Listen up, white people: we DO need to build a wall.

So Trump's going to be our next president. Our democracy will survive. So don't panic. 

Except, that's probably much easier to say if, like me, you're white. And if, like me, you were surprised by how racist and mysoginistic this country still is. I didn't realize it because I live in a bubble of educated liberal Seattle whiteness. By the way, people of color don't need to hear how shocked you are. They're not surprised, because they experience racism daily, and our history as a country makes it clear that white people prioritize white supremacy over the safety and opportunity of people of color. And your expression of shock is incredibly frustrating to them. Stop it. 

We elected Trump. By "we," I mean white people. And by "we," I mean white people whether or not you voted for Trump. We on the left have shamed, insulted, and ignored the economic suffering of Trump voters for decades, and it turns out that really disenfranchises people. 

And because we elected him, every minority he said horrible things about is now the target of the open, virulent racism that Trump's campaign and election has stirred up and vindicated, and is now pouring out all over our country like so much unholy lava. 

Here's a collection of racist things said and done in the first 24 hours after Trump was elected. Kids in kindergarten are hurling racist rhetoric at their classmates and taunting them about being deported. 

And here's another. Racist slurs against black people are being spray painted on walls. 

And another. People on Twitter are posing in front of confederate flags. 

And another. Asian Americans are being told to "go back to Asia." 

Which is why white people need to build a wall. A wall of advocacy around people of color, migrants, Muslims, LGBTQ folks, women, and any other group that is now living in fear in the wake of the election. Today, a friend of mine on Facebook who is a person of color posted that she is afraid to go on vacation, because they will be driving through rural areas. She does not want to have fearful thoughts, but she is afraid. For her life. In America. Because she is not white. And this is wrong, wrong, wrong. 

And why should WE (white people) build this wall? Because we need to triage; the fear people are feeling is totally rational, and they were feeling it already before the election. Because we don't suffer from this kind of discrimination, because our voices are more easily heard in so many contexts, and because people of color have been advocating for themselves in this country since the American experiment began, and they are tired. And because they are not safe, and they are afraid, and that means this is not the land of the free. 

So what does this wall look like?

1. Get informed. If you think Hillary voters/liberals/progressives/elites, people of color, etc. are just whining because they lost, remember that this is not just about a shift of political power. This is about people--Americans--feeling unwelcome in their own country because of the way they look. I speak for myself and many other progressives when I say we recognize this as a wakeup call, and we know we need to listen and advocate for the people who voted for Trump because they were suffering. I included a bunch of links above that provide a start to understanding why minorities are so afraid. Please read them. Please pass them on. Please know why you should protect people, and how you can do it. 

2. Speak up. If you see anyone telling a black or brown person they will be deported, or taunting them because Trump won, or making racist comments, don't just let it go. If it's a stranger in public, interrupt. If it's a family member, tell them why it's hurtful to hear them talk that way. If it's on social media, plead for civility and be civil yourself. Commit to being more than angry, uncomfortable, or sad [but silent] when you hear racism or prejudice being perpetuated. 

3. Use your body. Go to protests (Black Lives Matter, DAPL). Volunteer with refugee resettlement agencies. Stand and watch if you see a person of color stopped by law enforcement. Speak with your feet and with your spare time. 

We're going to be ok, America. But some of us are way more ok than others right now. Under the banner of equality and unity, in our beautiful melting pot of a country, let's protect those that need it. 

Listen up, white people: we DO need to build a wall.

So Trump's going to be our next president. Our democracy will survive. So don't panic. 

Except, that's probably much easier to say if, like me, you're white. And if, like me, you were surprised by how racist and mysoginistic this country still is. I didn't realize it because I live in a bubble of educated liberal Seattle whiteness. By the way, people of color don't need to hear how shocked you are. They're not surprised, because they experience racism daily, and our history as a country makes it clear that white people prioritize white supremacy over the safety and opportunity of people of color. And your expression of shock is incredibly frustrating to them. Stop it. 

We elected Trump. By "we," I mean white people. And by "we," I mean white people whether or not you voted for Trump. We on the left have shamed, insulted, and ignored the economic suffering of Trump voters for decades, and it turns out that really disenfranchises people. 

And because we elected him, every minority he said horrible things about is now the target of the open, virulent racism that Trump's campaign and election has stirred up and vindicated, and is now pouring out all over our country like so much unholy lava. 

Here's a collection of racist things said and done in the first 24 hours after Trump was elected. Kids in kindergarten are hurling racist rhetoric at their classmates and taunting them about being deported. 

And here's another. Racist slurs against black people are being spray painted on walls. 

And another. People on Twitter are posing in front of confederate flags. 

And another. Asian Americans are being told to "go back to Asia." 

Which is why white people need to build a wall. A wall of advocacy around people of color, migrants, Muslims, LGBTQ folks, and any other group that is now living in fear in the wake of the election. Today, a friend of mine on Facebook who is a person of color posted that she is afraid to go on vacation, because they will be driving through rural areas. She does not want to have fearful thoughts, but she is afraid. For her life. In America. Because she is not white. And this is wrong, wrong, wrong. 

And why should WE (white people) build this wall? Because we need to triage; the fear people are feeling is totally rational, and they were feeling it already before the election. Because we don't suffer from this kind of discrimination, because our voices are more easily heard in so many contexts, and because people of color have been advocating for themselves in this country since the American experiment began, and they are tired. And because they are not safe, and they are afraid, and that means this is not the land of the free. 

So what does this wall look like?

1. Get informed. If you think Hillary voters/liberals/progressives/elites, people of color, etc. are just whining because they lost, remember that this is not just about a shift of political power. This is about people--Americans--feeling unwelcome in their own country because of the way they look. I speak for myself and many other progressives when I say we recognize this as a wakeup call, and we know we need to listen and advocate for the people who voted for Trump because they were suffering. I included a bunch of links above that provide a start to understanding why minorities are so afraid. Please read them. Please pass them on. Please know why you should protect people, and how you can do it. 

2. Speak up. If you see anyone telling a black or brown person they will be deported, or taunting them because Trump won, or making racist comments, don't just let it go. If it's a stranger in public, interrupt. If it's a family member, tell them why it's hurtful to hear them talk that way. If it's on social media, plead for civility and be civil yourself. Commit to being more than angry, uncomfortable, or sad [but silent] when you hear racism or prejudice being perpetuated. 

3. Use your body. Go to protests (Black Lives Matter, DAPL). Volunteer with refugee resettlement agencies. Stand and watch if you see a person of color stopped by law enforcement. Speak with your feet and with your spare time. 

We're going to be ok, America. But some of us are way more ok than others right now. Under the banner of equality and unity, in our beautiful melting pot of a country, let's protect those that need it. 

No Human Left Behind: Paris and ISIS moms

I couldn't sleep on Saturday night.  

I was doing that thing where I couldn't get off the internet and go to bed.  But like many people all over the world, on Saturday I was glued to the web because ISIS is systematically murdering people, and like many people in America, I'm paying more attention all of a sudden.

I have felt numb as this has unfolded because of that feeling of not knowing what to DO, when reposting an article and changing my profile picture feels ridiculous and infuriating in its inadequacy.  

I will not accept that this is the way the world must be, and will forever be.  I am firmly in the camp of people who have posted Martin Luther King, Jr.'s famous quote:  "Darkness cannot drive out darkness.  Only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate.  Only love can do that."

But the path forward, through the pain of those grieving in Paris and the hate of the myriad voices on social media equating Muslims and refugees with terrorists and the thicket of statements of what the true problem is--let alone the true solution...  

All of it leaves me gutted, hunched over my kitchen counter while NPR details for me that my planet is in chaos.  

I was numb.  And then I broke down and wept when I read this article about mothers of ISIS recruits.  

These women have lost a child to ISIS's twisted ideology, but not in the tragic way families in Paris and Beirut and Baghdad lost someone on Thursday and Friday.  These mothers lost their children slowly, watching them transform from awkward teenagers to newly converted Muslims to radical extremists.  And now their children are dead.

"Since the Syrian civil war began four years ago, some 20,000 foreign nationals have made their way to Syria and Iraq to fight for various radical Islamist factions... [T]heir parents are left with a form of grief that is surreal in its specificity. It is sorrow at the loss of a child, it is guilt at what he or she may have done, it is shame in the face of hostility from friends and neighbors, and it is doubt about all the things they realize they did not know about the person whom they brought into the world. Over the last year, dozens of these mothers from around the world have found each other, weaving a strange alliance from their loss."

This article broke me not because I am a mother, though it would have on that front alone.  It broke me because it brought me face to face with the humanity of the group being almost universally demonized:  ISIS fighters.  

I suggest that, like the mothers of ISIS recruits, we "weave a strange alliance from our loss."

While France's president orders a "pitiless" retaliation, while airstrikes funded by our tax dollars kill civilians in Syria, while our political leaders respond to the fearful outcry of their constituents and close their borders to refugees fleeing from these terrorists, I suggest that we employ humanity's overdue solution:

Empathy.  

Radicalized, militarized empathy.  Empathy proportional to the single-minded fervor that ISIS demonstrates.  Empathy that contemplates training camps (and then writes the curriculum and books the venues).  Empathy that includes daily rituals.  Empathy that organizes on social media, that meets in cafes, that donates money, infects voting, calls senators, and meets the hatred in our Facebook feeds with reason and compassion.  

I am seriously suggesting that, like ISIS, we plan and organize to take over the world.  That we adopt the policy, in our personal lives and in our politics, of "no human left behind."  

I am not deflecting the rage we feel toward ISIS.  Their actions are despicable.  They have murdered thousands of innocent people and caused almost 2 million to flee for their lives.  They torture people.  They have drafted a pamphlet on their rules for keeping women and girls as sex slaves.  And I am not saying that there should be no military action whatsoever.  But I am saying we should seek justice, not revenge, and we should fight against any confusion between the two that leads to militarism.  


Militarism is the grown up, globalized version of two boys on the playground pointing at the other and screaming "But he hit me first!"  It is time we matured as a species, or we will extinguish ourselves.  We can hate this ideology, and we should.  But we won't defeat ISIS until we understand why they exist and what they want.  

I have also felt numb in the wake of the Paris attacks in part because I am ashamed.  

I'm ashamed because I participate in global racism.  I knew about Paris.  But I did not know about the ISIS bombings that killed over 40 and injured over 200 in Beirut on Thursday, or the bombing at a funeral that killed 18 people in Baghdad within hours of the Paris attacks.  Not until I went beyond the New York Times and started scrolling through my Twitter feed.  

As a western media consumer, I do not demand perspective from every part of the world, and I am slow to seek it out.  I am among the countless people blogging and posting now, when articles detailing why we should care about ISIS have been available and enticingly numbered like Buzzfeed lists for months.  And so I dehumanize with my distance, privilege, and apathy.  I make people feel as though it "does not make a difference if they die."  

Justice requires empathy, because it allows us to understand what is needed to achieve it.  In Bangladesh in 2003, Mukul--one of my English students--raised his hand and asked why my president was attacking Islam.  This is the perception our militarism has created all over the world:  that our wars and airstrikes and drones are intended to destroy their entire culture, and that our violence flows from an ideology that they hate and fear as much as we hate and fear theirs.  In the 12 years since I heard that striking question (it has never left me), we have not done enough to dissolve that perception, and we have done so very much to solidify it.

If we employ empathy, we will be willing to slow down and consider how drones create extremists, why ISIS was gestated in a US military prison, and how our demand for oil laid the groundwork.   
 
If we employ empathy, we can understand how to fight ISIS's effectiveness at recruiting through social media.  Empathy will keep people from vandalizing mosques and demonizing Muslims.  It will keep us from dismissing the fears of others when they are expressed as prejudice, from writing off our co-workers or family members, from unthinkingly vilifying anyone at all.  

Empathy will keep us from perpetuating the racism that allows us to ignore violence against people who are "not like us." [they are just like us]; ongoing attacks by Boko Haram in Nigeria; the April al-Shabab attack that left 147 dead at Garissa University in Kenya, which bizarrely resurfaced after the Paris attacks on social media in a flurry of white guilt; the deaths of unarmed black men at the hands of American police officers.  

Empathy calls us to be relentlessly kind.  It will help us to love our neighbors and our enemies.  It will allow us to honor the inscription on the Statue of Liberty--a gift from France--that welcomes "the huddled masses yearning to breathe free," and avoid repeating the mistake of excluding refugees that we made during the Holocaust.  It will move us to befriend our Muslim brothers and sisters in a country that is increasingly Islamophobic.  Kindness will train our hearts and our reflexes, so that we can be more like young Parisians calling for unity, the husband of a woman killed in the Paris attacks who refuses to hate, and the father in Beirut who tackled a suicide bomber and saved hundreds of lives at the cost of his and his daughter's.  
 
Empathy as a strategy is at a disadvantage.  Many of us who see its worth are comfortable.  Our urgency is suffocating under the busyness of lives filled with jobs, families, and leisure.  Extremism is sparked and grows to inferno where there is tragedy, injustice, and deprivation.  This means that we must fight harder, and be more devoted than ISIS.  Humanity is on the line.  

Empathy allows us to understand.  And when we understand, then we can be kind.  And when we can be kind, then there can be peace.  In Paris, and everywhere. 

The grief I chose.

Ten years ago today, Nathan and I placed our firstborn son for adoption. 

I was barely 23 when I got pregnant with Benjamin.  I had just graduated from Northwest University, and was preparing to spend two years in Jakarta, Indonesia as an associate missionary.  I got my acceptance letter to the program the same week I took a pregnancy test.  Suddenly there stretched a chasm between where all my efforts and plans had directed me and where I found myself, faced with one of the biggest decisions of my life.  A decision with a ticking, eight-month clock.  

Nathan walked through the entire adoption process with me.  Our adoption counselor said it was the first time they had had a birth father in their office.  Together we went to doctor's appointments and chose a family for our child.  And then, on August 30, 2005, as Hurricane Katrina raged in the Gulf and on our hospital TV, Ben came into the world.  

I have always wanted to be a mother.  I have a fabulous example.  My mom stayed at home with the three of us, pouring countless hours into me and my brothers, feeding and cleaning and teaching and protecting.  I don't remember ever deciding I would have kids. I just knew that I would.  The desire, the inclination, was embedded so deep in who I am that it was assumed.  My unplanned pregnancy at 23 did away with my picture around that assumption.  

Writing now--a decade later--is an exercise in healing for me.  It is the outpouring of the surreal realization, with pain and vivid nostalgia, that I am the mother of a 10-year-old.  I have grieved the reality of not parenting Benjamin very deeply.  I am sure I will continue to grieve that loss, at various points in my life and his, in innumerable ways.  But in June I took a road trip, and somewhere in Wyoming I was awash in memories of him and his birth that felt so fresh as to leave me unable to breathe.  

Sometimes grief is a sniper.  You are struck with a memory, a smell, a comparison, or an image when you are simply going about your day, and you are pierced to your core.  I am amazed at how the pain can be so very near the surface, after all these years.

I am also writing now because I want to live the fullest life I can, and for me that means sharing grief as well as joy.  I want to be open about my own grief, and to be intentional about processing it alone and with others.  And sometimes in public.  I want to be a person who can meet others in their grief--with empathy, at the right times, and without fear.  It's my hope that this blog is practice toward being more fully human, and that it is an encouragement to others who are seeking ways to process and share their grief, too.  

I hope also to lend complexity to the conversation around sex, pregnancy, and parenthood.  Often it is talked about only in black and white terms: pro-life and pro-choice, abstinence-only, right and wrong.  My assumptions around parenting were of a marriage in my early 20's, a supportive partner, and at least some financial stability.  Questions of race and socio-economic status are well beyond the scope of this post, as are questions around sexuality.  But now, as a white middle-class single mother who spent several years on food stamps, and has wrestled with faith and shame around my pregnancies, I want to urge this:  whenever we encounter people whose lives don't match our picture, questions are far more important than assumptions.  

I have watched people I love dearly struggle with parenting, with the loss of a child, with miscarriage, infertility, adoption, abortion, and singleness.  There can be so much pain around the topic of children.  Or the lack of children.  All too often there is a gulf between our longings at the level of assumption and our unfeeling circumstances.  

We want children, and cannot have them.  We long for the child we no longer have.  We struggle with the distance between who we are as parents and who we want to be.   We want people to stop asking us why we don't have kids.  We want people to stop asking us why we don't want them.  

The weight is so often carried alone because it can be so hard to talk about, or to ask about.  It can stretch out unmarked by an actual date.  It is the kind of pain that is too easily misunderstood, ignored, or dismissed.  But it is so much lighter when shared, and I am so grateful to the people who have helped me carry the weight of being a birth parent.  

I will never forget the pain I sensed from Benjamin's mother and father the first time we met with them.  They told us their story with a practiced and partial vulnerability, in the coffee shop at Third Place Books in Shoreline.  It was a neutral place calculated to neutralize the gravity of the meeting, where we nibbled on scones for show and talked about giving them our baby. 

On September 1, 2005, we placed a child for adoption.  I placed my baby...my son...the warm, wriggling embodiment of a desire so deep I assumed it, into the arms of another woman.  And she and Benjamin's father received from me and Nathan a son who embodied the difficult road of adoption along with the joy of a newborn.  A road that led them through literal barrenness and emotional barrenness.  A searing, vast, and all too public desert, littered with discarded versions of a desire they spent years and thousands pursuing in an alternative form after it could no longer be assumed. 

There are the moments so etched in my memory that I can see and feel them if I just close my eyes and put out the barest of efforts.  

I will never forget the walk down the hallway in the hospital after his family had come to pick him up.  They stayed behind, in the postpartum suite with our adoption counselor.  And Nathan and I, faces swollen and streaked with two days of tears, shuffled toward the elevator.  We carried flowers and hospital bags, but no car seat.  No diaper bag.  The walls were pale green and lit with that fluorescent light that is the stuff of the worst scenes in movies.  The tile on the floor was bland white and cream checkered.  Each step was a leaden fight, a refusal to do what all my instincts told me to do:  throw myself on the floor and allow the primal wail to escape from the pit of my stomach.  Run back and burst through the door and say I was sorry, but I couldn't do it.  

When we made it to the elevator, I stood clinging to Nathan's hand like a life ring as our tiny steel compartment full of strangers sank toward the parking garage.  They all stared and shifted uncomfortably and looked away.  I'm sure they thought we had lost someone.  And we had.  

I will never forget being two days out, lying in recovery and shock in bed, with bags of frozen corn laid across my chest to help the milk that had filled my breasts subside.  I breastfed for the two days we were in the hospital, giving my son the parting gift of colostrum I knew was so full of antibodies and nutrients, instead of starting him right away on formula.  The skin on my chest was so taut and burning hot it felt like it would explode.  I was struck in the moment with the thought that even if the knowledge and the emotion of what had just happened disappeared, even for a second of reprieve, the physical pain would remain.  My body ached and throbbed with one constant, desperate, accusatory question: "Where is he?"

I think it was the year Benjamin turned five, as Nathan and I were walking away from our annual meeting with him and his family, that we realized the weight had shifted.  It had taken five years, but finally the joy of what we had done for him and for his family outweighed the pain that we felt in losing him.

All this said, I would change none of it.  It is the decision in my life that I am proud of, if I need to point to just one.  I believed the best way I could be a mother to Benjamin was to decide, with all of the herculean meaning behind that decision, to place him with a family who could give him what I could not.  The certainty of a home, of parents who were prepared, of parents whose longing fit his timing.

I believe I was brave in that choice.  I was true to my definition of love: to do what is best for the object of your love, even if that action comes at tremendous cost.  And I believe I was wise.  I knew I could not give my son the life I wanted--assumed--I would give to my children.  And I knew he could have that life, if I was willing to choose it for him.  

The costs of all of it are yet to be borne fully.  For Benjamin.  For his parents and sister.  For Miles.  For me and for Nathan, and for our families.  I have no doubt there will be questions asked, tears shed,  resentments worked through, and stories told and retold and processed over all our lifetimes. 

And those moments will be part of the practice at those junctures.  As this one is now.  

I Support Boko Haram.

On April 15, Boko Haram (a Nigerian terrorist organization that roughly translates to "Western education is sinful") kidnapped nearly 300 girls aged 15-18 from their schools in Borno, a province in northeastern Nigeria.  At last report, a few had escaped but 276 were still being held.

It took the Nigerian President 3 weeks to say anything publicly about the abduction.  Boko Haram has been wreaking havoc in Nigeria since 2002, and this is certainly not the first time they have killed or kidnapped.

So...why exactly do I think I have any responsibility in this?  

A week and a half ago, I was in a class on "Legal and Policy Solutions for Women and Adolescent Girls."  The class is phenomenal, and on this particular night we heard from a doctor who is helping to lobby Congress for a bill entitled "Education for All Act of 2013."  It would make quality universal basic education in all developing countries an objective of U.S. foreign policy.

Why does this matter?  Nicholas Kristof explains it really well in his fantastic article about the Boko Haram kidnappings (and offers several easy and practical ways to get involved):

"Why are fanatics so terrified of girls' education?  Because there's no force more powerful to transform a society.  The greatest threat to extremism isn't drones firing missiles, but girls reading books."  

Kristof goes on to list the benefits of educating and empowering girls and women.  It reduces the risk of civil war.  It boosts a nation's economy.  It raises living standards.  It promotes ongoing, long term development.  It creates stable, healthy nations (he includes some impressive examples).  This leads to greater global security.  AND it's a far cheaper solution than military tactics to counter terrorism.  BONUS!!  

So, I thought this Education Act sounded like a great idea.  I even looked up the bill.  But I didn't do anything more than that.

I support Boko Haram with my complacency.

I accept my privilege and comfort every day, and am often given small opportunities (like contacting my Congressman) to help people both here and around the world, whose privilege and comfort is far less than mine.  It is my responsibility to think, to speak, and to act to create a more just world.  Mine.  I am a free moral agent.  

I am often overwhelmed, over-stimluated, and apathetic when confronted with the world's big problems.  But I cannot stop there.  I have to ask myself what I can do.  Now.  Today.  What is small enough to fit into this 5 (or 60) minutes that I have?  And I need to make sure it is practical, has an impact, is something I can tell other people about, or is something that might move others to act as well.  I have so very much, simply by virtue of living in America and having internet access.  I can afford to structure my heart and my time with intention to take those opportunities, big and small, to shift the balance towards those in need.

But wait, there's more.  

It's not just me, although that's the place for me to start.  It's us.  As a country.  

We support Boko Haram as a nation with our complacency.  

I'm not the only one who hasn't followed through on my opportunities to help.  Kristof's article also cites to Obama's 2008 campaign promise to provide $2 billion to establish a Global Education Fund to "offer an alternative to extremist schools."  He hasn't followed through on that promise.  

Boko Haram started one of these "extremist schools."  It's being used to recruit fighters from among the poorest of the poor in Nigeria and neighboring countries.  Most of their members are impoverished and unemployed men from the north, the poorest part of the country.  

This problem won't be stopped until the ruling elite are called to account and pressured to prioritize education and greater equity in their country.  Nigeria has really big problems to solve, and they can use our support if it's done with humility, respect, and under Nigerian leadership.  

So what should we do, from our end?  We could demonstrate with our political voices that we care.  That it's important to us to pass bills like the Education for All Act, or the International Violence Against Women Act of 2013, which would make ending violence against women and girls a diplomatic and foreign assistance priority for the U.S.  Which brings me to my next point... 

We support Boko Haram with our foreign policy.

We've known about Boko Haram for awhile, and they were designated a foreign terrorist organization last year.  They are notoriously violent, killing over 1,500 people to date.  But U.S. efforts in Nigeria remain a sidelined national security afterthought, and we have not matched our efforts to our rhetoric when it comes to counterterrorism in the region.  This is fool-hardy.  Nigeria is the largest economy in Africa (it's big enough to qualify for the G-20), the eighth largest exporter of oil, and the fourth largest exporter of liquid natural gas.  But it has the highest levels of inequality in Africa as well.  The majority of Nigerians live in poverty, and there is 80% youth unemployment.  If we want a stable Africa--or even a stable global economy--we should take Nigeria into account in a much more serious way.  

Jon Stewart's bit on the kidnappings features a clip of Rush Limbaugh heartlessly discounting Michelle Obama's #BringBackOurGirls advocacy (and is--as usual--worth watching; Stewart offers a stirring tribute to those young women):

American foreign policy and the American public are nearly oblivious to Africa until a tragedy like this erupts, and Limbaugh's dismissiveness (along with Ann Coulter's) reflects the deeply grievous fact that he can nearly count on his audience to be so callous as to be amused by his comments.  

But the reaction to Michelle's picture on Twitter reflects another aspect of U.S. foreign policy that only serves to strengthen Boko Haram and groups like them:  

The U.S. policy of ordering drone strikes on suspected terrorists in Pakistan, Yemen, Afghanistan, and Somalia has also resulted in hundreds of civilian deaths, inflaming Islamist hatred of the U.S., which bolsters terrorist organizations.  Drones have also terrorized civilians, fueling general fear and hatred for America among impoverished majority Muslim populations--the most likely targets for recruitment by terrorist groups.  

Our national strategy for "promoting and protecting U.S. national security interests abroad" is Diplomacy, Development, and Defense.  I assure you they are not funded in that order.  This is due in part to the U.S. government's response to our collective fear of terrorists after 9/11 (and due in part to lobbying by the military industrial complex, but that'll have to wait for another post).  

What if we made it know to our government that what we really fear is a world where girls are left to fend for themselves against corrupt governments that hoard resources, leaving them without opportunities for education and employment and vulnerable to human trafficking, early marriage, and a host of other human rights violations?  

Last night I stopped as I was getting ready for bed to imagine what these girls are going through.

It took about 5 seconds to be overcome with the horror of what has happened to them.  I imagined them lying on the ground at night, surrounded by the muffled sobs of the other girls and the crude laughter of their captors.  Some of them have already been trafficked as "brides" to their captors for a price of about $12 American dollars, a fate that Boko Haram thinks is much more suitable for young women than a chance at becoming a teacher, a doctor, or a lawyer.

These girls knew the risk they were taking in going to school.  Boko Haram has a stronghold in their province, and schools in the province had closed the month before because of the risk of terrorist attacks.  But they stayed.  They were asleep in their dorms when the armed militants arrived.

Let's see...what did I worry about on the way to school today?  I wasn't quite sure I'd chosen the rights sandals to go with my maxi dress, and I was a little worried about tripping over my hem at some point because I'm about as graceful as a three-legged gazelle.  But I was not worried about being abducted.  There are no terrorist groups in Seattle capable of overwhelming the police force and dragging me out of my Securities Regulation class.

These girls thought their education was worth it.

The danger they face is no match in their courageous hearts for the opportunity and privilege of going to school.  No wonder Malala Yousafzai says Boko Haram is afraid of these girls.  That kind of determination will revolutionize the world.

I want to demonstrate more of that kind of determination.  Today I followed the link to the "Education for All Act of 2013."  It let me leave a message for my Congressman letting him know it's important to me that he supports this Act.  It took me 3 minutes.

I also signed the Amnesty International petition to support the International Violence Against Women Act.  

It's a start.  I know I can do more.  I know if I was being held by a terrorist organization, I'd want people around the world to think about what else they could do.  

Let's #BringBackOurGirls.

And let's go farther than that.  Let's take the opportunities we are presented with.  Let's raise our voices and let our government know that we want a different world.  One where the only thing a girl has to worry about on the way to school is whether or not she chose the right sandals.

Failing Slowly and Playing with Color

Six years ago last month, I started my journey into nonprofit management.

I was in the midst of a divorce, unemployed, and the mother of a toddler.  I was scrabbling to sort out the wreckage of my life, and to find a path forward.

I was watching the world change, as a woman and a black man were the front runners for the Democratic nomination for president.  But I was also railing against the ways in which the world was not changing.  I was reading a lot about human trafficking, child marriage, female genital mutilation, and other ways women and girls are denied their humanity for profit or tradition.

One night, I read this article, titled "Shunned from society, widows flock to city to die."  It describes Indian widows, who are forced to shave their heads when their husbands die and are ostracized from society because they are considered to be bad luck.  I was seized by this quote, from a woman who had been sent away from her family when her husband of 50 years passed away:

"My son tells me:  'You have grown old.  Now who is going to feed you?  Go away,'" she says, her eyes filling with tears.  "What do I do?  My pain had no limit."  

I could feel her grief.  I felt shock at the depths of her deprivation--of identity, of respect, of relationships, of the dignity of an old age lived in comfort, surrounded by the family you have worked so hard to raise.

But that isn't how it works when there isn't enough food to go around.

I don't want to live in a world where I have so much, and women like her have so very, very little, and then shake my head sadly and turn a blind eye to that kind of searing injustice.

So I started shaving my head every year.  I did it because I needed to do something.  I did it because I wanted what I did to match in some way the starkness of the lives of the women and girls I wanted to advocate for.  My hair was a part of my identity as a woman that I could give up, in order to speak up for women like her.

And now?

Well, now I've decided I'm going to stop.

I have essentially failed slowly.

Bald Solidarity failed to grow under my leadership to a size where I could make it my full time work.   I have failed to get funding.  I have failed to keep volunteers around long term, which was likely due in part to my failure to manage them well.  I have failed to find people to do the work with me that it would require to make Bald Solidarity what I imagined it could be.  

And I couldn't be more grateful for or more proud of my experience.

I've shaved my head, in public, five times.  I've had the incredible privilege of meeting others who were moved enough to join me and do it too.  My volunteers and board members have been amazing, helping me organize talks in high schools and youth groups, benefit concerts, and our annual head shave.  We've raised thousands of dollars to create educational and economic opportunity for women and girls with fantastic organizations like Equality Now, UNICEF's Maternal Mortality program, Coalition Against Trafficking, Washington Anti-Trafficking Response Network (WARN), and the Girl Effect.  We've freaked out crowds of passersby at Westlake Center Park.  We've spurred thought about gender and poverty--in ourselves as well as in others.  

It would be a mistake in writing this blog to pretend that this decision has not been very difficult.

When I started Bald Solidarity, I committed to myself and to my board to keep it going for 5 years.  I also committed to a continual process of asking the question, "Is this the best way to accomplish our goal?  Is there a better way to use money and time to advocate for women and girls?"

None of my reasons for doing it have disappeared.  All of those problems I linked to in the first paragraph still exist.  So, why give up now?  I'm going into a field where I don't necessarily need hair.  I have supportive friends and family who think my crazy head-shaving is pretty great.  I have a boyfriend who was sad when I told him I had decided to wrap it up.

Simply, I have concluded that the answer to the question I asked above "is this the best way...?" is no longer "yes."  I long to work with a team of people, to learn from others, to combine resources rather than being out on my own.  I'll be looking for exactly this kind of environment in a few months, when I am done with school.  

I am also burned out.  For the last four years I have been in grad school, raising a small child, and running a nonprofit.  I mention this because I think it's important to acknowledge weakness and personal need, especially in the context of advocacy and human rights work.  What we are doing feels so urgent, so necessary.  And it is.  But having the greatest impact over the long term requires reassessing what we are capable of doing well, and being willing to go through seasons where we rest, or just do less.

Just do less.  And do those fewer things better.  

Something else happened last month--something far more important than the anniversary of me starting a nonprofit.  

Widows in India--those same widows who are being abandoned by their families and forced into a living non-existence--participated in Holi, the Hindu springtime festival to celebrate color and love.  When they are widowed, they are expected to stop wearing colorful clothes and indulging in earthly pleasures...so no Holi.  But this March, they'd had enough.  

The pictures are incredible.  These women who have worn bland white, who have been hidden from society, danced and laughed while people above doused them with colored water.  They celebrated.  They threw off the shame that widowhood and poverty has cloaked them with.  They celebrated with each other, in a supportive and joyful community, championing equality and breaking society's bonds.  

I wept when I read these stories.  Bald Solidarity may be done, but the movement of empowering women and girls goes on.  There is hope.  There is progress.  There are women who were marginalized, rising up and playing with color.  And I have been honored over these years to participate with them, on the other side of the world.  To throw color around with others who have had enough of injustice.  

This is my challenge, at this phase of my life, to myself and to anyone reading this:

Fail slowly.  Try something big and scary.  And find ways to play with color.  

10 Reasons You Should Shave Your Head with Me in 2013

This August 31st, I'll be shaving my head in public for the 5th year in a row for Bald Solidarity, the nonprofit that I started in 2008.  For anyone reading this who hasn't heard me prattling on about it for five years, here's what we do:  

Our participants raise money to support organizations globally and locally that address gender inequity, especially the kind of inequity that results in violence or death to women.  What exactly do we mean by that?  We've raised money to fight human trafficking, female genital mutilation, and maternal mortality.  We've also raised money to send girls to school, which is one of the best ways to combat poverty and make sure girls and women aren't vulnerable to this kind of discrimination.  

Why do we do this?  For me it was born out of a reaction of shock when I realized just how great the distance was between my privilege and the deprivation of women and girls in the poorest regions of the world.  I live in the wealthiest country in the world, and I have the ability to raise my voice for those whose voices are muffled or ignored.  

Our participants give up a piece of their dignity (our hair) to enable us to speak up for these women and girls who have their dignity as human beings stripped from them.  It's a statement of solidarity, but also a call to action.  We do this because we want a world where everyone has a shot at life, no matter where on the planet they are born.

This year, I'm personally asking everyone to join me.  If you've talked to me about this, you know I haven't been pushy.  Shaving your head is...well, it's a pretty personal decision.  But this year, I'm asking.  I challenge you to think seriously about shaving with us this year.  


Here are my reasons:

10.  It will save you money on hair products for months.

Shampoo (here's one that costs 320 Euros!!!).  Conditioner.  Hairspray.  Crew hair gel.  That new straightener/defrizzer/blowdryer/curling iron/curlers...whatever.  Throw it all in a bag and tuck it away, my friend.  You will not be capable of having a bad hair day for at least a couple months.  

9.  Late summer in Seattle is always so much better with a buzz cut.  Trust me. 

No explanation needed here beyond advice about SPF and sun hats for the first few days. 

8.  Every year, when you’ve seen pictures of my pale bald head, you’ve thought “Maybe next year,” or “Maybe I should do that.”

You're already on board.  You get it.  Gender inequality and poverty makes you mad.  Human trafficking moves you.  Empowering girls and women is something you're passionate about.  But every year you think, "What will my job think?"  "What will my boyfriend think?"  "What will I think?"

Ask them.  Ask your boss.  Ask your boyfriend.  Ask yourself.  If there's really a hang-up to you doing something gutsy to embody the activist inside you, confront it head-on.  Why not today?  Why not now?  The world doesn't wait for you to feel perfectly comfortable with taking a leap.

7.  When you think about all the injustice in the world, you want to DO something, but you feel overwhelmed.    

Think about the worst problem you can think of.  No, really.  What is it?  Global warming?  Starvation and malnutrition?  North Korea's missiles?  Barack Obama?  

Now think about the power you have as an individual to address that problem.  Wait.  Before you go to that place of feeling helpless and overwhelmed, remember this.  You have a voice.  You live in a country where you can say anything you want.  You are a moral agent, with infinite possibility to create good in the world.  

But why should I shave my head, you say?   Good question.

First, because when you put poverty and gender together, you get some of the most widespread human rights abuses our world has ever known.  For a brief and inspiring summary (no, really--it's inspiring!), check out this TED Talk by Sheryl WuDunn, co-author of "Half the Sky."  Take the "missing women" phenomenon, for example.  Now, with the estimates that include gender-selective abortion, the total of women who are gone from the population simply because they are female has reached 160 million.  This number is more than all the deaths from all the wars and genocides of the 20th century.  And it has happened quietly.  We're willing to shave our heads because we don't think it should happen so quietly anymore.  We don't think it should happen at all.

Second, do it for yourself.  Do it because you want to shout with us.  Do it because volunteering and giving makes us happier.  Do it because SCIENCE.  

I'm guessing so many of you reading this are already doing super awesome things to save the world.  If so, YAY!  Don't give up.  Don't get discouraged.  And if you currently need a place to put your passions (or develop your passions), YAY!  Do it with us!  Whether or not you're moving your own mountain, I'd invite you to consider helping me move this one (the gender inequity one).  ESPECIALLY if you've been looking for a place to put your energies.  Keep reading for the reasons that have motivated me to do it.   

6.  Charlize Theron says it’s liberating and every woman should try it.  (We agree, and we think men should try it too). 

I can verify this.  I actually snorted with joyful surprise when I caught that first glimpse of my bald self in a mirror four years ago.  It wasn't because I thought I looked good.  It was because, maybe for the first time ever, I felt like I could really see myself.  And I felt so free.  

This speaks to something very deep in us, namely the need to be ourselves without fear of criticism (from ourselves or anyone else).  Which brings me to my next reason...

5.  Our culture tells us that being beautiful (or handsome) matters – maybe more than anything else.  [It doesn’t.]

From Snooki's weight loss to Reddit's "Lady Boners" to critical comments about Angelina Jolie no longer having breasts after her choice to undergo a double mastectomy, it is obvious that we as a society are obsessed with looks.  And we can all be honest with ourselves--this affects us.  It affects the way we think about ourselves, and the way we perceive others, and it takes a lot of effort to choose a different mindset.  I have started telling my son something about beauty that I read recently (and loved):  that there are no ugly people.  That ugly is an attitude, something that lives inside rather than outside.  I want him to grow up valuing himself and others for their character, and I want to remind us both of how important this is as often as possible.  

I didn't intend Bald Solidarity to serve as a vehicle for pushing against this cultural norm, but it turns out that it challenges it at the core.  Or at least it has done so for me, and for others who have participated with Bald.  And I hope it has enabled us to be a few more voices among many calling for a new way of defining beauty in our culture.  

4.  You care about women (your wife, girlfriend, mother, sister, daughter…yourself), and you think every woman should be free from bodily harm and encouraged to reach her potential as a human being.

This is the easy one.  We can all recognize that no person should have to face starvation, child marriage, a denial of basic education, or the threat of violence.  Yet this is the reality for so many girls and women around the world, simply because they are girls and women.  Let's not neglect to act on their behalf just because they're far away.  A lack of proximity to injustice does not erase our human responsibility to see that it ends.  

3.  Actions speak louder than words.  Some actions speak louder than others.  

Americans are givers.  Many of us have a cause or two we volunteer some time to, a few humanitarian organizations we have liked on Facebook, and a few charitable deductions on our tax returns.  These humble, behind the scenes commitments are at the core of what makes humanity beautiful, and we shouldn't stop doing them.  However, the state of things on the planet calls for us to ask some fearless questions about what it would take to solve some of the problems we care about, and then base our actions on those answers.  We should beware of defeatism or cynicism that says that injustice is the way things are, if that in any way dampens our determination to fight against it.  

To be sure, we can't all be full time activists.  But all of us can be part-time activists.  We can all prioritize speaking up for the vulnerable.  Part of my thinking behind starting Bald Solidarity was that despite the good efforts of many good people, global poverty (and the human rights abuses that result from it) still causes several billion people to live without the most basic resources that we take for granted.  Like clean water.  If we are to have a world where everyone has a shot at life, we have to make it known--to ourselves, to our communities, to our government, and to the world--that we will settle for nothing less.  That requires stirring the pot and getting people to pay attention.  Shaving our heads isn't a stunt.  It's a statement.  I have come to believe that loud statements, from many, many people in the developed world, are critically necessary.  

2.  It will change the lives of girls and women who are among the most vulnerable people on the planet.

"To the men who buy us, we are like meat. To everybody else in society, we simply do not exist."  This is Ayesha's story, third in Equality Now's Survivor Stories series.  She talks about being tricked into prostitution by a human trafficker who promised her a job and then sold her to a brothel.   

Because of some amazing advocacy surrounding the issue of human trafficking (see here and here for two great organizations in Seattle), this is a familiar story to many of us.  But every time there is a new face and a new name attached, it reminds me that their lives are just as detailed and real and human as mine, even though we're separated by thousands of miles and incredible differences in opportunity.  And it just seems so deeply wrong that so many years of her life were stolen because someone took advantage of her in such a despicable way, and that my life has been a story of receiving endless support from others (family, teachers, mentors) and pursuing a wealth of opportunities.  

The money that we raise goes to organizations that strike at the root of situations like Ayesha's.  They provide advocacy, education, and refuge to women and girls just like her.  Though you will probably never meet the people you help with us, you can know that because of your willingness, there will be someone who won't be treated "like meat."  That's enough for me.  

The United Nations Declaration of Human Rights says in Article 22 that we are all entitled as human beings to dignity and free development of our personalities, and that our culture--and the economic opportunities afforded to us within that culture, should facilitate this.  Let's keep this standard in mind when we think about what we want for our world.  For everyone in our world.  

1.  It will change your life.  You’ll never see yourself—or your world—in the same way again.  

I recently read this article on CNN called "Six tips from your future self."  It was based on an in-depth study of 1,200 older people, and was a condensed list of the biggest mistakes young people make.  Number 6 was "passing up opportunities."  The respondents to the study said they regretted things they hadn't done much more than things they had done.  

Our tagline for Bald Solidarity's website used to say, "Your hair will grow back.  Their lives will be changed."  It's true.  Hair grows back.  Mine has every year, without fail.  And it turns out I'm still me, even with this odd little yearly ritual.  

So what am I saying?  Do something crazy that will change your perspective.  You won't regret it. 


Phew...that's it.   


If you've made it to the end of this...thank you.  I can't tell you how much it has meant to me that people have supported Bald Solidarity in a hundred different ways.  If I've convinced you, and you're ready to shave with us, that's great--please don't hesitate to sign up.  If you still think I'm nuts, but you're willing to support this kind of insanity, please consider donating.  You'll have my deepest gratitude and the gratitude of those whose situations call for our action.