My clothes are on fire.

In 2003, I lived in Bangladesh for the summer, where I taught English to university students in Dhaka, the capital city.

This experience changed my life forever.  It solidified my love for curry, sweltering weather, and living in the developing world.  It taught me to barter in noisy, crowded markets.  It marked the beginnings of my understanding of gender inequality, and deepened my understanding of how fortunate I am.  I left a part of myself in that country.  I'm sure anyone who's spent any amount of time overseas can relate to that feeling.

Today, I read about one of the worst accidents in a garment factory in the history of Bangladesh.  Over 100 people died in a fire that consumed the building, which was not equipped with fire exits.

I remember seeing the lines of women as they stood waiting to get into work in the factories early in the morning.  Women who crowded into the city from the rural areas, desperate for a job (the minimum wage for a garment worker is about $37 a month, but that's still enough of a draw for those living on less than $2 a day).  Clothes make up 80% of Bangladesh's annual exports, and with factories all over the country, they are second only to China in producing clothes for brands like Tommy Hilfiger, Gap, Calvin Klein, H&M, Target and Walmart.

I know, without even having to look, that there are clothes in my closet that say "Made in Bangladesh" on the tag.  I feel conflicted about how my consumerism plays into the growth of a country that I love, because of the sweat and dedication of women like the ones I used to see standing in line, who were so eager to have the opportunity to support their families.  I feel conflicted because of the danger they endure, because they are poor and because their safety is less important than profit and cheap clothing.

I want to invite anyone who reads this to remember.  To remember that there are people we've never met whose lives we affect.  Remember when you shop.  When you vote.  When you talk about what's wrong with the world.  And to remember that you and I, as members of a democratic, wealthy, and powerful society, have an opportunity to speak up for people who don't even have fire exits on their buildings.

Shaving your head is easy.

It's true.

I've shaved my head, in public, for three years in a row. And I'm going to do it again this year. It's really easy. You sit in a chair, and a capable and kind-hearted volunteer from VAIN Salon takes a clipper to your noggin and relieves you of the burden of styling your hair, at least for a few months. It's passive, definitely a nice moment for reflection, and--after you've done it a few times--actually kind of relaxing.

Advocacy is not easy.

This is also true.

The reasons I've been shaving my head for three years in a row, and the reasons I'm going to do it again this summer, have to do with the nonprofit I run (Bald Solidarity).

Since I was 15 and took my first trip to Honduras, I've been asking myself how I can best serve the poorest people on the planet, the people living on less than $2 a day. This question took me back to Honduras two more times, and then to Bangladesh as part of my undergrad program. I've seen some of the people I want to serve, and their faces and their stories are burned on my heart and mind. I've also read a lot of books, and articles, listened to a lot of TED Talks, and enrolled myself in two graduate programs. My answers to the "How do I serve the poor?" question have become more complex, but they've also solidified into the idea that originally made me want to shave my head in public:

I think elevating the status of women and girls in the developing world is a crucial piece of ending extreme poverty. So do a lot of other folks, actually, which is nice, because if you're going to feel slightly crazy, it's better if you're in good company. When you're asking (and trying to answer) huge questions, it's nice to have people like Kofi Annan (the former Secretary General of the UN) saying things like, "There is no tool for development more effective than the empowerment of women."

Advocacy is hard because you have to tell a difficult story--lots of difficult stories. You have to tell the kinds of stories Nicholas Kristof tells in his book "Half the Sky." Stories about women and young girls whose lives are in jeopardy because they happen to have been born as women in the developing world.

Here's the super short story of why I originally decided to shave my head:

It was four years ago, in the run-up to the 2008 elections, that I was reading a lot about things like human trafficking, female genital mutilation, child brides, honor killings--human rights abuses that happen because women are still viewed and treated as property in many parts of the world. I started really thinking about what it was like to be one of those women. To be trapped, hurt, and violated--simply because my culture demanded it, or allowed it.

I remember sobbing in my car, gripping my steering wheel with the anger and frustration and senselessness of it all. And just like that, just because for a minute or two I could imagine myself in their shoes, in their desperation, I knew I wanted to do something just as desperate.

The reason I shave my head every year is because I think I can see. I think the story has been told to me, and now I can't forget it, and I feel compelled to tell others.

Which makes advocacy easy, at least as far as the getting the motivation to tell the story goes. It's how to tell the story that keeps me awake at night.

I said I think I can see. I can't see perfectly, and I'm still asking lots of questions. Questions about how our country measures up in terms of targeting aid to the poor. Questions about how a single mom with a lot of student debt is [eventually] supposed to find a job serving the poor. Questions about how the ways women are treated in the developing world relate to the ways women are still disadvantaged in my own culture.

Advocacy is hard because you have to do it in the middle of life.

In the middle of going to work, and finding time to work out, and raising kids, and doing the readings for your constitutional law class.

Advocacy is hard because our world is loud, and the voices competing for your time and efforts are so many.

I'm writing this post because I think advocacy is essential for all of us. I think we need to understand the stories of people whose lives are different from ours, and who need our help. I think we need this because the inspiration that comes from identifying with someone's pain is one of those aspects of human love that makes us whole, makes us bigger, stretches our hearts, and gives us strength to face our own problems with perspective.

So shave your head with me in July.

Or run a 5k. Or paint your house bright green with eco-friendly paint and host climate change talks in your living room.

Do something desperate. You need to.