268/365

he just wanted to be a good man.

but scared to make a wrong move,

say the wrong thing, offend and be cancelled.

open to accountability partners, only to realise perfection

should never be a barometer for expected behaviour.

the politics of our systems make it hard

to admit mistakes, take responsibility, offer apologies,

accept forgiveness, be fallible. when each side is armed

with pitch forks and hungry for blame and blood and vengeance,

there is little chance for restorative justice, empathy, listening.

i am sure i have been hurt. i am sure i’ve hurt.

every mirror offers years of truths and reality.

underneath each mask, we cower-

oppressor and oppressed alike. hungry

for acceptance and somebody to acknowledge,

and validate our pain.

justice is not vengeance

vengeance is not justice.

without love and listening

we’re just perpetuating

torment and trauma,

poking at each others scars

and picking at the scabs.

both sides covered in blood

while the status quo, never satiated,

hunts for new prey.

258/365

if you’re here to be a dutiful student
and jump through academic hoops
to get the right answers and chase grades
in order to be successful and play the part
and go to university to get a good job
and make good money
and do what your told and always follow the rules
and be afraid and timid to get things wrong
or to share your opinions, or to take a risk
or be your true self-
then you might be in the wrong place
and wasting our time.

we are in the business of miracles and magic.
we are discovering, unpacking and building
our identities. the thinking work we do in here
should follow you like a shadow everywhere you go.
these windows, mirrors and sliding glass doors
are your ticket to all the freedom you can imagine.

we are not concerned with you telling us what you
think we want to hear. we are concerned with depth,
complexity, independence, agency, safety, inclusion.
we are interested in justice and belonging.  
we are here for peace.

we are here to be our true selves. alone and together
to discover the joy and pain in the world and in our hearts,
to construct meaning together
and render ourselves vital in the service
of others.

sit up straight.
open your mind.
class is about to start.

179/365

the intensity
with which
so many brilliant people,
worldwide, educators
everyone one off them,
work to improve teaching
and learning for so many kids
across so many schools,
on every continent
is admirable and full of hope,
until you look around,
passed the mission statements,
visions and school values
and realise how little
we understand children, each other
or the world we’re trying to create.
who knew that peace and justice
would need this much work?

Service Is...

Service is leaving things better than you found them. It is getting a towel and wiping down the table at Santai after you eat. It is asking your friends if you could clear the table for them or hold the door open for the person that does. It is picking up trash that isn’t yours and learning the names of the people who serve your food and clean our classrooms. It is a smile and a good morning or afternoon.

Service is turning love into action. It is the awareness that other people exist and have needs, just like you and then taking an interest in their lives. It is the ability to empathize and put another person’s need in front of your own. It is saying thank you and please and reminding the people you love or admire that you love and admire them. It is walking in another person’s shoes and wondering how that might feel.

Service is sacrifice without attention or applause. It is working behind the scenes and putting in the hours, the months, the years. It is attending the meetings at lunch while your friends are resting. It is taking five years to see your goals start to blossom. It is your ability to invest parts of yourself that you weren’t sure you had. It is commitment and consistency. It is trial and error and being open-minded.

Service is traveling and talking to the locals. Ignoring the tours and getting to know people. Sitting on the ground and playing with children, asking questions, dancing awkwardly, eating new food,learning to look foolish and laughing it off. It is seeing all cultures as valid and important. It is valuing diversity and promoting understanding. It is celebrating embarrassment and finding joy in the absurd.

Service is internalizing injustice and finding ways to pick yourself up and fight. It is about speaking out at every opportunity against racism, sexism, homophobia and xenophobia. It is about equality and fairness. All over the world, but also in your classroom, in our hallways, in your heart.

Service is making mistakes and learning from them. It is taking responsibility for your actions and teaching your peers. It is being a kind leader and a useful team player. It is not about being perfect like a saint, but about taking small steps, each day toward bigger goals. It is about being true to yourself, even as you are constantly changing. It is about laying the foundations of who you are and who you are becoming. It is about finding the heros and deepening your values.

Service is ignoring the voices that say you are lame. Ignoring the people who pride themselves on cheating the system. It is finding ways to make your world, in even the tiniest ways, better. Not using straws, watching the packaging in what you eat, checking the label for Palm Oil, because you love turtles and orangutans. The oceans and the forests. It is reading the news and following current events. It is about boycotts and protests.

Service is getting to know people who are different than you, and not just from Kenya or Cambodia, but in your grade level, in your class. It is taking risks and building confidence. It is worrying about peace and justice more than popularity and being liked. It is taking a stand when someone needs it most. Defending the underdog, even when you are the underdog, knowing full well there is a dog further under than you.

Service is tending to the cynical voices in your head and fanning the flames of your ideals. It is realizing that, “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better.” It is singing that the, “Times are a changing’” and finding causes to stand for and ideas to champion. It is reading the news and finding allies. It is about making connections and building teams.

Service is political and personal. Global and local. It is saying that the world and its future and everything in it, matter enough to you right now to learn more about it, care more about it, do something about it. It is clean water and healthy food. It is understanding the causes and impacts of poverty, crime, violence and working toward solutions.

Service is uncomfortable and awkward. It is sometimes boring and painful. It is getting your hands dirty with soil and watching a seed grow. It is sitting next to an elderly Chinese woman while she stares into the distance, you might feel vulnerable and small, and this is service too. It is giving a younger kid a high five, or a teacher a compliment when they teach you well.

Service is being open and honest and truthful with yourself. It is confronting your own bias and prejudices. It is overcoming pity and shame, and the need to fix the world through blind charity, but instead investing your blood, sweat and tears into the lives of other people. People you might not know from across continents, or maybe your neighborhood, mother or father.

Service is derailing the status quo and business as usual. It is the opposite of the grind and bureaucracy. It is finding your strength and passion and skill-set and finding ways to connect to other people. It is widening the circle of your influence and being open to influences on you. It is about listening to other people.

Service is not something you have to do.
Service is who you are.

bridges

I dreamt in chunks last night,
my exhausted body unable to move
each limb sawed off like a sad branch
laid in a pile of lifeless lumber.

My mind, however, was awake
and wild in dreams of wonder:
Does wood remember being a tree?
Paper of wood?
Books of memories before they were stories?

The dreams were intense and world blending:
Jason was there and we were in a fancy restaurant,
me agog over some nice wine and the cut
of an helium tomato, yellow in this case,
and he asking for his fifth glass of water.
It is known in our circles that he is seldom
impressed or aware of the subtilise of tomato flavours.
In my dream I wonder
if his disdain for fine dining
is still the case,
seeing that we haven’t eaten
in a restaurant together,
fancy or not,
in years.

In my other dream, my students are there.
We are in Italy and I have patched them together
as a quilt I hope will take.
I am hosting a parent event in a piazza.
The sun is bright and everyone is enjoying
tomatoes and wine.
The blanket of kids I have woven have found skateboards
and are doing alie-s and jumps on the ancient cobbled streets
wearing hats and sunglasses.
Looking cool and confident
as kids their age should be.
The parents are getting drunk and singing each other love songs.

I am a bridge that spans many worlds,
keeping it all together, unsure of the exact location of the center.
I am a web of spans held together by fragile wire.
The distances may vary,
but these connections are taut and made of steel.

I must confess I am awake now, at least I think I am.
Ready to face the conscious part of my consciousness.
I envision the day lived in chunks as well.
I am in my room at Daraja,
The pre-dawn sounds of howling dogs, chirping birds, and rooster crows
are a symphony unconducted music.

The room is dark, expect for the tunnel of
light cast from my laptop.
Outside the window,
the inky sky is fading into shades
of lavender like bruised human skin.

It is six am and I am sure I will not sleep more tonight.
My limbs have awoken and the pile of wood
has been reconstructed into a moving tree.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow are a jumbled mess.
Film scattered on the floor
waiting to be rewound and led through
a projector.

On the bus ride, Sarah and I talked about a persons
tolerance for discomfort
and the privilege of choice
that leads to freedom.

We watched as an old woman, perhaps fifty years old
back hunched over till her chin touched her knees,
carried a pile of soon to be fire wood, trudging
along the side of the highway.

This display of injustice and discomfort
is not new to me, but I wondered how many
of the kids behind me on the bus had ever
considered this woman and her place in the world.

How many of our kids and had wanted to
stop the bus and ask the woman if they could carry the wood
for a while, and help her stretch her back with the latest yoga moves
and perhaps offer her a glass of wine
and a yellow heirloom tomato covered in chunks of Himalayan sea salt
and maybe offer her a ride in an air conditioned car,
perhaps a Porsche SUV, to a warm safe bed with goose down pillows
and sheets with a thread count that screamed luxury.

How many of our kids considered
going back in time when this woman was twelve years old
and finding ways to get her into a classroom, with a book in her hand
and a teacher guiding her choices and removing her from a husband or even father
telling her what to do,
giving her sanitary pads and offering her a menu of choices
that are often only reserved for the educated and the privileged like us?

I wondered if any of our kids made the connection
between the girls they would meet in a few hours and the woman on the road.
Between their own privilege and the battle against poverty.
Between the world of dreams and reality.
Between the dark night and the dawn.
Between problems and solutions.

The day is about to begin.
I’m a first draft poem of mixed metaphors
unbound like an old film on the floor.
I was awoken in the night
by the urgency of this creation.

I wonder what I’ll do with it next.

The World I Imagine

I spent a lot of my day trying to figure out how to help young boys learn how to be their true selves and be nicer to each other, seeing that their natural tendency, for some reason, is to build a wall around themselves and act like assholes.


Making fun of those who are different or smaller or weaker or weirder than you is such typical pre-teen male behavior, but that doesn't make it any less a cop-out. As an educator I'm constantly reminding myself that these bullying kids are just young children too, who have their own issues- as I try to untangle the issue from the kid and the behavior from its damage, I can’t help but think of the same behavior I see in adults.


I have said it many times before- working with young boys to learn how to be open-minded, fearless, kind young men is some of the most crucial work that we do as educators.


I am not saying that there aren’t very similar pecking-order issues with the girls, and that they don’t have their own set of problems, but learning how to navigate the build-up of a testosterone fueled alpha-male world is a project I have been grappling with since I was picked on for being small and weird and different.

…

Saw this today on Twitter:


We have been instructed to disbelieve the news, the gov't, the scientists, and the academics. But we're supposed to believe in America?

…

The world I imagine, the world I have been working toward my whole life, feels so distant these days. It is getting smaller and farther away and harder to achieve, but I must have faith that this is the world that we have been promised.


I have not spent my entire life committed to education, I have not spent my entire life reading books about peace and justice and love and art, and watching films about diversity and race and class and poverty, I have not joined organizations and NGOs dedicated to peace, I did not join Peace Crop, teach in The Bronx, join The International Socialist Organization, and march in the streets, and teach for fifteen years, just to watch it all get pissed away by some two-bit snake-oil salesmen and his gang of thugs and billionaires.


Some nights, I need these little pep-talks- soft gentle wisps of breaths on the embers of the fire in my heart to get it going again. I have seen a few flames here and there. I know it has not gone out completely, because it keeps me warm and the glow shows me that I am not alone in the darkness, but the flames still need fanning.

Pigs At The Trough

“The most effective answer is the most deceptively simple: do not buy in. We are warring for control of reality.”


Saw that on Twitter today. Some thoughts:


We are stuck in a vacuum of lies and propaganda by a system determined to prove that we are not, as a nation, smart enough or determined enough to fight back for what we believe in and value.


The question is what will this resistance look like.


I for one do not think it will be through social media awareness and activism. It will not come by writing letters and calling our representatives, because they are part of the system that allowed us to be in the predicament we are in. They know our anger and frustration. They saw it in our push for Bernie. They saw us suck up our pride and begrudgingly say that we are with her. They can even count the 2.5 million votes that echoed our voices. So I do not think that they need our letters or signed petitions.


Because even if they wanted to help, and I believe there are a few who do, they may, at this point, be powerless to stop what is coming. And what is coming is a tidal wave of crony craziness the likes of which our country has never seen. A massive money grab by the greediest, liars and thieves, who have stacked the system in their favor for generations and now they want to see what the system they built can really do:


Empower corporations beyond their already bloated status. Deregulate all public services that they have made sure are on the brink of failing after year of obstructionist temper tantrums. Give the pigs at the trough the keys to slop and let them fill their own bellies. Privatize the systems, so they can wring out the last of the remaining wealth all for themselves.


Expand the military. Create a police state. Debunk the media and the free press and promote anti-intellectualism. Create a monster and call it “the others” and simplify the complexity of a nation into chants and rallies and reality show demagogues. Rally around the flag and burn and loot and crash the whole shit show down.


Dark? Grim? Cynical? We have seen this in our fiction for years. We saw this in the thirties in Germany. The formula is not new. It is just happening in our back yards now. On our network channels. Within our own families. How do we fight back?


At this time I am not sure. I do know that things are going to get a lot worse before they get any better and this is the battle of our lifetime.


Readers of history know that it takes generations to get to where we are now, and it will take generations to get us back out. We will fight the good fight where and when we can, but it will be a long tough journey, so we need to pace ourselves. This is a marathon.


We fought Nixon and Jim Crow. We fought Reagan and the Bushes. Hell America was built by its fight with the forces of imperialism and greed. This is not a new enemy. We were just lulled into a false sense of comfort as the beast hypnotized us with a fake post-racial America. And now we are ready to face it full on again. The American left is not some fictional beast. It knows the score. Look to its leaders for guidance. We need to build movements that are fighting long term battles for peace and justice, not against one candidate and his one term.


There is no reason to lose hope or become confused. We need to take stock. Focus. Find our allies. Educate ourselves on the movements that have been fighting for generations against the system that has now taken this neo-facist form.


Find where you are passionate and fight that battle in concert with the rest of the movement. Women's rights? Race? Social Justice? Environment? Poverty? We cannot take it all on at once. Find your focus and fight. Fight long and hard. It's the only choice we have.


….


In other real life news…today was a good healing day for me. Weird how one can feel such dread and fear, but then smile and love life ten minutes later. I had my first visitors today. Was great to see Ian and Paula. I also went out to dinner with the family and had a glass of wine. I felt like a normal person for those last few hours and that is good.


I got tickets to see PJ Harvey and I got some work done. The ankle still hurts and I had some strange dreams in the morning, but everyday I am riding the wave I am sent and hoping for a few good rides. The political stuff is heavy, but I am trying to balance it with the levity of my own life.


Sure we are headed to a neo-fascist America, but the sky was blue, I smiled more today and I am feeling like I am ready to crawl out of this cave. Such is life.


I am blessed and grateful. I could be in the rubble of Allepo or in North Dakota in the freezing cold. Instead, I am in my comfortable home tending to a foolish injury, silently ashamed of my meaningless tirades against the corporate machine that is devouring the world.

This Luxury

Do this. Don’t do that.
Be happy. Be angry.
Be optimistic. Let it go. Normalize. Act. Fight


Every act is a political act.
Every inaction is a political act.


How long can political junkies sustain? Stay sane?
Watching from the sidelines, jumping into the game.


According to reports…everything is a swirling jumbled mess.
There are no signs of clarity.


I was at PD today, learning how to build trust and rapport.
We spoke of vulnerability and the five states of mind:


Flexilbity
Interconnectedness
Efficacy
Craftsmanship
Consciousness


Still learning about how these states of mind might help me in my professional career, but on a personal level- learning to navigate the online muck and cesspool of political understanding, it might behoove me to consider the five states of mind.


Currently I am exploring the consciousness field. Trying to find out where I stand and why I am standing there. How I got here and where I might move next. I am reading and weighing and thinking and reflecting nearly every second of the day.


But right now at this exact moment, on a Saturday night, after friends just left, I am rambling and scrabbling for some kind of meaning, when all I need is a novel and the warm embrace of fiction. A blanket of words and the safe bed of narratives. I need some calm and rest and the hopefulness and gratitude of tomorrow, Thankful that I am have enough privilege to even entertain this calculated approach.


Other people do not have this luxury, and I am aware enough to know that justice cannot wait too long for me to get my shit together.

It Was Hard Not To Cry, So I Did

It was hard to get out of bed today and live with the reality of what has happened. I skimmed a few articles and tweets and Facebook updates and tried to be present for my kids, but they can see that my mind is elsewhere and that my heart beats weakly.


I played guitar at breakfast, almost broke down in tears playing Give A Man A Home by Ben Harper...


have you ever worn thin
have you ever never known where to begin
have you ever lost your belief
watching your faith turn to grief


...so I put the sad songs away and donned a fake smile. We ate in silence. Got ready for the day. I lingered in the shower, watching the cold water swirl down the drain and disappear, my thoughts scattered and unapproachable.


At school, I covered a mentor class and we decided to take a break and do something fun. Let off some steam, so we did a #mannequinchallenge and after we decided to vent our feelings about the election.


The kids needed to talk and be heard and give voice to their anger and confusion. One boy came from a Clinton Trump family and said things are weird at his house, while another girl felt genuine dread for woman around the world. I didn’t say much. I just let them say whatever it was they were feeling or hearing.


Next, I had a lot of busy things to do: Discuss students of concern, send emails, write parent newsletters, plan lessons- necessary tasks and welcome distractions. I tried to stay of twitter, not read the articles. Let my brain rest and focus on the work.


At lunch we had a Daraja Academy meeting, and this venue felt right to talk about gender, rights, justice and peace. The kids in this group seemed shell shocked and upset. We had a lot of work to do, but I spoke about the power of activism and the resilience that we earn from set backs and how the work we do is endless and reward-less, but for the sake of peace, love and justice we get up and keep working. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We assigned committees and selected leadership roles. We carried on the work toward gender equality.


I taught two classes about latitude lines and climate zones. We spoke about globes and seasons. We laughed a lot. I put on a show, the grade sixes ate it up. The classroom is my stage and I like having fun. We left the election outside, didn’t feel necessary.


After school we had our lit magazine meeting. These kids looked like they needed to talk, so I spoke about the power of writing as a healing agent and as an activist tool. I showed them the Michael Franti video and told them to be strong and fight for what they believe in. To use the power of words to heal and mend and educate.


They wrote some short piece and poems. We shared them and their innocence was something spectacular and raw. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We got to work to publishing our next issue.


They worked hard and laughed and ate candy. I wrote this. I know it’s garbage:


Dear Trump Voter,


I am really trying to understand you right now. I should probably wait until my anger and disbelief die now, it is never good to write with such a heavy sense of sadness and rage. There are times throughout the day when I feel nauseous, just thinking about where we are headed as nation, as a planet. I wonder if you would have felt the same had Hillary been elected President.


Are you excited? Are you celebrating? If so I really want to know why? What has you excited? I am not here to be antagonistic. This election has hollowed me out and left me exhausted and confused. I am teacher and a father and I think about the lesson I teach the children I see everyday. For me, the lessons worth remembering are the simple ones we learn as children.


Don’t be a bully. Be kind. Love your neighbour; I am pretty sure those lessons are written in a religious book somewhere. I think about my classroom and watching my own children playing on a playground. I would want them to treat everyone with respect, if not with outright love. I would hope that they would not force some kids off the playground, but rather invite everyone to come play. I would hope that any walls would be used for climbing and playing not for exclusion.


So what is it about this president, this party, this future that fills your heart with joy? What is that when you look your children in the eye fills you with hope. I hope to try and move away from the propaganda talking points, but based on his own words how are you explaining his attitude toward women to your daughters, your wives, you mothers, your sisters, and if you are a woman to yourself?


...


Back home, my kids were tired and sluggish. Kaia had homework, Skye played with her dolls. I wanted to do something with her, but I skimmed articles on my phone instead, wallowing in guilt and anger.


Dinner was quiet.


“Daddy, is it true that Donald Trump raped somebody?”
What do you say to a ten year old?
“He was accused of it, but the trial has been dropped.”
“How can someone who raped somebody be president?”
“Well it was never proven in a court, so we cannot assume he did it.”


I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was twelve and there were others.


“Why would someone rape another person?”
Really? On this night?
“Hard to say. They could be mentally ill, they want to show their power, they hate women.”


She quietly scooped up a spoonful of peas. The idea that some men hate women had never occurred to her before.


We talked a bit more about how she heard that Trump gave a speech and that his okay and normal now.


We discussed his policies, his cabinet and how we cannot normalise the things he has said and the things he has championed and how it is the work of all us to keep him honest and push back against his actions when they are oppositional to what we value: peace, love, diversity, understanding.


They went to sleep. I did a bit of work for tomorrow. It all feels pretty incoherent.


Tomorrow I am off to Jakarta for a literacy exchange. I will see some friends. I am giving a short talk to kick things off. I am excited to tell some stories. I don’t intend them to be, but I am sure they will be tinged with anger and sadness, like most things these days.

There Is Something In There....

Still can’t get my race post articulated. Don’t know what I want to say or how I want to say it. I guess that for now I can boil it down to one sentence #blacklivesmatter. Full stop. It can’t be simpler than that, and yet trying to explain what that means to me and why I care about it, is taking up a lot of mental energy.

There is something in there about love and empathy and justice. About listening, understanding and believing people when they say they can’t breathe.

There is something in there about how a threat to justice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. About fear and hatred and jealousy and colonialism and white supremacy and the war on drugs and James Baldwin and a centuries long struggle for identity and acceptance.

There is something in there about cultural appropriation and physical annihilation.

There is something in there about trying to understand and solidarity and segregation and poverty and incarceration and brutalization. About oppression and silence and civil and human rights. There is something in there about Sam Cook and Malcom X.

There is something in there about the right time to protest and the right kind of action. The master telling the slave when to talk and what to say and how to say it and where to say it, when all the slave needs is to be heard.

There is something in there about how the NFL and every player and coach and fan should sit down and hold hands, or raise their fist and force the flag and the anthem to reflect the values they claim to uphold.

There is something in there about the Daraja girls and when we say #blacklivesmatter it also includes them. Because let’s face it if they were in the US, they would be treated like second class citizens because America hates black people. If it didn’t it would stop killing them and putting them in jail. It would stop destroying their communities an ignoring them. If America didn’t hate black people who it would adhere to its constitution and treat everyone equal under the eyes of the law.

There is something in there about voting rights and Bull Connor. About 400 years of not yet, a bit longer, be patient. Don’t be so angry. Don’t kneel. Sing the anthem. Respect the flag that holds you down. Fight for the state that will put you in jail.

There is something in there about Muhammad Ali and, “ain’t no Vietcong ever called me nigger.”

There is something in there about how people are sceptical and need to be reminded that #blacklivesmatter. It is so engrained in their mind that black lives don’t matter that to admit that they might could bring the whole system down.

There is something in there about how small of a statement this is, but how much it affects those in power. Because if a life matters then you cannot destroy it with impunity. The acceptance of its worth is all it takes to treat it with respect, justice. Love. But our nation, the world cannot even bring themselves to say that #blacklivesmatter without some kind of qualifier. Because to admit that they matter is to face the cruel and unjust history of racism worldwide.

Like I said earlier, I am having a hard time articulating my thoughts. I remember as a kid watching movies about the civil rights era, being shocked by the audacity of racism so long ago. I wondered how I would act. What would I do? Would I drive to the south and march and be beaten for the right of human beings to be human beings? Not much has changed. The struggle continues. I sit behind this screen and squeeze out these tiny words, to try and say to the world that I hear. I see. I feel. I want to help, but not quite sure how.

Off This Funk

Can’t seem to fight off this funk today. I only have two reports left to write and the inputting of grades, so that should be manageable tomorrow night and before the weekend. Although we still have another two weeks of school, the end is near and things are wrapping up. So what is it?


I was a bit bummed I couldn’t skate tonight. The conditions were perfect and it was a tease to be there and just watch, but my tendons are still tender and I do not want to risk serious injury before the summer. Maybe I will give it a spin on Sunday. The pain is now isolated just in my wrist and it is almost gone.


There are two factors that have me down today:


1- The Brock Turner case. I can’t seem to shake how awful the whole thing is. I continue to read comments and posts and try to find something rational to say about solutions and what happens next, but I am left with anger and disgust. I still do not have the energy to really capture my thoughts.


In the meantime, there are several articles by people who are getting it right. I guess my main issue is that we need to find way to address privilege and rape culture more aggressively. This behavior cannot be accepted as part of what it means to be a man or what it mans to be in college.


This is criminal.


But the other side that is bugging me is how do we handle crime? How do we met out justice? Would sending Tucker to prison for six years deter rape? Would it teach him a lesson? Would it end rape culture? Is punishment the end result of crime? Is this justice? Do we have a responsibility to teach and rehabilitate? Can we ever teach men that women are not there for our amusement and abuse? When men act as criminals and rape…is there any hope? Do we just lock them up? I feel we need a new approach and it starts like all things in schools and ends with....well I don't know. But I don't think punishment always equates with justice. Prisons will not end crime...schools will.


I am filled with questions and anger.


2. The other thing that has me down is Hillary. I just can’t get myself excited. Sure it is historical that we have a woman nominee, but that doesn’t seem to be enough-she is a center right corporate sponsored hawk. This is status quo America and I was hoping for more. I have never been a fan of the DNC- not with Bill or even Obama, and Hillary is more right-wing than either of those guys. It was so nice to have a politician at least pay lip-service to my ultra-left progressive voice.


I don’t actually live the US, so I don’t have a horse in this race, but I will find it very difficult to get behind Clinton and when/if I ever do, it will feel dirty and shameful, so I actually hope that I don’t.


I do understand that American politics has got to be more than presidential elections. It is clear that we are still a long way from having a viable third-party. The DNC will see to that. We will continue to be distracted by the crazy right-wing dupes and the lesser of two evils.


It appears that in presidential politic, the left has little to no voice. The Bernie Sanders sound bites and primary campaign will be the closest we get to being heard by our government…..unless of course this new movement, this revolution keeps Hillary honest and forces the DNC to move left at the state and local levels.


We need young politicians and union leaders and city council people to push the progressive agenda from the ground up. America will never have a truly progressive president, corporate America and their candidate have made that clear.


Who knows, maybe I need to move back home, roll up my sleeves and fight the good fight, instead of whining and complaining from my privileged seat overseas.


The world has got me down tonight. I understand that some of you are excited about the new Democratic nominee for president, and I hope she is what you want her to be, but we have been here before many times and she, despite her gender, is nothing new. She will pick apart the nation just like her husband did so many years ago. Of course she is better than Trump, but you can say that about a cockroach.


Tomorrow is Thursday. It is June and a new day. I will be ready for it as always.

Be kind. Smile. Be open. Listen. Be honest. Share

Today was less emotionally draining, but no less intense, than yesterday. My heart and mind are constantly being pushed and pulled into configurations that render them unrecognisable. One second I am filled with an urgency of hope and optimism that feels euphoric, and the next I’m left gutted by the impossibility of the road ahead. To talk with, not only the girls at Daraja, but the teachers and parents and students from UWCSEA about our shared experiences, is a feat of great intensity.

I watched a group of our kids weed an organic farm. Smiling and sweating, intent on their purpose. Baking under the relentless Africa sun, lathered in sun screen- some laughing and cracking jokes, while others were lost in their private reveries.


I listened to a group of Kenyan girls learn about and discuss the structure of British colonial rule in Kenya and Eastern Africa. I marvelled at how they tried to make sense of a system that was so archaic and cruel, a system that still impacts their lives in such real ways.


I observed a group of young people from Spain, Japan, The Netherlands, China, England and Kenya contemplate the best strategies for conflict resolution in a WISH class. (Women of Integrity, Strength and Hope). They shared their ideas in small groups and shared back as a whole.


I was interviewed by a young girl for her Media Club newsletter about my thoughts on how to stop corruption and whether or not students should be given more access to technology. Her poise and passion left me inspired by the power of a brilliant and determined mind.

How do we allow our world to function without the input of so many talented and amazing people? Where could we go if we gave everyone a chance to determine the kind of world we want to live in?

I ate lunch and dinner tending to relationships I planted last year. Adding another layer of trust and understanding with each meal and conversation.

I watched Claire pull herself out of the hole she was thrown into after she sat in on a few rounds of student selection interviews. She was shell shocked by the power of giving some girls a chance, but at the same time she was destroyed by the reality of saying no to so many others.

I ate Ugali. I took a ten minute power nap. I listened to our group compliment each other as we all shyly looked away, empowered by what was being said.

It really is so much more simple than we make it out to be. Empower people by loving them and telling them why you love them. Listen to them. Encourage them. Trust them and allow yourself the vulnerability to be trusted by them.

Be kind. Smile. Be open. Listen. Be honest. Share

However, simple these ideas seem to be, it is important to remember that they take time. Relationships are not built in seconds, but in years. And no amount of asking a person to tell you their story is going to connect you any faster.

We are never one story. We are never defined by our traumas or our resilience. We are a web of stories that often intersect more that we realise.

So yeah, today was less emotionally draining, but no less intense.

Too Small

I woke up to the sound of birds outside my window. It was almost 6am and I was tired, but could feel that I would not fall back asleep. I tossed and turned a bit, but eventually decided to get up for a run. Strapped on my shoes and made my way out into the crisp pre-dawn darkness.

Out of the Daraja gates, I made my way toward Ol Giri Giri a tiny village a kilometre up the road. The landscape was littered with acacias and cactus, but the soil, even in the darkness, emitted a maternal warmth. The paprika coloured ground was vibrant beneath each step. Slowly, as I made my way up and down the gentling sloping hills, the sun began to make her presence known and my body temperature heated up.

I couldn’t believe it. Where I was. Who I have become. What I was doing. The only sounds: the cooing of some scattered birds. My footsteps one after the other. The day beginning. I didn’t see a soul on the entire run. Six kilometres, alone except for Rasta the dog, who was sprinting back and forth, I ran and let my thoughts cascade out of my mind, forming into tiny dropplets of sweat. My muscles important and alive. 

….

Life is painful. And to be strong might mean the ability to face our weakness and continue to move forward. We sat on the porch in the darkness. Two old friends-brothers, talking about the pain that comes from trying to save the world, right ever injustice. He told me stories about the selection process and the emotional toll of choosing how to save a life. “How do say no?” He kept asking me as if I had the answer. We sat in silence. My thoughts, one after the other, charging onto dead ends. The world might be too big and too damaged to save all at once. But we do what we can in the places in which we inhabit. It seemed too simple and obvious, so cliche that it rendered the simplest solution a moot point out, so we stared off into the night. The tears welled up in our eyes, unaware of the work that was happening down the hill in the classrooms and dormitory rooms so close to us that we could touch them.

…

During spiritual time, I sat with five Kenyan girls and asked them about their beliefs and the Seventh Day Adventist. They asked me about my beliefs and I told them I love Jesus, but couldn’t understand the god of the bible. I mentioned that he seemed too small to me. We sat under a tree alone-together with our thoughts.


Later I watched one of the most awkward and shiest kids I have ever taught, stand in front of twenty-five strangers and lead them in a hymn; he played an electronic key-board. Maybe this god wasn’t so small after all, I thought. The girls sang along knowing each verse and joining him in the chorus.

I think sometimes we complicated things a bit. Maybe the world is too big and our gods too small, but our actions, however small, have to matter for something. Maybe the solutions are that obvious- bring people together and let them eat together and sing songs together and talk about their beliefs. Maybe we just have to…
…

It was a long hard emotional day. And it is late now and dark and quiet again. The words forming and the ideas behind begin to fade- unsure if they make sense or will connect to anyone but me and this blank screen. But without them, the thoughts become too heavy and the world too big.

Never Blend In

As per usual this post was meant to be more than it will end up being, but I have left too much to do till the end, and I have run out of time. This post should be split into three parts, but I will try and scratch out at least a third now.

It is 9:20 pm and tomorrow morning, first thing, I fly to Kenya to see my best friend and do what I can to help him get his/our dream off the ground. I have not seen him in two years, and I have not been to Sub-Saharan Africa since I left Mozambique in 2002. My mind and heart are filled with so many emotions, that I have chosen to simply store them up and let them spill onto the paprika colored soil of Africa. I will sort it out there, or maybe even when I get back. Although, it probably should be, this is not the post where I extrapolate on the magic of Africa and the amazing people who live there. I hope to write that post in the coming days, on the ground, live so to speak.

I also promised Ari that I would write a first draft of a radio program we are working on about my first kite experience, and how that experience relates to my daughter’s first time clutching the strings of her kite. But my brain is too disjointed and amplified to be able to focus on that.

I am here to write tonight about the only thing I have been able to think about since I watched the movie Milk last night. This will not be a well thought-out or even proofread essay or movie review. It is too late and I am too tired for that. Let me say, however, that Gus Van Zant has made a nearly perfect film and Sean Penn has taken acting to a whole other level. I just want to close my eyes and let the images of that film and the messages that it exposed wash over me and see what comes dribbling out the other end of my fingers.

Although I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, before watching this film I had no idea about the story of Harvey Milk. I will shoulder some of the blame, but I am disappointed that all through my schooling not one teacher thought to teach me about this amazing man. What did I expect however? My public school education got about as revolutionary as the I Have a Dream Speech. I had to learn about Malcom X. Che Guevera, and Ho Chi Minh on my own, so how could I expect that I would be taught anything about this Gay Rights martyr.

As I watched the film, I repeatedly asked myself, what was it about Harvey Milk that set him apart from others, from me? How was this one man able to do so much for so many people, while I waste my time scratching out blog posts that maybe fifteen people read? The answer I came up with was that he was 100% committed to his cause, because his life and happiness depended on his success. There was no failure. No half way. It was an all or nothing game and he played to win. He had no other choice.

Yes he was brave, heroic, and dare I say Intrepid, but more than anything he was relentless and stubborn. He knew that his life was just a bridge toward justice and freedom. His life was not his main concern. The goal was the main concern. And the goal was nothing less than freedom. The freedom to be himself in a society, culture, and world that told him he was wrong. That his natural self was an abomination. He had to prove to the world that he had the right to simply be himself, that no one would ever again force him to be ashamed of who he was.

Never Blend In

…was one of the mottos I remember from the film. How many of us can say that we have enough courage to say fuck the establishment at every turn it tries to make us change ourselves to fit in? Shave that beard, cut that hair, wear the tie, it’s just for the job interview, just to get the loan. While most of us are more than willing to compromise who we are, Harvey Milk refused to be forced back into the closet.

I know this post is raw and needs work, but I wanted to get something up before I left for Kenya. The film Milk and Harvey’s story have changed some integral part in me. I have suddenly changed and grown. There is one scene in the movie where he stands on a wooden box with a bullhorn and says:

I am Harvey Milk and I am here to recruit you.

Well Harvey I am on recruited. I am embarrassed to admit that like most normal people who only play revolutionary, I have chosen to only participate half-heartedly. I do not have the courage to put my own life aside and work for the good of all mankind. I have not been pushed into my corner. But I will do my best to fuck with the machine at every chance I get. I will do my best to be myself at every turn and not allow the machine to dictate who I am. While I am not a homosexual, I want to come out of the any symbolic closets I may have forced myself into over the years. I know this is not even close to your vision, but a fire has been lit and we will have to wait and see where it goes.

I will not allow the forces of ignorance and hate force me to be anyone other than who I choose to be. I will not allow people to berate and vilify others for being themselves. I suggest that any readers of this blog do the same. I have ordered The Mayor of Castor Street and hope to write more on Harvey in the future. In the meantime, thanks for following this disjointed prose for as long as you have.

See this film. Take to the streets. Demand the freedom you so cherish.