Sipping Coffee in a Cocaine Culture

According to Google Images, the Salt Cathedral of Zipaquira makes for the optimal Kodak moment. Erected hundreds of meters below the surface in the tunnels of a Colombian salt mine, the functioning Roman Catholic Church is considered one of the most notable achievements of Colombian architecture. I went to the Zipaquira salt mines and all I got was a picture of the men’s restroom. 5 tiny, white urinals lined up against a white wall.  The epitome of a porcelain cathedral in the eyes of the photographer – a Kodak moment brought to me by my boyfriend, the consummate jester.

Months prior, while my close friend Mindi basked in the Guatemalan sun, her freckled skin connecting the dots, I cursed chapped lips, a third misplaced set of gloves, and the never ending gray skies and traffic delays of Cincinnati in February. The groundhog, of course, had seen his shadow.  Growing up in New Orleans, Mindi couldn’t empathize with the misery of an Ohio winter but her timing was flawless.

“Why don’t you visit me for Easter? I’ll have a week off from teaching.” She read my mind.

Unfortunately, kayak.com, my ticket search engine of choice did not. Airline access to Guatemala City precipitated near $1500 versus $500 to Bogota, Colombia. Mindi loves to travel. I love to travel and my boyfriend Kris, who had yet to meet the effervescent Mindi, especially loves to travel. So let’s meet up in Colombia we decided.

Unfortunately, Mindi’s one-week break from school wound up being long term (Guatemala doesn’t quite have teacher unions like the U.S.), and so the Three Musketeers became 2 – Kris and me. Packing our best Spanglish, to Colombia, we went for a near 3-week foray!

Salento, Colombia was the Google Image for best, quaint-I –wish-we-could’ve-stayed- here- forever village! Save for the progressive recycling bins, it seemed like time stood still here. An ATM machine that only worked part time. A billiards hall where only men trespassed. An ice cream parlor where a carved out cantaloupe overflowed like a volcano with sweet, succulent delights. The nearby Cocora Valley, a hiker’s paradise, where tall wax palm trees begged to touch the sky. The town square bedecked in traditional colonial architecture with the church at the head, the park in the middle, and the sundry shops and restaurants surrounding, a place where one had many tempting options for refuge during the brief afternoon showers. An open village culture where curious locals despite the language barrier chatted through their open windows and encouraged rides on jeeps through the sloping countryside – even if it meant precariously standing on the back bumper, white-knuckled hands holding tight and simultaneously laughing and cringing with each pothole bump in the unpaved road.  A quiescent place that we nearly missed because we fell asleep on the night bus en-route.

Manizales, Colombia was the Google Image for best, are-we-on-an-unstable-volcano-or-the-moon? Everything goes down better with coca leaves we realized whilst summiting the Nevado del Ruiz volcano – embracing the local remedy to avert altitude sickness. (Yes, coca tea is derived from the plant that brought the world cocaine. Only side effect I noticed was the constant attention of my bladder).  My bright pink scarf whipped at me as I stood capturing pictures of the windswept, ashen gray landscape; the volcano peak reminiscent of a disproportionately large anthill. Only seismic instruments could detect the rumbling of the volatile earth beneath my feet. Yet miles below, we could enjoy the soothing warmth of the Manizales hot springs courtesy of the volcano’s fiery personality. Miles surrounding the city, the volcanic ash enriched the soil encouraging Colombia as a hub for damn good coffee.

La Guajira, Colombia was the Google Image for best place to get food poisoning. It was beautiful. And remote. So remote that less than 10% of Colombians have ever step foot on this stunning juxtaposition of ocean meeting dessert. Like lava flowing into a glacier. So remote that it took a flight into Santa Marta, a Caribbean coast city, from there a 6-hour bus ride to Riohacha, the last town of “civilization”, spending the night in a hostel with the appearance of a German fortress (it actually may have been), hiring a native to drive a 4x4 jeep through the desert to Cabo de la Vela, a serene seaside hamlet where we slept in hammocks for the night. Onward we went as the sun emerged the next morning to a simple docking point where we boarded what appeared to be a dinghy. Into the defiant waves, we crawled for 3 hours along rocking waves. The saltwater piercing our eyes and slapping our faces like blows from prizefighters.  At last, we reached our remote destination – Punta Gallinhas on the La Guajira Peninsula, the most northern point of South America. A sparse, arid destination home only to goats and the indigenous people – the Wayuu. A people who have obstinately ruled the land for centuries, removed from Colombian authority. So remote and removed from Colombia that Spanish is minimally spoken and understood here.  So remote that when Kris and I got sick with food poisoning (or something equally unpleasant), we turned to a Red Cross volunteer who shared with us not only his penchant for remote dwellings but also good drugs to make our digestive systems happy again – preparing us for the audacious return route to civilization.

The return. Boat. Bus. Plane. Train. Car. From La Guajira, Colombia’s biggest secret, to Cincinnati, my home. From the gray, cabin fever days of February - to Colombia’s volcanic peaks and valleys of green – to home on a sultry, June morn, Friday 3am. Final Google Image? A visage of smiling exhaustion, strolling into work 4 hours later, a cup of damn good coffee in hand – Colombian.

a return to writing! :)!

I use to be brave. I use to want to save the world.

Now. I just want to be happy. I want to find value in me.

2 weeks ago as I wrapped up a speech therapy session with a little boy, Jeremiah, age 3½ with significant language delays, his mother interrupted me as I explained to her that one of his goals was answering yes/no questions appropriately, interjecting, “He says no because he’s bored. He doesn’t like your books; they’re boring. In fact, I’ve been observing you with him the past couple weeks and I don’t feel like you’re connecting with my son.  I’ve been thinking to call and change therapists. I just want the best for my son, and you’re sweet and all, but these books they ain’t connecting. You ain’t connecting.”

So. Out in the hall. Situated between the parent observation room, the restrooms, the waiting area, the elevators up to the speech pathology floor - the traffic center of the department, I stood, nearly mortified. Ok, I was mortified. Thinking, oh gosh, I hope the clinicians who’ve just met me, who’ve been sorority-girl-like - snubbing me because I’m the “new” girl, my bosses who sort-of know me more by reputation, these parents – parents who may someday have me as therapist, and oh, what about little Jeremiah… hope they don’t hear what this mother is saying to me – about me… oh gosh, I wish this conversation was transpiring in a vacuum…

Face ablaze, voice calm, I responded, “Ok, it sounds like Jeremiah doesn’t respond well to books. (Though defensively my mind is reeling. My books are fun. My books are awesome. Why, last week we read Going on a Bear Hunt and then we actually went on a bear hunt in my therapy room! That. is. fun!) Perhaps we could move away from our more literacy-based approach to a more play-based approach. It sounds like that’s what his previous therapist did and perhaps what he’s more accustomed to and comfortable doing. (Inwardly reflecting – and that is why this 3½ year-old doesn’t know how to hold a book, to look at it from front to back, turn pages left to right…! Not to mention I’ve only been working with him for a couple weeks – can’t expect a child to have the same level of rapport with someone they’ve met 3 times versus someone they saw for a year who played games with them…!) And in the end, if we’re not making progress, then we can certainly look to moving him to another therapist.”

Mom was agreeable to returning for their regularly scheduled appointment in a week. I was agreeable to exchanging my much-loved books for toddler toys.

That was Monday 10am. A couple hours before, I had opened my work email to read congratulatory notes from my colleagues.  Colleagues who had worked with me before I had transitioned to a new site within the department, my present site, a couple weeks prior. Congratulatory remarks for my mentioned name in the company-wide (a company of 11,000 employees) Outpatient Comment Report. Due to positive feedback from families who I worked with, I received the welcomed nod in the report regarding my positive interaction with families.

Yet, despite this high acknowledgment from parents and the hospital, in the course of a couple hours, I was wallowing in self-imposed thoughts of clinical inadequacy. I couldn’t separate my professional thoughts of, “Hmm, I need to educate this family on the value of literacy,” from my personal thoughts, “I have failed. I have failed Jeremiah and his mother.”

These thoughts just kept festering. Festering. Festering. Festering like an unattended fruit fly infestation.

Then yesterday, my mind bluntly said, “I don’t want to save the world.”

Trying to help people backfires. Backfires are painful. It hurts too much to deal with them.

This morning, my soul bluntly said, “This isn’t you. You are brave; you are passionate. Go to church. I don’t care if you have a broken foot and an awkward orthopedic boot, get outside, go for a walk. Think and express with Mother Nature. Sign up for a writing class. ”

Don’t seek validation from others; seek it from within. Write your personal journey.

So here I am. Writing. Hopeful, smiling – happy.

Serendipitously, the Spring writing class with Women Writing for (a) Change commences this Tuesday! :)

Human trafficking: My journey to cambodia

There are those of us who go on vacation, enjoy the sunshine and tranquility – and then there are those of us like me who go on a trip and return with an orthopedic boot souvenir!  My fractured 5^th metatarsal (think outside foot bone) journey began in Cambodia. However, the purpose of my journey to Cambodia began years before that.

My story begins 3 years ago with my first big stint abroad working as a speech therapist in Maputo, Mozambique. It was there at the Mozambique-South African border that I first encountered human trafficking. Due to my visa, each month I traveled to the border to get my passport stamped and typically traveled onward to pick up my snail mail that was delivered to a post box in a small town shopping complex. Thus was the ritual for 12 months.  As efficiency wasn’t really a concept that existed in this frequently civil war torn country, the border process was a slow, very much people-observing process. I began to notice patterns at the border. Buses filled with Mozambican men traveling to Johannesburg, South Africa to work in the gold mines. “Government enforcers” who could easily be bribed to bypass the border hassle. Stray dogs. Trash. People balancing gardening tools, schoolbooks, cartons of eggs, passels of clothing, pots & pans, furniture, small children, anything on their head with the relative strength of an ant carrying a maple leaf.

Then there was the curious collection of girls and women being transported across the border. And as time passed, the more of the latter I saw. In time I learned that the reason for the age 34 life expectancy in Mozambique stemmed from what was being witnessed at the border. The men employed as miners crossed the border with income, but also with AIDs. And the women in the overcrowded single-gender buses were the victims of the “entertainment” industry – many coerced into sex slavery by their families or situational circumstances.

When I returned home to the States and accepted a position with Cincinnati Children’s Hospital, moving me to Cincinnati, Ohio, I discovered an organization that too had recently become a Cincinnati import – Transitions Global. A nonprofit organization that was combating what I had witnessed at the African border crossing – sex trafficking of young girls. While calling Cincinnati home, Transitions’ heart is in Phnom Penh, Cambodia where they have established a comprehensive aftercare program for girls between the ages of 13 and 19 years old who have been sexually trafficked, exploited or abused. Having a success rate near 80% of reintegrating girls into Cambodian society without being re-exploited, this aftercare program has demonstrated unprecedented success relative to “similar” programs.

Traveling with a team of nearly 20 people from the U.S. in January, I had the opportunity to engage in Transitions’ work. Ironically enough, the 2 of us from Cincinnati wound up with foot injuries – mine the first day exploring the ruins of Angkor Wat and the other woman bumped and broke her pinky toe the first night in her hotel room! Though the Cincinnati contingent was hobbled, we still had an absolutely fantastic trip! Who knew that Cambodians believe the more steps there are the closer they are to Buddha - yet the concept of elevators is a seemingly odd phenomenon. In the course of 2 weeks, I saw one elevator and it read “out of order.” (I still used it, and yes, to my knowledge it worked.)

The girls. Despite their history, they acted like any other teenage girls. Happy, sad, excited, screaming (“squealing” I have ascertained is a primary communicative function), giggling, and giggling, and giggling. Hello Kitty. Justin Beiber. Skinny jeans. Bedazzled purses and nails. Despite their inward bruising, seeing my rainbow-colored foot, they took to me like mother hens – clucking over who was going to get my pizza, grab my displaced crutches, paint my toenails shades of purple, persuade me to consume fried beetles, and help me navigate my ailing body up and down.

Early on I met “Molika.” Like my older sister and my twin sister, she was happiest while painting and drawing. Leading up to the trip, I had collected art supplies from my friends and family and it was so rewarding to see her eyes light up at the sight of oil pastels, her own sketchbook, and new colored pencils and paintbrushes. During a True Body Project activity, a program developed to empower the girls, I sat next to Molika as she drew a beautiful picture of a tree. A tree with stretching roots and many branches indicating how she felt – feeling strong but with room to grow. Another girl drew 2 trees – one big, one small – and expressed how before she came to Transitions she felt like the small tree – minimally noticed as if forgotten – but now she was the big tree – strong and loved.

Some have asked me – What did you hope to accomplish in such a short time? My best answer is – Just to be with the girls. To be with them and to show them that we love and care about them. The rest fell into place. One night we found ourselves teaching the girls sign language as a way of breaking through the language barrier. With one bilingual person to translate the meaning of the signs initially, we suddenly found ourselves with a similar vocabulary - discussing our feelings, dreams for what we want to be when we grow up, our favorite animals. Who knew I’d be using American Sign Language (and crutches) in Cambodia?!

Without a doubt, the trip to Cambodia reminded me of the disturbing and ongoing struggle with modern day slavery. Thinking of its omnipresent manifestation into our society from the sweatshop factory workers to the boy soldiers is heartbreaking and overwhelming. Yet seeing the nature of Transition’s work and similar organizations gives me hope. But the girls I met on the trip have given me the most hope. They have in many ways seen the darkest side of human nature, yet they have not given up; they continue to push on and persevere. They are truly survivors.

Close to home facts:
• It is estimated that there are between 12.5 and 27 million people currently enslaved in various forms of bondage.
• Approximately 600,000 to 800,000 victims are trafficked worldwide every year.
• Currently, in the United States, the FBI and UNICEF estimates that there are approximately 300,000 American underage girls that are vulnerable to sex trafficking.
• The average age of girls who enter into street prostitution is between 12 and 14 years old.
• According to the United Nations, sex trafficking brings in an estimated $32 billion a year worldwide. In the U.S., sex trafficking brings in $9.5 billion annually.
• Nationwide, Toledo, Ohio is ranked #3 for child sex trafficking and slavery. By state, Ohio is ranked #5.


How to get involved:
Visit Transitions Global website to learn more about the organization, inquire about an Engagement trip, and/or Sponsor a girl (I'm sponsoring Molika!). Contact me if you have any questions or are interested in getting involved with what Transitions is doing here in Cincinnati!

Hello 28!

Year 28 is off to a GRAND start... because I am getting published! The book, entitled TRAVEL MEANS FREEDOM, is coming out 12/22/2011 (hopefully) just in time for Christmas. I submitted a short story about my volunteer travel with Operation Smile in DR Congo and it was selected to be published in the book! Proceeds from the book will benefit the charity: water (NGO bringing clean and safe drinking water to people in developing nations).


Want to check out the organization promoting the book? Buy a copy?
http://wegetthere.com

2011 - the night cap.

My boyfriend Kris would say that 2011 was the year of the pastry (he likes pie; it’s the only thing I can make). I would say it was the year of the weddings. 7 weddings. Meaning next year might be the year of the baby showers. Weddings took us from Put-in-Bay to Wisconsin, from Lafayette to Maria Stein. I now have no excuse to buy a dress for ten years.

I experienced my first Paw Paw Festival. Athens, Ohio. Paw paw ice cream, paw paw beer, paw paw salsa, paw paw soap, paw paw clothing, paw paw cheese, paw paw raw, paw paw clad people, and the paw paw-razzi capturing it all. I had no idea paw paws had so many facets! Nor do I have any idea how to describe what a paw paw tastes like. A cross between a mango and apple or a banana and a pina colada? Looks like a green potato. Delicate like a kiwi.

I had my first collegiate commencement speech. The memory still flares up the ‘ol anxious nerves. The Speech Pathology Department at Miami University, my alma mater, asked me to speak at their graduate school ceremony in May. I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to say no, and so quivering teeth, legs, mind and all, I spoke about my experiences as a speech pathologist -from departing on a plane bound for India the night of my graduate commencement to present-day working at a pediatric hospital, a place where my patients call me “fun-size” (and their dads “king size") and refer to the hospital as “Mia’s house” – and learning and loving my job every step of the way. Even when my smiling 3 year-old patients with their speech problems sound like cursing adults…”b*tch” for “fish” or “f*ck you” for “thank you.” Smile and nod and hope they’re not handing out my business cards.

It was the year of traveling to countries with questionable motives. New Year’s in Jamaica… the summer equinox in Colombia… No, I am not, to my knowledge, involved in any cartels of any sort. Unfortunately, my new passport only reads these 2 countries. Hopefully my trips in the coming year to Cambodia (with Transitions Global) and Uzbekistan (with Operation Smile) don’t put me on the CIA’s radar. Oh, just googled top drug countries and looks like I should just stay home – U.S. tops the list for world’s largest consumer of cocaine, heroin, and marijuana! (Disclaimer: My only drug of choice is caffeine – mocha-style on Monday mornings, extra whip cream, please. J).

The best books I read this year were “Little Bee” by Chris Cleave and “Ishmael” by Daniel Quinn. I’m still reading the latter and have been for a while but still believe it’ll be topping the list for its thought-provoking writing. These fine literary gems, they have my thumbs up. (To be honest, they were probably the only books I got close to finishing...)

This month marks my 28^th year of living. Looking forward to what my 28^th year and 2012 will bring. Hopefully a more living-in-the-present state of being, greater confidence, continued compassion, smiles & giggles, and a keener sense of purpose.

your life in 3 words.

If you were to pick 3 words for which you want your life to embody, what would they be?

Mine - compassion, joy, cognizant

Hair Personified

(a fast-write from today's class)

Patricia is one of those women you cannot identify by her hair. Some days it’s copper ringlets; other days sleek, flowing to the shoulder ebony; then a fro of fuzz, cropped-close like a poodle recently to the barber. Her ever-changing hair wardrobe I could only liken to the shoe closet of some American women. Her hair, an extension of her personality – vibrant, and at times, unpredictable.

Due to my pediatric clientele’s desire for decorating my carpet office floor with play dough, I met Patricia early in my days working at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Patricia often surfaced just as I was finishing up for the day, her timing seemingly impeccable. My trash bins she would empty, my decorated floor she would look upon, smile, laugh and shake her head knowingly. It was her accent barely discernible in her laugh that alluded to a background beyond the cleaning duties she held at the hospital. A native of Ghana, Patricia came to Cincinnati by way of her husband, a Ghanaian man living in the States. Friends and family were dispersed throughout the country, but here in Cincinnati, was where she was raising her immediate family.

Having a slight infatuation with Africa - the people, the natural, raw beauty of the landscape, the culture, the way of life and colorful dress – Patricia and I got on well. Quite well. She was observant to the hints of African incorporated into my daily life – the fabric of my computer bag, the dangles from my ears, the swatch of cloth in my hair, or the rare African-printed skirt. For Christmas, she betrothed me with a necklace from Ghana – a myriad of earth-toned beads culminating into an African-continent-shaped stone. A stunning cherished remnant from the Dark Continent, well loved and worn.

In March 2010, having known me 6 months, Patricia remarked one evening, “I would like you to be my sister-in-law.” Thinking that she was being generous with her words, I merely laughed in response.

Then in June 2010, during a therapy session, I heard a knock on my office door. Believing it was the child’s father coming in, I opened the door. But standing before me was not the child’s father, but rather Patricia – early to work that day. As my patient, a 6-year-old boy with severe ADHD and his father watched on camera from the observation room, Patricia explained her presence – with little regard for the audience that was witnessing this conversation unfold.

Patricia: “Maria, Maria! Remember how I said I wanted you to be my sister-in-law? Well, I spoke with my brother who lives in Ghana. He is very excited to marry you. However, I thought it best if he send pictures so you can see how beautiful he is. He wanted me to give you...”

Nodding towards my patient with the door still half-open, I interrupted, “Thank you, Patricia, that was very thoughtful of you. However, I am in with a patient. Let’s catch up later.”

She handed me a large, poster-size envelope postmarked from Ghana.

Shocked, I wrapped up the session as calmly and coherently as possible. The child, ever inquisitive and clever in distracting me from speech therapy, inquired about the person at the door. I briefly explained that she was “one of my friends”, a term I often used to refer to other patients. The father, thankfully tactful or forgetful, did not ask further regarding the intriguing conversation he had likely overheard.

The next day remembering the contents of the Ghana-postmarked envelope, I opened it and curiously retrieved what had traversed an ocean and many weeks to get to me. Enclosed were 2 photos. One, a life-size picture of an African man’s head, perhaps even blown-up to be larger-than-the actual size of his head. The other, another blown-up picture this one depicting an African man clad in traditional-African garb. He looked as if he had taken a bed sheet, wrapped it around his body toga-style, and secured it to his frame with one simple knot. He stood against a car, weathered, with simple open sandals adorning his feet. He looked to be a man – stoic and regal.

Ironically, his identifying feature was his hair. Unlike his sister, this man had hair that was static through the fashion trends and changing seasons. His hair all black, save for a patch above his head – this patch of hair was a sharp contrasting pigment of white. An identifying feature that had earned him the nickname “Snow.”

So what’s next for the couple – one with “snow” colored skin, the other with “snow” colored hair?

The consulted Magic 8-ball reads, “Ask Again Later.” ;)