twenty seven. Irene.

"Now that is a good question!" I thought as I shifted on the tall steel stool underneath me.  I found myself this rainy Thursday night surrounded by reflections in this glass room. Placed at the head of a bright-eyed and colorfully skinned crowd, with two fierce and humble women by my side, this panel event was focused on the topic of what being women in social business means for us as individuals and in turn for the world. The series is labeled, "Humans of Change".

The question: How might we (and can we) begin to think about what social business means in terms of implementing it on a much larger scale of policy-especially in countries that deal with traditional, cultural, and religious values that seemingly work against what innovation is and stands for?

Whew. 
So proud that young woman is in my world. I thought.

Time and time again I am reminded of the facade of teachers/experts as the all powerful and knowing vs. students/learners who have little to contribute. This young woman should have been up there beside us talking about what all this means. I gently leaned over for the mic, but not to answer the question; rather to ask another one. For me, it is true that valuable answers come mostly from people who live in those cultures and have those experiences.
"My feeling is since you asked such a significant and thoughtful question, you have your own ideas about this...can you share some with us?"

With brave eloquence her answer pulled my perspective and inspired new thinking for days. Needless to say, I was thrilled at the invitation we insisted upon for coffee the following week.

As I walked into the tiny modern coffee shop at the end of my Soi, there Irene sat with that same brave eloquence in her straight dark blue jean dress. This was especially refreshing to me today becuase today was the day that the last several months hit me in my gut all at once. The weeks before presented some incredible opportunities to explore who I was and where I was in this rollercoaster of life alongside important strangers. During those weeks I become aware of some aspects of my life that were not allowing me to be free or happy in all that I am. I was frustrated and feeling a ton of fear as I started to think head on about what the actions of changing things were going to look like. Particularly spiritually this day I felt off and the idea of sleeping or crying seemed like the best option. I thought about canceling for coffee to allow myself the space to be sad, but was called to go be with others who lift me up rather then walk in all this alone. I also noticed that I was feeling like I wouldn't have much too offer her, but that rang as an assumption of terrible self-pity, so got my ass out the door.

I was right, being near her automatically was lifting.

As many younger warriors do, Irene had questions for me (lots of them) and we followed her curiosities and bounced from story to story. She shared with me some of her own narrative, learnings from the past years of travel and dreams that seem to be taking shape in endless ways.

I wrote on post-it notes some sentences or one liners that nudge me to stay on the path I want to walk in this life and handed them to her. Woman to woman. She even wrote down some things I said which reminded me that my presence or connection may be important, even on days when my spirit is swallowed by my mind.

Irene asked me tough questions that I didn't want to answer on that particular day. I did anyway and there she was with support and openness. We thought through what some things may mean in life and discussed some strings of the ever changing complexity of relationships and our relationship with larger themes like work and service to others.
Every sentence that streamed from her mouth was powerful and clear. 
Every sentence she said, reminded me of the woman I strive to be daily.
As effortless as Irene makes this look, I knew that in fact being the person she is takes a ton of internal work. Self-reflection, honestly, humility and there she was practicing all of those so much they have become her habits, her way of being.
I was inspired and reminded to continue the practice.

I write this blog as a reminder to my future self or to you that even if you find yourself on a panel where your community has asked you to come as a Human of Change or you are a wise teacher placed with the great responsibility to start dialog and guide information to your students-remember that everyone around you is teaching you too.

Once in a while I stumble upon an "Irene" (although never another Irene as her uniqueness is hers), and that Humans of Change are those who engage in relationship over self and show up to the coffee shop to engage in a meaningful way with each other despite what the day brings.
That coffee was the moment that allowed me to pull everything in re-center moving forward in my life being as eloquently brave as I could.

A storm started to brew outside, and in Bangkok this time of the year it means Monsoon rains! As we hurried to get out the door Irene wrote me one more post-it and took the extra few seconds to decorate it. "Make Choices that Liberate You" it read.

and so, I began to practice that daily ever since.

twenty six. Superwoman.

I could see the lit up stage through the opening between the metal bars that hold up the market stalls and I could hear the sky train roaring above me as it passed stuffed to the brim with everyday people headed home from a day of hard work. The stage held up two Thai dancers floating around it with the beat of seemingly ancient sounds. Their traditional dress was sparkling with glitter of gold and pink and even after living in Thailand for sometime, I still have to remind myself that these beautiful people are not porcelain dolls. 

As I brought up the sticky spring roll to my mouth everything about my being suddenly felt heavy. Like the commuters I find my days especially long in that last few weeks. I became very aware of the tiredness of my body; my worn and wandering mind; my spirit drained from the recent struggles. The music seemed too loud to endure and I stood to go home. I needed to rest. I needed time to breathe. My thoughts gently brought me to a memory of my Jessica. A flash, and my thoughts then guided me to the screen of my phone from my commute into the city as the sun rose with the day this morning. Jess’s message read, ” I am sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. It’s been a tough week, I have pneumonia.”

That alone would cause me to worry. It never feels good to know someone you love is sick especially when you are one million miles away. As I walked I thought about how tired her body must be. I was thinking how achy she must feel, I wondered if her chest hurt and if she had any medicine that would make it better since she is one of those woman that doesn’t complain much and insist that they can stick out anything...and they do.  I wondered how her mind and her spirit were too? Undoubtly also tired.

As I was going to take care of myself I know that Jess, even when she is sick most often cannot, definitely cannot like I can. I knew that the reason why she was sick was also because she simply won't make the time to care for herself, not with little ones around her who have stolen her heart.

Jess is a mother. 

Jess works with youth who need extra assistance in one way or another which means that after an early and quick fired morning getting her two children ready, she spends the day with other little ones who need all of her love and all of her attention. 

Then she comes home to a five year old (that you have read about before- my Jacina) who doesn’t understand the language, “calm down.” Jacina now has a new little brother and has started Kindergarten. Frankly even at such a young age she has felt the struggles of life lately in a real way. She is becoming aware of how fast life can change and how you must change with it or you will be pulled behind. 

Jessica's 1 year old is Zay is just that…1 year old. He needs her even when she is sick, even when she needs a break. Everyone needs Jess all the time and I found myself wishing I could get her away for a quick weekend vacation. But, I know even being allowed to just be sick without someone needing her would be a tall ask. 

I wouldn’t call Jess my best friend, although at many points in my life she was just that. Jess is my longest friend. She is one of my longest friends who has remained close to me and so I would say that she is also my deepest friend. She knows me better than anyone else for the simple fact that she is one of the only people I know who has seen me change with age and spirit. She has seen me through all of my break-ups with boyfriends. She has woken me up on hung over mornings during college to gorge ourselves on hash browns and orange juice. She has watched my dress style change, my hair, my ideas, what matters to me. She knows memories that I have only talked about once or twice. She has sat laughing with me till we cried. We have cried, and cried and cried over things as simple as a movies and as life-changing as losing people we love; at times we cried for regaining them back into our lives. She is my longest friend, my deepest friend and she is the closest thing to unconditional love I have ever had.

Jess validates me even though she doesn’t always agree and vise versa. We validate each other becuase when it comes to unconditional love- we have got it down. 

I know she is proud of me and her loving words and enriching comments let me know how much. “You’re doing amazing things” is said in one way or another often. Her belief in me sometimes makes me feel like I am superwoman. 

Living abroad forces me face to face on the battle grounds with myself about who and how I just may be letting down the ones I love back home. Days when Jess is sick make me want to be there the most so I could at least continue to show her love that she shows to me. I want to go back to Little Rock if only to remind her that it is not the women like me who deserve the praise and respect that I often receive- but it is the women like her. 

Selfless, loving, strong, and relentless in her efforts to be a good person/mother/therapist everyday despite the fact that the world does not recognize it. A day in May reserved for mothers isn’t even close to cutting it. 

Jess, you deserve to be recognized everyday (although you would laugh at that.) 

The strongest ones in the world to me are people like you. Women who find themselves with pneumonia and who are still no doubt putting their kids in the bathtub (and sitting with them when they refuse to put their toys up and get out) and reading them a story while you all drift off to sleep. Did I mention that I know you are doing all this alone most days? I love you, and I wish I was home to help. 

I am proud to know you. 

To me, you are the superwoman. 

twenty five. Ms. Gibson

I feel that the American education system is failing our youth across the country, particularly students who endure struggle outside of their time in school.

These struggling students can be a little harder to "handle". For them, it is a little harder to sit and listen about math and history when their bellies are hungry and their spirits heavy from the violence they consistently see the night before and in the neighborhood whether from parents, neighbors or police officers. It is harder to listen to teachers who do not listen back and demand respect but have done nothing to earn it. It is hard to look up to school administration who look down on them and never take the time to know who they are outside of the occasional poor choices they make.

So, high school for me (like many others) was hard for these reasons to name a few. I did a great job hiding my pain with humor and made sure the clothes I wore were covered in tiny seals of status in the form of name brands- this way no one would question my life after the 3 o'clock bell rang. I learned to lie well and those four years were some of the loneliest times of my life.

Sophomore year at Case High school I decided to tryout a theater course. I figured I was great at acting at this point since I did it with everyone I met. "This class would be a joke and an easy A+." Maybe an A+ would make my social workers happy and I wouldn't have to move foster homes again for awhile.

The day I met Nancy Gibson, I realized I was not prepared for Theater 101. She was different from every other teacher I met in all the 10 schools I had been in since kindergarten.
She was the first and the only teacher who dug deep and wasted no time going there with us. She wanted to know who we were, what made us tick, what made us different and what made us the same. She pondered what courage meant for the incoming collective year after year and how each one of us could contribute to the success or to the failure of the class. She pushed me to think critically and think all the time. She pushed us to think for ourselves and than to speak that out loud to the world. She asked us to feel too which was the last thing I wanted to do. This class was not going to be easy at all.

It was the improv activities that we participated in the first day that tipped me over the edge. We had t to be comfortable and trust the others in the class to be silly and not be made fun of. This was insanely hard for me.  I marched to go the guidance counselor after the bell rang and asked if there was another class I could take during that time slot. There wasn't.
Shit.
Okay fine.
I will just get through it.

As class went on I learned many things. I learned how to build community with others around me. How you ask?
Nancy.
Nancy invited us to listen to each other and as we were provided the space and time to the very many pieces of our authentic stories. Through this, I realized I was not alone in my pain. It pulled me out of being isolated whether I liked it or not. I started to make friends in this class, the real kind. The kind who listened to my words, saw me for what I was and loved me still. To this day, as a 30 year who lives abroad, many of these people are still my family.

At the end of the class, we had to put our stories together into a production that was written, directed, and acted by us. We were asked to bring those stories and that vulnerability we gave in class everyday to the city now. My heart sank. "I can't do it," repeated over and over in my mind.

With that mindset I wrote a piece that was honest, but not as brave as it could have been.
One week before we had the show, we were practicing in the theater. It was my first time saying my monolog out loud in front of our class. My paper was riddled with erasings from my latest change and edit to make this monologue said as an act, rather than said from my heart.

I avoided eyes with Nancy (which is what she let us call her because as she would always remind us- we are all equal humans here!) After the half-hearted applause from my class subsided, she rose and stood next to me.  Boldly, she asked me to do it again, but this time at least "say it like you mean any of it." Line by line, she would make me repeat it till she could hear me open up. I hated every minute. I was uncomfortable. I knew she could see through the mask I put up for the world. I wanted to walk out, and she told me I could if I wanted to.

Of course, I couldn't walk out at that point. No way. We were all a family in there and that theater and Nancy were the only places that I felt safe in that school and outside of it. If I walked out on my story -I was walking out on everyone else's. I continued.
A part of my monolog came that was painful and she put her hand on my shoulder and ask me if this part made me angry. It did. She nodded her head and I knew I could scream it if I wanted. I did.

I finished my monolog in tears- heart beating fast. The room was quiet now and still.
I took a deep breath in and sat down as my theater family hugged me.
Nancy said, "there you are" and gave me a high five with her warm smile.

That moment was the first time since I entered foster care five years before that I too could see myself; feel myself. "There you are Katy." The Katy that wasn't afraid to speak from her heart. The one that was brave even though she was hurt, and still being hurt from home to home. There she was. Beautiful. Free. Standing. Crying from strength this time.

Years later, Nancy asked me to come back after I finished my Masters Degree to talk about my work around the world that involves teaching design for social innovation. I teach how to get others involved in building solutions for our world to create better programs for youth, poverty, and much more. I now work to give others a voice particularly in designing their own solutions!

During this time with her, as I sat on the aged and familiar theater floor with her she told me of the years I had missed. The classes she adored, the lessons she learned. Those years asked her to endure a close call with death from cancer. She told me the story of her pain now. The story of her partners strength and love that helped her rise from the ground. She told me the story of planting flowers in the front yard in the most desperate hours. She told me the hope, and the fear. For that moment as she shared with me, I was overwhelmed with love and admiration, yet again. You can never say that one person led you to be who you are. There are many connections, many experiences, many conversations that guide and form us into our current selves.

But for me, Nancy Gibson was the ONLY teacher that gave me permission to tell my story the way I wanted and in that I was able to re-write it. I can boldly say that class, Nancy and the other students who met with me 2x-3x a week in those seats are the first reason I chose the right path outside of class. Statistically, by age 19 I had a 50% chance of being pregnant and homeless. 64% chance of being addicted to drugs, and 64% of being incarcerated.
Instead, I was in a 4-year college working with other at-risk youth practicing the skills that Nancy taught me. Unlocking the stories in others and pulling out courage to share; courage to listen and to speak, scream, and whisper who we are.

No award you can give her will do her justice, and what she does every day is most definitely gift enough for her. Everyone who enters that theater can see that in seconds.
Theater 101 was not about "acting" at all. It was the class that helped me find who I already was. Her class was about re-discovering, building, standing, and leaning in through connection. That is a gift that words can't explain from a kid like me who without it, living a full life may not have been an option.
There is no better teacher than one who teaches that.