Adventures in Bookland

Vampires have commandeered the teen section. Classics now come in comic and zombie form. Dinosaurs have earned their own category. And Miley Cyrus is in the history section.

Thank goodness Nancy Drew still has an entire bookshelf, along with the Hardy Boys and the Boxcar children. Some favorites will never die.

And good news for Goosebumps, you’re still as frightening as ever. But when’d this Wimpy kid come in? And who put Thomas in a corner?

You can get Dr Seuss in all shapes and sizes, and Elmo will teach you to read, count, sing, and paint. The Magic School Bus is still changing form in style and Frog and Toad can go home for half off.

There are education books for every age, grade, and subject – even teachers and tutors can make the grade. Begin learning Spanish or human anatomy, a whole section on New York for kids awaits. Biographies come in picture-book form for 3 year olds and those darn cloth books are as perfect for babies as ever. Need to name a child? We’ve got lots of advice on that! Breastfeeding and potty training too.

There’s popups and mazes, chapter books, and picture books, hard cover, soft cover, board books, and plush. There are even some sing-alongs and those fun piano books too.

The aisles are crowded. The children are happy. E-readers may be selling fast but you can’t replace Bookland for children.

Kids in the City

I think about my nephews and nieces when I walk through the city. I think they would like it here.

I walked by a travel store today with an antiquated train set in the window. I pictured my nephews getting so excited and rushing p to the window to stare at it. Just the type of thing that make them jump up and down.

I think of them on the subways and imagine trying to explain the train that goes underground and takes you anywhere you need. They’d get it because they’re imaginative. And they would love it. They might get a little scared on their first trip, it is a little bumpy after all. But they’d get a hang of it soon enough and be climbing on seats and staring out the window at the black rushing by and jumping over the gap in the platform like they were playing hopscotch. They’d probably balance better than me on those trains. Something to do with that low center of gravity they have, I’m sure.

Yes I think of my nephews and nieces as I walk through the city. All the people they would see and the shop windows they would look into. The trees with all their falling leaves and parks with kids-only playgrounds. I’ve never gone into one of those child-dreamlands but if my nephews and nieces were here, I could take them in every day and watch them play and push them on the swings and maybe race them down the slides.

And the dogs, yes the dogs! I think they would love the city dogs. So many breeds and so many doggie outfits! They would get a kick out of the puppy snow-shoes in the winter.

I could take them to Times Square – and hold them close – but let them see the bright lights and maybe run up and down the big red stairs. At Macy’s they can see the holiday window displays and the giant stuffed animals on the kid’s floor. I can take them to the zoo where they can go into the butterfly world or explore the snake exhibit that I know the boys would love. Or to Coney Island and the aquarium where maybe the big kids can ride the best roller coaster ever with me.

They would love the history museum and the giant blue whale suspended above their heads. And I could show them all the animals of Africa and the constellations of the sky. They might be a bit young for the art museums, but maybe MOMA where interactive displays can pique their curiosity. And certainly to the park, where they can run and jump and play and we can all take a boat ride on the lake, as long as no one falls in!

And the sounds, I think they’d love the sounds. The honking cabs and always jabbering people. The concerts in the parks or squares and, of course, the musicians on the trains and platforms! I can even see them wanting to bring their caja on the train to play for people themselves! They can be as loud as they want in the city, because it’s the city and there are 8 million other people making sound too.

I know the city is big and can be a bit scary. There are a lot of people and a lot of cars and I guess the doggies aren’t always nice. But when I walk through the city, I find myself seeing it through my nephews and nieces eyes and the city takes on this dreamy glow. A place of adventure and discovery. I think they’d like it here. And I’d always hold them close.

If I'm all grown up now, why do I feel so young?

At what point do we really feel grown up? I suppose I should ask what that even means. Back in undergrad, I tackled that looming question of what I want to be when I grow up. I was grown up. At least that’s what I felt at the time. I postulated on about how I finally WAS what I wanted to be. I was me. The answer wasn’t about my career. It was about being comfortable in my own skin. And I was pretty darn comfortable back then. Even if looking back now I see how self-conscious I was. Self-discovery is an ongoing process, I’ve discovered. It never ends. I’m just as comfortable with myself today as I was five years ago. And I’ve grown quite a bit since then. I suppose my issue with that question of what I want to be when I grow up is about the fact that I shouldn’t be sitting around waiting to BE. I should just be. NOW. Who I am today is just as important as who I am ten years from now. As is what I do. So why is it that at certain stages in my life, I find myself more or less confident and comfortable and sure. Circumstances I guess.

Here I am beginning an exciting journey in higher education. Back in school studying something I’ve been passionate about for years. Surrounded by students with similar ideals and faculty who genuinely seem to care about my potential. Yet I find myself sitting in every class questioning what I’m doing here. How did I get in to this Ivy league school? What qualifies me to sit beside my peers with such thought provoking questions and intellectual understanding? It’s a disturbing thing to be constantly question myself. And to be questioning where that confidence I once had has gone. It’s like moving from eighth to ninth grade and going from being the big fish down to the bottom of the rung. Except this time there’s no freshmen Fridays with fears of wedgies and toilet dunking. But the insecurity is the same.

Maybe these stages never end. Maybe I never get to a place where I never feel doubt. Maybe if I do it means I’ve stopped being and growing and developing. Maybe complete comfort and confidence is a sign of passive life and eventual burnout. Maybe I need to hunger for these stages where I’m not entirely on top. Because they will take me to the next place, the next stage, the next level where I can get to the next learning moment. And maybe in the meantime I just need to hold on, work hard, and remember that I’ve been here before and I won. I overcame the insecurity and the doubt. I became the smiling sophomore, the spirited junior, and the leading senior owning the halls of the high school that had first made me want to crawl into bed and hide.

I did it then and I became stronger. I’ll do it again. And again. And hopefully many times again before I end.

The only limits on what I can be when I grow up are the limits I place myself.

There are no lions in South Africa

Second reality: There are no lions in South Africa.

Okay, well obviously there are some. They are on the postcards and the 50Rand bill, after all. But they aren’t where they’re supposed to be.

Evening of the gift shop incident. And despite having a healthier sense of caution, I don’t actually feel like I’m in Africa. The roads are paved. The hotel has automatic doors and a flat screen tv in the lobby. Dinner was at a cowboy-themed restaurant where they sing happy birthday and actually give you a real dessert (not the dollop of whip cream American places give these days). How is this Africa?

Where are the dirt roads and women with baskets on their heads and lions ready to eat me?!!!!

Where is Africa?

This isn’t what I expected. Even knowing all I do about South Africa as a developed country. I still wanted my romanticized view of the African continent. And this is not what I imagined.

I studied apartheid. I’ve explored the history of the country. I saw a documentary on Nelson Mandela and I follow the news. I consider myself educated and well-informed. But I still have stereotypes and I still can’t wholly shake them.

I expected grasslands and wild animals and undeveloped country. I got traffic and loud music and t-shirts and jeans.

It doesn’t feel like Africa. But this is Africa. And it’s not that different from home. It’s time I let go of romanticized visions and let the world develop beyond my ignorant view.

There are no lions in South Africa.

At least not where the people live.

South Africa is dangerous

I returned from Africa nearly two months ago. How do I even begin to go back and unravel all that was the trip? The fact is, I haven’t spent nearly enough time unpacking all of it – and I don’t mean my suitcases. So much happened, perhaps so much changed me. Maybe that’s cliché. But if Africa didn’t actually change people, than we probably wouldn’t have that cliché.

A part of me fears, though. That I haven’t really changed at all. It’s been nearly two months and the awe in which I walked around New York City in those first few days back is gone. The constant questioning of how I’m privileged to have so much doesn’t seem to nag on my mind quite as often. And the tears that came every time I remembered the poverty, and racism, and isolation I brushed against, aren’t quite as wet as they once were.

So perhaps it’s good that I am just now making the time to go back and review the three weeks that were my African journey. Perhaps now is precisely when I need to be reminded – and then return again and again to these memories anytime I come close to forgetting yet again.

______

My first reality: South Africa is dangerous.

More dangerous than Central Park after dark. And not because of lions.

I hadn’t even been in the country for more than a few hours. If you can even count the airport in Johannesburg as being in the country! And yet already I was having my confidence rocked by South Africa.

It was an innocent error. Or a naïve one. Depending on your view.

With my carry-on bag slung over my shoulder and my money safely tucked in my brand new money pouch, I felt like a confident, secure world traveler. I knew I could probably find postcards cheaper than at the airport, but I wasn’t here to shop and didn’t want to miss the chance to send some memories home. I was eager as I selected cards with wild animals and beautiful coastlines. None of which I’d actually seen in my two hours at the airport but all of which I was sure I would see before I returned.

With my purchases carefully selected, I made my way to the counter that looked just like any other gift store counter in any American airport I’d ever been in. As my cards were scanned and the total rand I owed came up on the screen, I awkwardly swung my bag to my front and dug deep for that secure money pouch that was really supposed to be hanging down the front of my shirt. But I’d do that when we were actually out and about – not in an airport surrounded by my friends. I swung the bag around to my side again and began counting out the foreign currency I had just received at an exchange place trying not to be distracted by the colors and animals I found so exciting on each bill.

That was when it happened.

“What do you think you’re doing, leaving that bag open? This is South Africa. Not New York.” It was said with such disdain. A haughty know-it-all chastising the ignorant newbie. It wasn’t a polite reminder or a concerned piece of advice. It was a message that I didn’t belong.

In a heartbeat I processed what he meant, why he said it, and how he knew I was from New York. My carryon was partially unzipped after I’d retrieved my money. South Africa is well known for petty theft and major crime. And my sweater was proudly advertising my NYU affiliation.

It was all I could do to manage a polite thank you and ashamedly zip closed my shoulder bag as I grabbed my change, my postcards, and shuffled away. My super sophisticated money pouch seemed ridiculous all of a sudden. My bravado at managing a new currency was gone. My confidence that I was smart enough to travel in Africa was nowhere to be found.

It was that last that hit the hardest. For now, I was surrounded by my team – eight other travelers all going through this together. A buffer against the stupid mistakes I might make or a resource if the worst really did happen. But in ten days, I’d be on my own. Making my way from one African country across a border into another and with no one there to hold my hand. If I couldn’t be smart in an airport gift shop, how was I going to stay safe on my own, in a country I didn’t know, with a language I didn’t speak?

I knew the realities of South Africa. I’d been told in our meetings often enough and done my own research on travel warnings and advisories. I knew not to walk alone or to go on the beach at night. I knew to keep valuables out of sight and put my passport in the hotel safe. I knew that even the airport porters might be suspect. But I didn’t really know. I was a New Yorker. I knew how to stay safe. I had common sense. I’d traveled Europe and fended off drunk Italians with my friend. Slept in train stations and shady hostels and not had a single thing stolen. I thought I knew. But I didn’t really know.

This was a new arena. A new ball game and new rules. And I was expected to get them wrong. That was the advantage that I lost. I was anxious before I’d even begun. I anticipated my demise before I met my opponent. My confidence was shot. Africa would win because of one man.

South Africa is dangerous.

I’m not entirely sure if it’s the crime that makes it so. Or the expectation.

Terrorism as the Answer

There are no borders. To anyone who thinks terrorism exists elsewhere or originates outside the lines of the United States of America – read this. And know this is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Hatred surrounds us. And it’s right in our backyard.

We all point fingers. We never want things to be our fault. If there’s a problem, there must be someone to blame. And it’s best if it’s not me, or you, or someone I know…but THEM. Someone out there, someone different from me. But it doesn’t really matter who it is or where it comes from. Hate is hate. And intolerance is wrong.

These men were upset, angry for something, wanting vengeance. They picked someone to blame. Without reason or real proof. They picked someone to hate on veiled reasoning and flawed logic. They claimed patriotic retribution and religious instigation. Defending the rights of one group by killing another. But how does blowing up a temple, school, and community center full of non-combatants right any wrong? How do you fight violence with violence and expect to be heard? The din will be too much and no one will listen to your point when your guns are blazing.

Freedom for anyone cannot be gained by taking freedom from anyone.

Filling people with terror only makes the battle harder, stronger, longer. Nothing is gained. More is lost. It doesn’t matter who we are, where we come from, what religion we practice, or the strength of our economy – we must listen and be heard. We must respect. Only then will freedom ring loud enough for us all.

I shall live

I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a

brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dryrot.

I would rather be a superb meteor,

every atom of me in magnificent glow,

than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The proper function of man is to live,

not to exist.

I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.

~Jack London

Sharing the Center of the World

A single word. A smile. A touch.

Sometimes I wonder at the world. It’s size. The innumerability of it all. So many people. So many lands. Languages. Cultures. Joys and sorrows.

How is it that we are all here and sharing the same world. And yet will never meet, touch, smile or interact? How can this world be mine and yours at the same time? Both of us living at the center of it but never knowing the other is there too.

We’re in it together. We are. Even if we often don’t think we are. Even when we think we are alone. Lost amid the crowded streets and jostling subways and endless miles of paved highways and dirt roads. If we take one moment to stop. To smile. To speak. Perhaps we would connect and know. Know that we share the center of this world in our sorrows and joys. In our differences and our commonalities. Even if we never meet. We are here. Together...

I sat sandwiched between two strangers. Jostled by the racing train. The sounds of metal screeching against metal filling my ears. My eyes roamed the car from advertisement to advertisement. Never knowing where to fall. You’re not supposed to catch another’s eyes in the city. It’s an unwritten rule. Or maybe it’s actually written. I don’t know. But I know it. You don’t look. You don’t smile. You don’t say hi to a passerby on the street. The only exception is to help a lost tourist or a little old lady cross the street. Maybe not even that.

So I sat.

But I’ve never been good at following the rules. And my eyes wander the car. Seeing the faces tired from work. The friends giggling after school. The tourists certain they are headed for somewhere they don’t want to be and not sure how to get off. I see the woman across from me. Sandwiched too. Her bag and purse secure on her lap. Staring straight ahead. At the dark tunnel flashing by or zoned out at some distance time and place. This is what I am supposed to be doing too.

But I look.

And I see her eyes close. Tired from a long day? A brief moment of rest from nothing to see? Her eyes close. And then they shudder. Her mouth quivers. Her face contorts. I see the struggle. One I know well. A struggle to regain control. To stop the tears fighting at the lining of her eyes. Her hands come up. Covering her face. Squeezing her cheeks and nose and eyes. A deep breath. Another. Calm comes from chaos. Her eyes open. Rimmed with red. Glistening from unshed tears.

Our eyes meet.

She looks away. I look away. A rule broken. A private moment intruded upon. A stolen glance. Her calm remains. Did I imagine it? Another look. Then another. My eyes flit from her to the window and back again. The glisten grows. The redness spreads. From her eyes to her cheeks to her hands. Her struggle continues on as she fights to stay in control. I want to reach out. To comfort. To consol. To ask if I can help. But you don’t do that.

So I sit.

The train is screeching to a halt. My stop. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to leave without saying something. But what good is a comment on my way out? I make a promise – I will reach out if she exits with me. I’m not sure if I want to see her move or stay. She moves.

Her pace is slow on the platform. I am next to her. I don’t dare reach out. But I find my voice doing it for me. Four little words. One little question. The tears burst forth. The calm shatters. We pause together between the trains and the tourists, buried under ground. A few moments. A quiet explanation. A genuine gratitude.

We exit together. Two strangers. Two friends. Her life isn’t better. Her sadness isn’t gone. Her heart isn’t heavier. Two strangers in the same world touched for a moment. Sharing the sorrow and the joy. One word. One smile. One touch can make a difference.

To do before I die

I saw a list once. A list of things to do before I die.

I take pride in trying new things. Taking new risks. Fun and adventures and facing my fears.

I have done many of these things. And many left to do before I die.

But one thing stood out. One thing I thought I might never do. One thing I knew I COULD do but didn’t think I WOULD do. One thing that really shouldn’t be that hard.

Write a piece of original poetry and read it aloud to an audience.

I remember the first time I spoke in front of my church – the faces of the congregation looking up at me. I remember the first time I gave a speech at school – several hundred of my peers listening in. I remember the first time I competed in an oratorical competition – judges critiquing my word and style. I remember the first time I led a lesson in Spanish – children grinning from ear to ear. I remember the first time I facilitated a training session – staff members taking notes and raising hands.

I remember the first time I wrote a poem.

An ode to the stars and night sky. A message to me of dreams and hopes and wishes.

I don’t remember feeling butterflies in my stomach. Or nervousness in my heart. Or anxiousness or doubt or shaking hands or rapid breath. Not in any of those moments of speaking. Not in any of those moments of standing before audiences and sharing myself.

Only once. Not when I was speaking. But when I wrote. When I wrote a piece of poetry about my hopes and dreams and fears. When I let my insides come out and flow into ink – permanent and impressing. Indentations in paper that burn into my skin and heaving chest.

My poems were printed once. In a hand-bound book just for me. My poems were submitted once. In a district competition I didn’t win. My poems were published once. In a scholarly collection I thought no one would see. My poems were shared once. On a blog I pretended was my own personal diary.

My poems were me.

I pride myself on doing new things. On taking new risks. On facing my fears.

Wings fluttered in my abdomen. Anxiety seized my heart. Nervousness shook my hands and clenched my fists and sped my breathing.

My poems were spoken once. To an audience I did not see, but they saw me.

Looking In, Looking Back, Looking Forward

You Look at me and see the girl
Who lives inside the golden world
But don’t believe
That’s all there is to see
You’ll never know the real me

Hmm
She smiles through a thousand tears
And harbors adolescent fears
She dreams of all
That she can never be
She wades in insecurity, yeah
And hides herself inside of me

Don’t say, “She takes it all for granted”
I’m well aware of all I have
Don’t think that I am disenchanted
Please understand

It seems as though I’ve always been
Somebody outside looking in
Well, here I am for all of them to bleed
But they can’t take my heart from me
And they can’t bring me to my knees
They’ll never know the real me

Mariah Carey, Looking In

My favorite song. I sang this everyday. To myself. In my head. Out loud. Listening to it over and over. Wondering how Mariah Carey put words to my every inner hurt and need.

Somebody outside looking in.
A window stained with tears I’d shed.

A smiling face. A golden world. Success and happiness. No reason to worry.
That’s what was on the outside. That’s what people saw.

Inside was the fear. Inside was the loneliness. Inside were the tears. No one could see them. No one could see me.

In fifth grade, I did a class project. Ceramic face images of ourselves. I made two. The top one was me – blonde hair, green eyes, my papa’s big smile.
The one beneath, smaller, sadder, crying.

I drew a picture. One side was sunshine and flowers. The other side was storm clouds and rain. My sister saw it and cried. She hugged me fiercely to her. I told her I was okay. I could handle it.

I knew how I felt. I knew who I was. I knew why I struggled and why I was sad. I knew no one got me and I was okay. I knew I was stronger. Stronger than what, or who, I don’t know. The loneliness? The fear? The anger or sadness? But I knew I would win. I knew that I really was alright.

And I was.

I’m well aware of all I have.

They can’t take my heart from me.

Please understand.


I don’t have a favorite song today. Maybe nothing can match what this song once was. When I look at these words, when I think what it meant to me. It almost makes me sad. Almost, because the sadness that made me love this song is overshadowed by the fact that whatever the writer of this song thought or meant, it meant to me that I wasn’t alone. Someone understood. Someone knew what I felt. Someone else could put it into words. The world around me spun, but someone, somewhere got me and wrote this song.

To write like that is a gift. A gift we probably won’t ever know we have. To know that something we say. Something we write. Something we do. Has such a profound and powerful influence on someone else. That is an awesome possibility.

I am thankful to say today that Mariah’s song no longer holds the same meaning for me. I no longer hide behind a veil of happiness or cry unshed tears. I am thankful today that people know me for who I am. I no longer feel the burden of shielding myself from others’ eyes. I am thankful today that this song was there for me when I needed it. And I am thankful today that it may be there for you when you think you are the only one standing on the other side of the window looking in. You are not alone. And you can be stronger.

One moment of celebration before continuing on

Everything in me is a jumbled mix of emotions. I cried in that crowd of 2 million people. I saw others cry with me. I wish I had asked them why they cried.

I cried for history. I cried for change. I cried not just for the peaceful, democratic transfer of power. But for witnessing a step toward equality.

As much as I deal in reality and logical thinking. I am one of the most idealistic people I know. I see, or at least think, the best of people always. And I hope for the best in mankind and our future. But as much as I believed that the day would come when race might be put aside, I’m not sure if I really believed. I wanted to believe. And on Tuesday, I saw it.

At least I saw for a moment. I saw a black man sworn in as President of the United States. True, I took a moment to wish and wonder after the day when it could be a woman, but all things in their time.

On Tuesday, I believed in change. Not the CHANGE that Barack Obama is trying to usher in, though I believe in that as well. No, the change I believed in was the ability of mankind to overcome fear and doubts and hatred. I may not have been alive when segregation was the rule of the day, but I’ve heard and I’ve seen racism with my own eyes. And I know I will see it again.

Perhaps that is what has me so mixed up. I want to enjoy the moment on Tuesday when racism seemed to be a non-issue. But I know that it is not over. The fight has not been won. Too many people did not vote for him because of the color of his skin. If it was his politics, I could understand. But not his skin. Or his religion. Or his father’s country of origin. Even the mixed racial marriage of his parents. Do these things matter? I do not believe so, but too many people still do.

I want to BELIEVE. But we still have a long road ahead. Barack Obama is just a man. A man who inspired millions. A man who we hope too much of, I think. A man who should not be put on a pedestal and worshiped. The President is one person. They have great power, but they have great limitations as well. One black man achieving success does not right all the wrongs, nor erase all the past, present, and future acts of hate. I want to believe. And I have great hope.

Tuesday was another step in achieving Reverend Martin Luther King Juniors Dream, but it should not be seen as the last. There is a great road ahead. I was proud to be standing in that crowd of 2 million on Tuesday, January 20, 2009. I was proud to show support for this moment in history. I will always be proud. But I will only take a moment to celebrate before continuing the difficult journey ahead.