went to Dr. Davidson's for the usual: cat/dog, dust, trees/grass. While waiting I picked up a copy of The New Yorker to catch up on the Going's On About Town, but instead read this article.

RIGHT HERE!

I think it's really well-written and important information. It's quite long, but I recommend reading the whole thing if you have time. Really, I do.

Today

Notes on Today.

-I took my coffee to work in a washed-out tomato jar. Explanation: My roommate nabbed my to-go mug, thus causing me to search the kitchen for a re-sealable container. Tomato jar was the only option.

-I reviewed the job applications I sent last night: One to U.S. News & World Report. (I accidentally wrote "form" instead of "from." That's a bummer. I can never decide if I should email them letting them know I found the error, or not email them and hope they didn't notice. If I emailed them and they didn't notice, then I'd just be drawing attention to this error. OR. They noticed and they wanted me to email them saying I found the error, thus showing my wonderful skillz as a journalist. It is toward the end, so if they got that far in the cover letter, perhaps they decided they wanted me, but then changed their minds once seeing "form." Damn. If only it wasn't 11:23 p.m. when I shot it off last night.

-I can no longer do multiplication. I tried to figure out how much a year $12/hour at 40 hours a week would get me. Somehow I came out with $13,040. I was about 10 grand off. Good thing I'm not studying to be a mathematician. (Note: the word "mathematician" looks not unlike martian. Concordance? Anyone?)

Visible Changes

During my final year at Iowa I had the pleasure of continuing to write for the Daily Iowan newspaper. I usually wrote arts and culture stories, but periodically I'd somehow end up in the metro section with a good story. One worth telling. In February I wrote a story about Invisible Children, an aid organization based in San Diego, California, that was set up to benefit the children of northern Uganda. In 2003 a film was shot to tell the story of child soldiers and the mounting internally displaced people caught in the crossfire. Five years later there has been noticeable change, especially with regard to the continued peace talks between rebel leaders of the Lord's Resistance Army (LRA) and the Ugandan government. For more information on the peace talks click here. Later in the year the University of Iowa's Invisible Children chapter hosted a benefit concert to raise awareness and funds for the northern Ugandan children, where I was again to write a piece on them. Since those two stories I have thought more of the movement and the US role in aiding foreign countries and have often found myself wanting to have a hand in it, rather than merely writing about it. Though, clearly both are necessary. That brings me to today.

Today I was checking out the progress of Invisible Children and learning more about the struggle on another blog and saw this above video. We'll see where this all takes me, but all I know is I have to use my skills to help others. It's too hard to stand idly by as the world turns, especially since that's not like me at all. But until I know what my next move is, all I can do is do what I know how, spend my time wisely, and help the world turn, not just watch it turn. So, volunteer it is, starting with a Habitat for Humanity project in Golden Gate Park Saturday morning bright and early. Volunteermatch.org is a lifesaver.

So, basically, I challenge myself as much as my stories challenge others to live outside yourself, and live a good story to tell about later.

Check it out: Invisible Children Video

ODE MAGAZINE

So, most of you are aware I'm working at Ode Magazine. It's an international, alt-monthly. We focus on positive news, but it's not that we're unaware of bad things happening to good people. We're intelligent about it, I guess you could say. We're getting set to launch our next issue in a few weeks. I got to see the sneak preview of it yesterday. Kind of exciting! I've got two mini pieces in it of about 300 words each. Still, it's cool. Plus, I did some layout for the web page we have in the magazine and wrote small minor things that don't get bylines. No biggie. Check it out if you want, just by clicking here.


You can also check out my special profile page. I mention my new favorite thing: vietnamese coffee.

That's all for now. If you see Ode's Silence issue from last month, it's still in stores at Whole Foods, Borders, Barnes & Noble and I think just recently we opened up an account with CVS. It's sweet to be part of something that is growing.

One Down. 15 to Go.

After quite a busy week at Ode Magazine, I think I can finally say I'm getting acclimated. We're getting set for the September issue, which I will have a few things in, so it's been an interesting week to begin work. I received an internship at Ode Magazine. There I get to write, edit, research, and copyfit various stories. It's pretty neat to be part of an international magazine: it's based in the Netherlands and California, with writers scattered about the globe and an executive editor who lives abroad in London.

Each day I begin my morning bright and early, grab a bite in the kitchen, then head down eight blocks to 22nd and Van Ness. I hop into the car of my managing editor and head North, to Mill Valley, as the magazine's headquarters are there, rather than in downtown San Francisco. Though it's not the most convenient place to live, the Mission district, is really fun, eclectic and always, always bustling with activity. It's about two stops away of downtown when using the Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART), and about 35 minutes from Mill Valley by car—2 hrs, roughly by using three types of public transportation. Speaking of which, last week my ride and I were out of luck when his car had to be taken to the shop. We had intended to get a ride from a coworker, but she had to leave early, leaving us with her suggested route home: by boat.

Yes, we were to take the ferry from the North Bay to downtown, then hop from there onto the BART, head to the Mission, walk eight blocks, and then, and only then, arrive home to my cozy, green Victorian flat. Well, we missed the boat. Quite literally, and ended up waiting for a taxi in the tourist town of Saulsalito to take us back to our abodes.

My first week on the job was good. I was busy, with real work, which is what I wanted. I didn't want to be fetching coffee and filling up ink cartridges. In short, I'm glad I'm not Andy in The Devil Wears Prada. Yikes.

Speaking of which, in honor of starting my job, I had intended to watch it all week. I've been watching bits and pieces for a week now, as each night I am so tired from my 8-10 hour day, plus about 1.5 hrs in transit. Now, after a fun weekend visiting with a friend from my study abroad in France, I will finish it. I will. No if's, and's, or but's. It's getting done, alright. Now, I just have to figure out what to watch over the course of seven days this week.

Bridge-Bits of Information:

-For more on Ode Magazine, just click this LINK.

-For more on traveling from San Francisco to outside San Francisco without a vehicle: Don't do it. No seriously.

Hunting. Or at least that's what this was going to be about.

I was in Michigan over this past weekend. Colleen, my 25-year-old sister, and I headed up to the Upper Peninsula late Saturday to meet my parents who had arrived the day before. Col hadn't been to our northwoods home in three years, since before she left for the Peace Corps. Sometimes I imagine myself doing something like the Peace Corps, but then I realize all the things she had to do, those she couldn't do, and how scary it is to be alone. I enjoy alone time, I do, but it's, well, lonely, when it's not self-imposed. I guess it would be mildly self-imposed though, in the Peace Corps case, as you'd be the one to sign on, but still.

Anyway, we were heading to the outward bounds. It's so beautiful up there. Fresh. Things are literally clearer. I'm set to move to San Francisco next week to take some leaps into my future. Ode Magazine offered me an enticing internship at their California office, so I took it. Early bird catches the worm.

No one in my family is really that encouraging about it though, which was expected. Journalists make no money unless you're someone like Katie Couric, or a journalist who somehow managed to meet a money maker spouse.

Colleen's doing something similar, but it's in Los Angeles, and it's a screenwriters workshop. I think it will be good for her, providing her with the necessary skillset she'll need if she's truly serious. I think the same of my adventure, and yes, it's an adventure and a test in resilience.

Driving up to Michigan Colleen and I discussed the reasons for our sudden departures for warmer weather and fulfilled dreams, or I guess an attempt at reaching both. And it wasn't until talking with her that I really noticed how similar we think. Entitlement generation or not, one has to at least try to gain something beyond the status quo. We realize that if we really, truly wanted to, we could get jobs at offices within the corporate world. And we would probably find a love for it and a passion, but there would always be that, "What If?" And that's what makes life worth it. It's your life, I continually remind myself. You need to do what you want with it, or else you're a slave to it.

Classrooms to Social Class

So, I've often heard it said that life goes in cycles, but I never really believed it to be true.

Now that I seem to have loads of time on my hands, which for anyone who knows me in the slightest knows I do not enjoy, I've used some of it to reflect. [I'm more of a busy body who detests the silence, and revels in the quick-witted world of journalism.] Honestly, at this point I have no choice but to reflect.

You see, jobs are scarce. And yes, I am capable. Yes, I am intelligent. And yes, of course, I can deliver a beautifully crafted 500-5000+ word story for a vast readership. But no. There is no opportunity for that. I get it. I know I can't simply call up my buddy Sam Zell and actually receive a job chalk full of benefits and a company car. I knew that when I signed on as a journalism major, applied to the School, and subsequently graduated with honors. But this whole cycle business -- well, isn't it about time for it to cycle some more? I'm not advocating a mass withdrawal of babyboomers from the jobs that I desire to be mine, but I am advocating for some sort of position open specifically to post-students like myself, and not just one here and there.

Capable. Talented. Intelligent. And really, someone who is unwilling to ditch her dreams to become another desk-riding worker in some office somewhere. It's not even so much the dream of becoming a reputable reporter, but in all honesty, that's what I am trained to be. This is what I paid for, with not only money, but effort and long hours writing, reporting and studying.

As has become obvious with the Bush administration and multiple media outlets finally calling the "subtle beginnings" of what "may be" a recession, it is clear there are going to be a lot of layoffs and much more of what's already started in the job market. However, there should always be room for talented, hardworking people.

I am not living in a dream world -- unless I believed everyone is capable of attaining the American Dream, which I don't subscribe to. Failure happens. Social Mobility happens. Success happens.

The President has used the influx of students released from universities out into the disappearing workforce as a scapegoat for why jobs are seemingly evaporating into thin air, with all this summer heat around, and what not. But I do not buy it. The work force cycles, comes in waves just as everything else, but it probably won't go back this time. Not to how it used to be. We're living in a global economy. Jobs are outsourced, and it's more than just Qwest Internet connections forwarded to India. It's everywhere.

But where is journalism in all this? Should we be effected the same way? It's all that Internet, right? It's newspapers slashing newsrooms 19% like the Chicago Sun-Times. "It's competitive," they say. Or at least they say after we've walked out of the classroom for the last time.

check it out.

Pop Matters Article

you won't regret it. i saw this on a friend's facebook. good deal.

the graceful steps of life

i wrote this story. it was published in the daily iowan's may 15th issue. it was my last daily iowan story before i graduated. enjoy. click here for more.

Whitney Wright took some great photos that you can see here.

newspapers on the internet

Check it:

dailyiowanarts.blogspot.com


Click it. You won't be disappointed.

Two Things I Love

I love Journalism so much, I want to take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant.

Let that Be Enough, Switchfoot

Sometimes I really dislike the fact that I need God — you know, sometimes I feel like I'm here for no reason. And it bugs me that I can't do it alone. Anyway, I went to the Switchfoot concert last night with some friends for free (because I am a hotshot newspaper woman), and they played this song and another that I really enjoyed. I think I like this song so much because when I feel like I don't want to need God and when I feel like I can do it by myself it's when I also feel like I don't know if God is there. It's when I feel defeated. I bolded the particular lines that stuck out. The other song that I enjoyed was "On Fire."

I wish I had what I need
To be on my own
'Cause I feel so defeated
And I'm feeling alone

And it all seems so helpless
And I have no plans
I'm a plane in the sunset
With nowhere to land

And all I see
It could never make me happy And all my sand castles
Spend their time collapsing

Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
Let that be enough

It's my birthday tomorrow
No one here could know
I was born this Thursday
22 years ago

And I feel stuck
Watching history repeating
Yeah, who am I?
Just a kid who knows he's needy

Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
And let that be enough

Here's the link to the Daily Iowan story I wrote. HERE

Journalism

I think I would even be ok with a job that may be as miserable as Andy Sach's job was in "The Devil Wears Prada."

I don't even care about of difficult it would be. I just want to work somewhere.