#MeToo

Tarana Burke, Rose McGowan, Asia Argento and many more women have ridden the year long rebuke of gender inequality in the US and razed one of the most vile, cancerous cores of it: sexual harassment and sexual assault. These brave women and so many others are felling titans of various industries left and right. In a year that everyone wishes we could forget, but likely will remember for the ages, the Metoo movement is a silver lining. It is a concrete, albeit harsh, step towards justice that women (and our allies) promised ourselves at last year’s Women’s March.

I have been fortunate to have escaped sexual harassment mostly unscathed and am not a survivor of sexual assault. I note that from my teenage years, I have, like most girls, constantly navigated through incidents. These have ranged from head down scurries through catcalls on the street, which, although common, still feel TERRIBLE to just knowing to get out of or preempt certain situations. I am not a survivor, but have felt the ever-present threat, which is palpable and scary.

While working at the UN, I used to tell interns that came to work in my office each year, “Listen, there’s a lot of dirty old men here at the UN. Most have diplomatic immunity. If you find yourself in an uncomfortable situation let me know and we’ll figure out how to handle it.” This advice served me well too. However, there was the time I was delivering a statement about child soldiers in northern Uganda to members of the UN Security Council and one member (of the UN SECURITY COUNCIL) caught my eye, smiled broadly, held up his hand like a phone and mouthed “call me”. My instincts told me that he didn’t want me to give him the latest statistics on child mothers…I always say that I became a feminist when I turned 30 and found myself on the frontlines of sexism for the first time in my life at the UN.

Alas, I am irked by the growing pushback on the MeToo movement. There are valid criticisms, like why did Taylor Swift and not Tarana Burke make it on to the cover of Time magazine? Indeed, the sensitivity around intersectional feminism, while difficult, is a welcome struggle that women are facing. But I’m also seeing articles in my social media feed about the “inevitable blowback”, the need for a clear direction, the need to crown an infallible leader, and the failure to recognize victims who are not celebrities or in some other position of power. I know these questions are part of the struggle, but some of them unfairly eclipse the burgeoning movement.

Underscoring all of these questions is my frustration with our culture in general: why do we need to know the end at the beginning? Our addiction to instant gratification is selling progress short. An example from another recent movement: when the Occupy Wall Street Movement happened, similar questions were asked and it was condemned as a failure when the actual occupation ended. And yet, two years later “the 1%” is an established and damning criticism in our lexicon and I would even say some of the current resistance began to get “woke” during this time.

As for the celebrity figurehead, of course this is problematic, but these women truly suffered and since our culture worships celebrity, this is likely the best way to finally name this thing that happens or could happen to every woman I know. Rose McGowan is far from perfect. Some of her tweets make me cringe. But we don’t need perfect leaders; they don’t exist. I also disagree profusely with the idea that we’re only dealing with famous peoples’ experiences. They grab the headlines, sure, but I bet there’s a whole lot of decision-making by men in power outside of Hollywood that has changed profoundly. Whether it’s the rot of Hollywood and politics that EVERYONE knows about or the office park in suburban Dallas or the pizza joint on the Jersey shore or the hospital in Boston, women know two things: they are not alone and people FINALLY believe them.

The tide is turning and the impact is being felt. “Feminism” has gone from a badge of the militant fringe to a rallying cry for all women. Well, except for the seemingly impenetrable block of white conservative women – come on sisters! Danica Roem and the Virginia elections show us that the movement is real and the resistance to inequality is not going quietly into the night. The brave women who continue to come forward have changed the workplace forever. They have torn down one of its largest, most invisible but viciously tangible obstacles. The restoration of workplace order and women’s ascension to power is happening.

“Sometimes people try to destroy you, precisely because they recognize your power - not because they don't see it, but because they see it and they don't want it to exist.” – bell hooks

Peru, for a moment

I just wrapped up a quick jaunt to Lima. I was there to participate in a flagship activity of one of my grantees: a global expert workshop on hate crime against LGBTI people. The gathering was impressive. From Lithuania to Argentina to India to South Africa and in between, we brought together civil society, police and prosecutors to discuss possible common approaches and best practices.

Much of my time in Lima was in a typical conference room at the Melia Lima Hotel. “72 and fluorescent” one of my taxi drivers called it. But I did have a moment or two in Lima.

Lima, I was warned, isn’t great. The traffic is truly maddening and limits one to just one or two excursions in a day. Knowing that I had only the day I arrived off of the red eye for tourism, I didn’t dally but headed straight to a 5-star lunch at Astrid & Gaston, as one does. It was a lovely entry point, had all the fanfare of fine Peruvian dining and was, indeed, an oasis in the hectic city. I ubered there “all by myself” as Austin says, and then ubered to the historic city center. I meandered without agenda through what I imagined was the typical South American architecture streets. Many of the old buildings were yellow, which of course I loved. I stumbled upon a man singing earnest Peruvian love ballads (while I cannot confirm this due to the Spanish, I could tell by his passionate expressions and the appreciative crowd around him). This spontaneous concert took place in the courtyard of the cathedral along the banks of the river whose name I don’t know.

I decide to walk a long distance to the Incan market, because with one day free I had to hit the shops. It was a brutal walk. There was a pedestrian walkway for a while, but that gave wat to a deadly, decidedly un-pedestrian highway where one played “Frogger” to cross the street. Adding insult to injury, somehow TripAdvisor got it really wrong – the Incan Market was not where it was supposed to be! Dejected and dusty, I ubered back to the hotel to re-group.

The next evening the group attending the workshop headed up the street to a mall for dinner – Lima loves malls! As chance would have it, this turned into a great night of Pisco Sours and soccer. Peru qualified for the World Cup for the first time in 36 years! The town went bananas!! Motorcyclists were riding on their handlebars (true!) and cars honked with jubilation into the wee hours. In the morning a sweet young waiter in the hotel restaurant served my eggs and couldn’t hold back another second:

“You know,” he said, “Peru had a soccer game last night.”

“Yes, I know,” I said.

His smile was a mile wide.

I made it to the seaside cliffs of Miraflores on the second night. We were invited to the Swedish Ambassador’s residence for a reception. It was delightful and the views were breathtaking as the sun went down over the water.

Hardly enough time to judge a place, but Lima (save the traffic) is lovely. The people and culture are warm and vibrant. Next time, the Andes, Macchu Piccu and the Amazon call…

Diplomatic Love in Warsaw

For two days during our LGBTI meeting in cold and rainy Warsaw, I was trying to figure out why the Chilean ambassador was in attendance. He rsvp’d a week before and Kerry (my colleague) and I were confused because it was a “working level” government meeting. We quickly scrambled to add him to the opening ceremony.

He arrived with a member of his staff and his teenage son, who appeared to be around 15. The ambassador gave his brief opening remarks, which were rather unremarkable. I had expected a fiery and dynamic human rights speech from a forceful character. Instead, a diminutive man with silver hair and a dapper mustache quietly said all the right things in a more stilted than eloquent speech.

We did not hear from him again until the end of the second day. But he sat through the entire session. He was not on his phone and took only one phone call, which is unheard of for an ambassador. He did not ask questions and his son had an attentive if slightly bored expression throughout.

At the end of day 2, the ambassador stood up from his chair and thanked us. He issued a call for Poland-based members of the group to continue to convene and dialogue around LGBTI issues. Amazing! We have got this diplomat!

At dinner that night I asked Kerry why he thought the ambassador stayed. He told me it was because his son is transitioning to a boy. The ambassador spent two days deeply engaged in LGBTI foreign policy for the love of his son. Kerry, who is a transgender man, was told this by the ambassador during a coffee break. There was visible relief and joy on his face when Kerry told him he was trans. Kerry and the boy had a long and hopeful chat. Kerry offered advice he wished he had when he was this boy’s age: take your time, reach out any time, you are not alone, it gets better.

The ambassador confided that his wife was not handling the news well. She refused to spend much time in Poland and instead stayed mostly in Chile. And so, this quiet, dignified diplomat who has an official role sitting atop a known machismo culture had taken the lead in loving his son for who he is. He is using his power to edify this love and support.

As Kerry retold this backstory, tears sprung to my eyes. I realized I had been witness to a parent’s purest and most unconditional love for his child through the quiet diplomacy of this wonderful man.

Kaepernick

Last Sunday, I changed my Facebook photo to Colin Kaepernick and shared Dan Rather's reflection on the next way in which the current resident at the White House divides us. While hardly daring, my rare expression on social media does make me feel less helpless in trying moments. As Monday rolled in and reflection after reflection was posted, I found myself filling up with anxiety, hovering at near post-2016 election levels. Why?

I was panicking about racism. Not just that it's been exposed, but also because I fear a new generation of racists is rising. With Obama there was progress, but racism didn't go away. Indeed, Mitch McConnell and his band of racists fucks made it clear that they would at every turn further institutionalize it. Nevertheless, it felt we were beating it and now it doesn't. It's been festering all along...

This morning I listened to a lovely white male sportscaster eloquently state the issue at hand. Many have. This isn't about right to protest. Or how to protest. This is about people of color stepping out of line. This was a racist reaction to a peaceful protest by THEM.

He used a phrase that immediately named my agita. He said that 45's tweets and the corresponding booing cretons at ballparks was a dog whistle.

Yes. Exactly.

People are using "freedom" and "disrespect" as a substitute for "black lives DON'T matter." And worse, some people are now emboldened to go beyond dog whistles and demurred hate by simply being racist out loud and proud. E.g., the disgusting comments from the horrible fire chief in Pittsburgh.

People who are saying Colin and others can't protest are really saying, "stop acting out of line, black people." And the dog whistle scares me, because so many people are answering it and waking to it. Racism is happening and new racism is to come...

My bike got this week stolen. It feels terrible. As I walked up to the bike rack at eastern market station I noticed my helmet and bike lock on the ground. I stared at the rack, and then around as if perchance to glimpse it misplaced somewhere in the vicinity. I looked for a police officer...a patrol car was going by but I'd have to run to catch it. I looked in my phone for a regular number of a nearby station. I couldn't find one. I called 311 and got a series of irrelevant extensions. I started to dial 911. What?! This is dc. You do not call 911 for a bike. 

Time was ticking. I needed to get Austin in 10 minutes. I picked up the lock and helmet and started walking away, slower than I needed to, my eyes futilely darting around.

I hailed a taxi and unloaded my sadness on him. "My bike was stolen!" I declared before I got my seat belt on. His reaction was the instant validation I needed. "What? Oh, no! That's terrible!" Yes, ok, I thought...maybe it was ok to feel as bad as I did.

He continued to pontificate about how horrible the person was who stole my bike. "We make," he said emphatically, "and they destroy." 

Then, of course, I felt bad. "It's only a bike. It was not even worth very much (I don't think). He must have needed it more than I did."

I miss my bike. It had Austin's baby seat on it. Just that morning I wondered how much longer he'd be in it, because his latest pair of sneakers didn't fit in the little feet holders.

As I contemplate my bike, I reflect on privilege. My privilege in particular. My privilege to feel bad about my missing "thing" when so many others struggle to eat or stay safe. My privilege to live a life so comfortable that a stolen bike can make me feel so bad. My privilege to afford to start looking for a new one.

Finally, I tie it back to my privilege to live in such a bubble that I was hoping against hope that we were moving beyond racism. I know racism is a constant presence in people of color's lives and I see it in DC daily life. I have deluded myself, however, into thinking we were moving away from it. 

Hence, this is my repulsion to those who disagree with the NFL protests. I didn't want to think we are sliding back. Quite frankly, I didn't want to think about racism full stop.

As a biracial person with light skin, I have far more of a choice to dip in and out of the pain of racism. These recent events remind me of that. That choice should not opt me out of action against racism, toward healing and eventually prosperity through equality. Lofty, yes. Yet, if masterminds of hate can lay forth their malignant goals, surely it must be met by an attack plan of love and equality. 

Together we must rise indeed.

Staring at the sun

Ok, I did it. I looked up directly into the sun during the eclipse. I could use the excuse that I didn't have glasses. But I would have done it anyway.

Eventually I asked a random stranger if I could borrow his eclipse glasses and he obliged. "Wow! Amazing!!" I immediately shouted. It was a huge difference. I saw the crescent sun! I had no idea the sun was that eclipsed, because it wasn't that dark. Amazing.

The best part of the eclipse was sharing he moment with all the office workers on  K street. It felt like a big moment. It was a big moment. Thousands gathered on sidewalks and rooftops across Washington, DC. A vision and feeling of unity so desperately sought in these depressing times of failing politics and declining social cohesion.

Yes, that's really the first thing I thought as I looked up. We need moments like these. Offline, off media, off print, in real life where concepts and ideals yield to passion and experiential community. Is that a thing? Well, it is now.

I liked the eclipse. I liked seeing people exclaim with glee, like I did. They came together to nerd out with completely uninformed theories about astrophysics. And felt a lot better about their day.

Stranger in a Strange Land

The first day of work is a tour de force of emotions. For me it's a mix of 75% anxiety, 24% adrenaline fueled by anxiety and 1% hopefulness. 

This week I started a new job for the first time in almost five years. When I think that in the not too distant past I started a new job every 18 months or so, I am amazed. It is a lot to take on board. Yes, the learning curve is there but that didn't even really come into view amidst navigating a new commute, finding and accessing my office and the countless steps that come with on-boarding to a civil servant job.

The tales of those steps are myriad and mundane. Let's sum up by calling it the old "two steps forward two steps back" routine added to my penchant for mediocrely bad luck. To quote my contractor escort: "wow this is amazing. I've never seen it like this." Well, I have. Ending day one with my coveted badge felt like climbing Everest (this took longer, but perhaps with less physical exertion unless you count palpitations.) 

I will need several more trips to the IT department so have befriended Bernie and Rose there. Some sort of Herculean bureaucratic maneuvers to get my social security number corrected in the system are still needed.

My birthplace is listed in the system as "Palmyra Atoll." I will give you a moment to google it. I had to. A tiny uninhabited island near Hawaii and not really close to Pennsylvania, where I was actually born. When I hear that I immediately assume malfeasance. Amazingly, my colleagues did not. Everyone keeps a patient smirk on their faces and explains "it will take time..." and "it's like drinking from a fire hose."

The job I'm taking is a bit of a back seat compared to my last in the sense that I am taking a step back from direct implementation and into a role that selects implementers. This is a fantasy for many NGO people who spend so much time chasing donors.

I just hope they have internet access in Palmyra Atoll so that I can take on this new role!

Insomnia or keystone cops?

A disclaimer: I am a shite sleeper.

That said, I've had accomplices of late. Austin has been waking consistently at 3:30am to pee for the last two weeks. Without a diaper this has been a middle of the night laundry tour de force. (By the way, the mommy hack of 'just throw a towel over it' doesn't work.)

we've returned to nighttime diapers. No shame in it. Shame does not deter the desire for sleep! Wearing diapers at night has resulted in Austin still waking and asking to go to the bathroom, where a bleary-eyed yet frenzied diaper removal and toilet mounting process ensues.

Some nights Austin goes right back to sleep. Good for him. I don't. Other nights he needs me to hang with him for a while. Fun!

When it really becomes a blast is when the dog enters into the fray. Like tonight. Jeter work me up at 2:30am needing to go outside. (Yes, it was my fault for feeding him a porkchop bone at dinner. Usually he tolerates these just fine.)

I finish letting him out and return upstairs and note two things: I'm wide awake and it's 2:45, which means Austin will wake at 3:30. Fun! Again!

At 3:30 and a half, Austin wakes. This time he has peed in his diaper. Hooray! However, the diaper has massively leaked. Boo!

The sheet is minimally wet, so I just this a towel over it 😉 I change Austin and return him to bed. 

I go and lie down and read horrible 45 articles for a few minutes and then I hear Austin and the dog both whimpering. 

Austin needs some water. I give him a sip and explain that I need to let Jeter out (again). He astutely senses my level of frustration and let's me leave.

I go downstairs whisper yelling at the dog (damn it Jeter what's wrong with you, etc.) and let him out. I watch from the window as he finds a poop spot by trampling my only Canna lily. If he goes for the phlox I'm going to strangle him. He mildly tramples the outskirts of the phlox. Once he's done his business and descends from my flower bed, he incorrectly chooses to go for a little stroll around the yard. I whisper yell him back to the house. 

It's now 4:16am and I'm so tired, I want to cry.

(Posted a week later)