fourteen. Courageous Classmate.

I had a classmate come up to me this year and tell me that the pieces of my foster care story that she has heard didn’t always seem truthful.

My first thought after she said it was, “Wow, that took tons of courage to say.” My second, “Yes, I suppose you would think that since you are not from where I am from you couldn’t possibly understand.” My third thought, “I am going to stop telling any of my story to people all together. It’s too much work and I can never tell all of it.” Being misunderstood can be hurtful to the ego, I suppose.

I started in a really healthy place on this thought process, but then I dove right in to the deep dark black canyon of judgment, embarrassment and anger. How could someone who grew up with parents ever understand the journey of the American foster care system? How can anyone who didn’t grow up as a foster kid understand a foster kid’s story? I resolved that they simply cannot.

From the perspective in that canyon, girls like her were the problem to why little about the system is improving. People don’t want to hear hard stories of kids being passed around from foster home to foster home, especially not if abuse is involved. I get it, world; believe me when I say I think often about putting all the stories in a box, burning them, and letting that part of a long time ago disappear with the rising smoke.

People don’t want to hear that a transient lifestyle is a habit of the system, because foster parents most often have little training on how to deal with kids who are working through trauma. Instead of sticking with kids while they hurt and heal, they give up on them time and time again and pass the “problem” to the next home. These kids are now even more hurt and are expected to start the hurt and healing process over again with the population who has continually hurt them the most: adults. It’s no surprise what happens next. 86% of all foster kids that age out are either pregnant, imprisoned, or homeless by the time they are 19. That is a consequence of our actions as a system.

Like many issues our society is dealing with today, it’s complex. Instead of taking the much-needed time required to work through it and create new solutions, we ignore it, shove it down and say to ourselves, “ There is nothing I can do!” Once again we point the finger at someone else. The easiest scapegoat being the intangible: government who always seems to be looking out for big money instead of invisible kids.

Anger comes rushing in writing this, and there I go again collapsing into the black canyon one more time. Only now I find blame down there too. I am blaming the government for their lack of perspective, kindness, and action. The government is blaming the Department of Child Services. DCS is blaming “lack of funding.” Foster parents are blaming the kids who are hurting in their homes for not acting more like adults. The kids are blaming God, the world, their foster parents, and their real parents who were suppose to love them no matter what but didn’t. Biological parents are blaming their own parents for addiction or abuse never talked about.

 I am sick of being in this canyon. But here I was now, blaming a girl who simply hasn’t taken the time to look into an issue, because she assuredly has her own life and her own issues.

It’s often a surprise to people when they hear what foster care is like for many children in the United States. There always seems to be this Christian, uncondionally loving and kind stereotype of what a foster parent looks like. This is not the reality. Homes are hard; parents get in it for the wrong reason and stay in it long after they have started grouping all foster kids as problems and tapped out. The system does not always investigate the intention or safety of the homes they place kids in. I already mentioned how complicated this all is, right?

People ask me, “Where are these kids now?” Well, I am right here writing this frustrated blog with reluctance and worry of sounding unresolved, unhealed and angry. I am loudly articulating what it was like for me, because the only way I know to change something is to talk about it, gain understanding, and transform things from there.

Talking about it, even for me, is a new thing, though. When I was in foster care, I straight-up lied about it for years. No one knew. (Yes, it was as exhausting as it sounds). Not even my closest friends knew and I moved around 15 times- I lost count now. My story was always that I was moving in with my mom’s sister, because she was traveling, or my parents flipped houses, so that is why the bus always picked me up from new neighborhoods. I would spend all of my time convincing the world of these stories; sometimes I even believed them myself.

In theory, it would be easy to age-out and never talk about it again. I could make up a new romanticized story of my past, stick to it, and move on; I flirt with this idea a lot. I have even tried it a few times with strangers. This is what many of us foster kids want: to choose to leave the past in the canyon where it belongs and move on with our lives since we finally have a say in what happens in it.

Telling our stories means we would have to be vulnerable again, and the world taught us that is a big risk. It means a classmate someday in graduate school would tell you that your story is hard to believe, to hear, to process. It means we would have to think about it again.

In theory, it would be easy to move on and never talk about it again. In practice, there is something constantly yanking at my soul, refusing to let myself sit in silence. I feel responsible for making things better.

I am responsible for making things better.

We will not unless we can form a community of “invisibles” and help the world to see what solutions exist and create a new path in life for those who come after us.

I know that deep change comes from truth, empathy, time, collaboration, and determined action. I am going to have to ask a large group of kids who have been hurt over and over by the world to trust in it again and share. I need to encourage these kids, myself included, to be seen and to know their importance without anyone telling them of it. I am asking them to jump out of the canyon, but to remember it and use it as a tool for a better future. Am I asking the impossible? Is it fair? If we don’t change the system, who will? How can they know our urgency in fixing it if they simply know with their minds and do not authentically feel with their hearts the need for a drastic change?

It won’t change.

That change has to come from us in a solution prescribed by us, not one, not taking one given to us, but made for us.  

Shortly after my classmate had the courage to tell me how she felt, I knew that her statement might be the most important thing I have been told in a few years. I am so grateful to her for it; I wish the world could take on her willingness to be transparent.

Her statement makes me think clearly about what pieces I tell and in what settings.

It’s pushing me to see that this foster care “issue” is one that I deeply understand, which is only giving me more ownership of it.  

It reminds me of why it’s hard for other foster kids. Feelings of embarrassment, worry, the need for love, and the will to not ruffle feathers, just in case someone may leave you yet again is still strong, even for a girl almost fully healed 10 years after her journey through the foster care system has come to an end.

My first reaction was to stop sharing. My response after some deep thought and continued discovery of who I am is to tell it more fully, more often, and more openly when people ask.

I’ve rewritten this blog 5 times already.

I am publishing now, and it’s hard to do that still.

There still seems much more to say.  

thirteen. The Maasai Tribe.

We had just gotten to the north side of the island an hour before and we had decided to made our way to the shoreline to check out the cheapest places to eat on the beach. The whole thing seemed like a dream (I am still not sure that my time in Zanzibar was real) since suddenly there was Emily surrounded by very dark, skinny, tall men dressed in stripped red cloth. They were holding sticks that were taller then themselves. Their long hair was made of yarn and was attached to the tops of their shaved heads. Each end of the braids were decorated with bright red jewelry or threads of red wrapped around pointed cones. Surprisingly to me their english was exceptional. Unsurprisingly however, their smiles were huge and they were as fascinated by us as I seemed to be with them. 

These men were apart of the Maasai Tribe. In Stone Town the night before a guy we ran into warned us that we may see these tribal men walking around town and suggested not take pictures of them without asking. I was clueless in that conversation and figured I would know who these people were when we saw them. That was true and now we were surrounded by something so unknown to me it truly did seem like a……dream. 

In the next few hours we learned that the Maasai Tribe are the last warrior tribe functioning in this world. There are about 850,000 in the countries of Kenya and Tanzania. Traditionally, they live in colder climates in places like Arusha where Kilimanjaro towers high above the plains below. Their long hair is a tool to keep them warm in the mountains, but they told us that on the beach it keeps them hot so now they cut it when they want. The Maasai warriors are known as the fastest people in the world so I challenged the tallest one to a race as if I had any chance at winning. I drew a line in the sand, Emily counted down, and we were off.  The warrior sped past me and I tried to pull him back, but he was too far ahead. I tumbled into him at the end of the race and we hugged and laughed at the absurdity of it all. After asking each other a series of questions about who each other were, where we came from and why we now found ourselves on the island together we slowly but surly became new friends. Two of them split from the group and the four of us started making our way down the beach to explore more. The Maasai told us all about the banana leaf shops that scattered the beach, who owned them, and what kind of tourists come to islands. They suggested where we should go to have some fun, which ironically enough was the “OBAMA” - a club at the end of the island. They love that man in Africa. 

The whole time I was alongside these men I became acutely aware of how much I didn’t know. One hundred questions filled my mind. What was it like growing up here in a culture so thickened with tradition from generations before?  Did they ever long for something else? What was it like to be some of the last people that refused to change in an unchanging world? For that alone I naturally held an immense respect for them. Outside of their fluorescent colored Ray Bans that sat on their black noses they seemed to be untouched by the western influence on the island. 

The island business men hired the Maasai on the island of Zanzibar to be security for the resorts. I chuckled to myself that this was a pretty practical way for warriors to be used in the 21st century. I asked if they would be willing to take me to their village and show me more about their life and their home. I taught them the pinky promise and our plans were set in stone for 5:30pm the next day. Emily and I made our way up the steps off the beach to a resort to find ourselves something cold to drink. It turns out that those steps would soon prove to be the barrier between our world and theirs. Its what kept the tourists from the locals, the people of privilege from the workers, the whites from the blacks. The gap that we see replicated in so many subtle ways in our daily lives, was obvious here in Zanzibar. 

Emily and I had a wonderful dinner. Oddly enough the theme of the dinner was “oriental” which was annoying since I had just got in from Bangkok. 

We met the lovely servers there and enjoyed a show of African acrobatics. Emily reminded me a few times of how incredible life was that day. We were spoiled not only by the scenery of this magnificent space, but also by the love the people gave to us; two bubbly balls of energy the first day in our temporary home. 

At night we walked down the steps back to beach and over to our cheaper resting spot. At the bottom of the steps there were the Maasai warriors resting with their sticks against the stone wall. They were waiting for us so they could make sure we got home safe. We were already hearing rumors that the beaches could be dangerous at night even for two independent and strong american girls. With the warriors we were in safe hands.

The stars were indescribable. Twinkling and bright they covered the sky from one skyline to the other. I swear that you could see every single constellation that night, and the rest of the nights for that matter. Matched with the sound of salty Indian Ocean from a rising tide, I laid my head down that night with an awe at not only at how much and how often I am reminded of what I do not know, but also how there is something really incredible about not knowing; a mystery in everything around us. A divine design that is so complicated and detailed it always leaves us in a state of wonder if we let it. If we look. If we surrender and let the world lead us in the direction we are pulled by our hearts. If we have grace and are grateful. 

I am nearing my time to go home. Zanzibar, Emily, and the Maasai reminded me to be present and sit in that wonder for a little while longer. With good practice maybe I can keep this wonder thing up for the rest of my years here on earth. 

twelve. Aza plus 10 more.

Aza is lovely. Her simplicity and light way of things makes it easy to see her real self as soon as you meet her, which she is sure to start with a warm hug. 

Our paths collided at the beginning of the Designing for Social Innovation course I am apart of in Bangkok, Thailand. Aza and I (and the rest of the innovators who recently took the risk to leave the comfort of their homes to come explore the unknown in South East Asia) were hoping to have just set ourselves on a path of cultivating real change for communities who are marginalized in this world. Some of us have spent the last several years deeply enmeshed in this work, while  others just beginning to put together the incredible projects set before them by destiny.

Some lived in places where violence was a daily reality, and others flew in from  the suburbs of rich neighborhoods where safety was an inherent characteristic of houses that lined the lit streets. Some where fighting stagnancy which can be as debilitating for communities as violence I would say. Others were fighting injustices that happen everyday and unfairly award communities a sense of powerlessness in their own lives. We came from 17 countries  in all,  but it was clear  right away that all of us were interested in igniting change. Everyone in that room subscribed to the  fact that the real “experts” are the ones that are dealing with the problem first hand. We all believed that “ we needed to address problems with the same sense of urgency that the group experiencing the problem are showing.” What a world we could create with these principles as the foundation.

The DSIL group dove into the task of being intentional about building a inclusive community from the beginning. What personality did we want our collective to form? What feelings did we want to leave with when are physical time together came to an end? What actions were we committing to take together? How were we going to get there? How could we ensure that we supported each other in all of our differences and when would we make time for discovering not simply what others believed in, but WHY they believed in it.  

These tens days taught me so much, one of the biggest of lessons being that we inherently seem to be re-creating ourselves over and over as the days of our lives pass by. Each person taught me something too. 

Kendra taught me about self-confidence, inner strength, the power of idea networking.

Alex taught me about the warmth that can be created and radiated with humor and hugs.

Stephen taught me about balance and listening to the universe when it is calling you.

Natalie taught me about accepting each other as we are and leaning on others.

Phylis taught me about blooming into who you are when you are at your best.

Jacinthe represented patience and deep empathy. She reminded me to follow your dreams when they are knocking.

Cate taught me about vulnerability and moving past the problems we faced and telling the story about what happened next.

John taught me that many times there is a lot more then what you see. 

Emma taught me of the power of letting go, and taking chances. She helped me more fully become myself and reminded me of my humanness.  

Yumiko taught me to look for knowledge in others around me before I assume I know things. Sometimes the quietest among us have the most valuable things to say and contribute.

Wern, one of my biggest teachers taught me about honesty all the time. Through that we can decide where to go next. 

The lesson of story telling is where Aza comes in.

After a design thinking session, I noticed the t-shirt she was wearing. Hand painted, it portrayed the picture of the mountain landscape in the far view, and in the closer view clear eye glasses laid on the ground. If you looked through the glasses you could see the far off mountains and large bright red strawberries with perfectly detailed  seeds on them- reminding me of the absolute incredible design of even the smallest things around us.

I told her how beautiful her shirt was. Aza lit up and went on to excitingly explain to me that her very good friend painted it for her. The shirt was a depiction on John Lennons song, "Strawberries Fields." He wrote that song in the small town in Spain where she is from. She told me about the town, the people, all the things she loved about that place that she called home. 

So much information about who Aza was came from a simple question about a shirt. It didn’t come from some deep inquiry,, or years of knowing each other. It was simple really. It took almost no effort. As these blogs suggest it is in our stories that we find ourselves, but also it in those stories that we discover others too. And it’s really not that hard is it? 

 For me it seems to be true that more we tell our stories out loud, the more we become ourselves, the more we “settle” into our skin I think. The better we listen, the more we learn about others. I could go around and ask questions all day and learn countless things about everyone around me. Our clothes, our ideas, our past experiences, and our current feelings all hold stories that help others understand us as we are in this moment. The great thing about Aza is that she was so willing to share. She was willing to explain things even if it took time.  She was willing to add extra information. She was willing to be positive not only that day, but everyday of the program, even when positive may not have been easy. 

I think this question asking is important to creating more intentional and inclusive communities especially when we are surrounded by conflict. We get stuck on the WHAT we believe instead of asking WHY others believe it. What stories does that person have that led them to that belief? How have they been affected? How has the world shaped them? What paths do they choose and what stories led them there?

I have many stories that teach me not to trust. Many times I can feel myself not wanting to share truthfully or add extra information for ever constant thought that my idea’s or my experiences might be somehow not "good enough", or may be too tough to hear. 

Aza reminded me to never listen to that piece of me. Every story we find the courage to share with others around us keeps us connected.  

A few days later we were in a village and there was a tiny little girl there who lived on the bio farm we were visiting. At first she was shy and didn’t come by any of us- for her it may have been the first time she saw so many foreigners who all looked so dramatically different.

Aza was patient with her. She showed again showed her warmth and love and before you knew it the little one became best friends with her new Spanish friend. Aza gives with her whole heart and she shares the pieces of her at every moment. I was lucky to be around her. I was lucky to be around all of these change makers. I am better now then I was ten days ago because of it. 

eleven. In Africa, the Addis Ababa Airports and Anna.

Not so long ago I used to dread every moment spent in an airport. Flying never made me feel very good physically to start with.I always seemed so drained after traveling even short distances because the majority of travelers always seemed expel this rude energy at each other especially in airports; people were constantly competing against the "fact” that one person’s destination always seemed to be more important then anthers. 

Now, I love being in mostly. 

As I am writing this I am in Addis Ababa airport, which I now know is in Ethiopia. I am here on a long layover headed back to Bangkok to run a program I have been working on for a long time with such gifted international team. I am excited to get there, but being here now is just fine too. 

It’s comical really how when I settled in on the plane here the Ebola check card required me to write which country my layover was in and I just didn’t know. So, I humbly asked my neighbor, Anna. She told me all about this town Addis Ababa where she was born. She flawlessly pulled out the highlights of the the people who made up the communities that helped to make her. She explained the profound meaning and appreciation of the foods, the struggles the culture has encountered over the years and how many times they felt such disconnection to the rest of the world.

I didi’t feel so great at that moment being the westerner who asked where we were headed.

As importantly to the past of Ethiopia, she discussed how these struggles of poverty and famine have continued to define this country of wonders for the rest of the world despite their recent growth. 

She talked about the lions here with black manes that live in jungles, showed me pictures of some of the worlds most magnificent waterfalls and bragged about the jewelry that is undoubtably meticulously hand crafted with high levels of skill. Traditionally and even today Ethiopians wear these beautiful white linens- dresses lined with rainbow patterns. My time with her on a plane ride taught me more then I could ever hope for in days of reading. This is often true for me. The more I live the more I realize I don't know much of anything in the grand universal scheme of things, and I think that's pretty amazing in itself.

In Addis Ababa the air was crisp when I walked off the plane across the lined concrete to customs and memories of American autumns flooded my mind and made me smile. Interesting how far away I can be from there and so quickly return in my thoughts.

I’ve gotten really good at airports too. I have learned not to sit in the “designated waiting areas" anymore. People sleep there mostly or connect to internet and disconnect with the world. Families get impatient there, lovers express worry about the million things that could go wrong…it’s stale there. 

Instead, I find hallways where people only walk through and near to where they get off the plane and enter all the shops. Now, instead of being consumed by the waiting areas and impatiently waiting my flight too, I watch people walk in so many different ways. I watch how fast they are moving, or how slow.  I guess if I can tell the emotions of people. I wonder where they are going and why. I think about all the pain that must exist in some travel, going to funerals from sudden deaths that came too early but, also the massive excitement that comes to some from knowing they are about to explore the unknown and that vacation is so close to your reach. I can see nervousness since most times traveling somewhere new it is expected you are not sure what will come next. I can see who trusts in the process, who is worried about the process, and who is re-planning the processes because of flight changes and visas that aren’t being approved. I talk to the the amazing locals who work at the bars and restaurants. They are always so kind. I look for dolls for my grandmother to add to her collection- I dream about how much she will love them and how much more I wish I could find for her if only I had enough time to leave the airport. I look at the beaded dresses for little ones and think about what mine will look like someday, and how I hope they aren’t so white since the sunburn is a strong memory of my childhood past. 

These airports now are places where I can “be.” 

They are incubators that push me to process where I am coming from. They are spaces that give me the time to think about what kinds of things I just experienced. 

They give me time to sleep.

And right now at this Ethiopian restaurant while I am watching a futbol match with an old man laughing at the obviousness of the fake flowers on the table- I realize airports have become an new place for me. Airports have become a container I can stay in and observe the world in all of it’s many forms for awhile. In all the exploring I do, just as much happens here. As I have begun treat the space so differently, people seem kinder these days as well. I wonder if they are different, if the world is becoming more humane like that they say or if I am just being more humane and open. I wonder often if I am changing, or the world is. No matter what the truth is, I am glad I can reimagine my life in airports…… and reimagine my life everywhere else if something isn't working for me. 

ten. Sweet Sarah

Tonight I was working on school paper in the dining room. Windows open- the breeze was cool and the yelling at the bar next store erupting in unison with the futbol match on TV ensured two more reasons for me to fall in love with Uganda.

I heard tiny knock on the door. I looked up and through the mesh screen was Sarah- an 11 year old who came to my house for our “girls day” just one day before. Sarah always seemed to be showing up. She wasn’t supposed to come the day before, but she was with the group waiting on the school steps for me to arrive to pick them up and bring them to town. She was all dressed up like the others. I knew I didn’t know her from school, but I couldn’t help but be drawn to her sweetness. When I told her to jump on the boda her face lit up like the lightening bugs we see at night in the sugar cane fields. I could tell it meant much to her that she could join. It meant much to me as well that she wanted to come. During our sharing time in group- she was the last to go, and it took her about 2 minutes, and me moving next to her and reminding her that she was just as important as everyone else in the room, “ We want to her what you have to say!” Finally, and quietly the words stumbled out until she finished with her head in her hands, smiling, and proud- but exhausted from the energy it took her to believe in herself.

Later, as I gave the girls taxi money home that night and kissed their cheeks goodbye, Sarah refused to go. “ I want to sleep at your house, you have enough space.” She was right, I did but, it would not be fair to the other girls, and I needed to keep working. I explained that to her when unconvinced and angry she piled into the taxis’ with the others.

So here she was again. At my door, taking up the invitation I gave to the girls to come by anytime despite the far distance that divides their village from my apartment. 

I welcomed her and told her she was just in time- I needed a break. We made juice and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She told me more of her story; memories of when her father died, and what she loves about her sister.  We went for a walk and found some ice cream. We didn’t say much- just held hands and watched the street traffic for a while with a strangling comment here and there about how good the ice cream was.

It was getting dark and I was going to ride with her back to village to make sure she was safe. When I called a boda- she told me that she can stay with me for the night.   “ My mom said you can keep me, I don’t have school tomorrow.” I knew the school was open since I go to the school every day to hang out with the girls and help out if they need me.

She spent the next few minutes explaining that she hangs around school, but can’t go since her mom doesn’t work and they can’t afford school fees.

I asked her how much school fees were.

10,000 shillings per quarter was her reply.

40,000 for one school year.

10,000 shillings equals 4 dollars.

I realized quickly that the ice cream we just bought was 6,500 shillings and for the first time since my time abroad I really felt the difference between her and I; deep in my gut.

I wasn’t sure what to say, and I know there are tons of kids peaking in the school windows everyday trying to pick up what they can from the teachers at the front.

I popped her on the boda and jumped behind her. 15 minutes later we were in her village. I kissed her cheek and made her give me back my aviators she insisted on wearing even though it was dark now. It was so nice to spend time with just her.

Yesterday, on the boda ride home today, and for the rest of my life I am sure I will be sincerely stumped at why WE can’t help US all.

It takes 4 dollars to get this little one in school. That’s a late night trip to McDonalds. That’s buying bottled water instead of getting a water bottle and a purifier instead. That’s one less drink at the bar and 1/8 of shirt you don’t really need.

 I think it would make us all better people if we “sacrificed” some luxury so that someone else in the world- even if you don’ t know them- can have access to something as necessary as education. God knows she deserves it. But, it just doesn’t seem important to the rest of the world most times does it. We are too busy working and buying things to fill voids in our life to bother with others from far away lands-lands that produces those things that temporarily fill those voids.  I think maybe if people would travel more they could see it and then it could become important to them. But, even if you choose not to see it, it’s still there.

How do I connect kids like Sarah (and there are millions)- to the rest of the world? How do share people’s stories and let others see their hearts and smiles that assuredly is the ticket to moving our global community to resemble a community that really cares about each other? 

It starts with me I know, so this week I am going to make some changes and cut out the occasional (and really expensive) burger I grab once in awhile. I think that will be easy to do here in Africa. But, I am also going to spend some time thinking about what changes I am going to make when I get home- where living simply seems harder. The world “living simply” is extremely relative now and I can’t imagine that will ever become what it was for me before my travels. I am thankful for that.

nine. Ducked Taped Mouths

There are not many things that keep me up at night anymore. I have learned that the ways of the world are what they are, and all I can do is wake up rested in the morning in order to have the energy to do a few simple things everyday to spread love and try my best to cause as little harm as possible where ever I land. I try to do what I say I will, and I show up whole heartedly for my life most days. I work on cultivating kindness to offset the pain that seems to be passed from person to person in the form of middle fingers in the traffic lane, yelling in the house next store, or the sheer amount of violence that is happening across the world affecting thousands all in a single moment.

I sometimes wonder if I am just justifying my inaction by saying, “that ‘s just the way it is.” But, I know for me, if I don’t keep justifying it- my heart may be broken all of the time.

Tonight  it’s 2 o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. For the past 10 years I have working with girls and boys who have been victimized by sexual violence. I heard a few stories today in Africa that compared to the sexual violence I witnessed in Asia and equally matched by the enormous number of youth, adults, and elderly who deal with it everyday in the United States. I’ve heard those stories too.

I rack my brain all of the time about how we start combating this ever growing problem that exists for our whole world. This isn’t Africa’s issue. This isn’t a sex trade problem in Asia.  Rape is everywhere, everyday, every 3 minutes.

My work is not specifically with sexual violence survivors. It’s with youth and it is the reality that  anywhere we find youth who are struggling in a world who refuses to see their worth and holds their age and vulnerability against them- we find victims of a kind of violence that leaves an imprint of pain for years, and years. It’s one that sits with you, makes you replay moments over and over again about what you could have done differently to not be in that place or that time, to have told someone sooner, the list goes on and on.

Most times when we find the courage to talk to girls about rape-preventative counseling is what I have heard it called in the last few months- I think “Why the fuck are we only talking to girls about this?” (Excuse the language here, but I am sure you can let it slide considering the level of frustration with letting sexual violence slide at this point.) What about the other half of the population. Shouldn’t they be in these rooms too? Isn’t it their sisters, mothers, brothers problem too? They are victims as well, they are  also a large majority of the perpetrators. In fact, isn’t it the boys who should be getting the “let’s prevent rape” talk.

1 in 4 girls are subjected to sexual violence before they are 18. The rate for boys is very close behind.

If that is a fact then a very similar number of men (and yes some woman too) are the ones committing the act. Why is no one paying attention to that!!!!

If we want to fix the root problem we should be looking at the root problem.  Somehow that many people think it is okay to sexually abuse, rape, hurt others. They think they can get away with it…..and they are aren’t they?

On a plane ride the other day a human rights lawyer who specifically deals with this issue said to me, “ It’s so complicated. Think about how many people are involved in the act- a quarter of the world really. It’s scary to think about how many people we would have to arrest if we started actually punishing the crime, not to mention child porn. Our jails would be filled. We simply don’t have the manpower. So it’s no wonder that people stay away from it- it’s so complex, and so deeply woven in our societies, and so secretive, it seems impossible to fix. Better to put your efforts at the homeless shelter feeding the homeless.” She was right.

Two days ago I sat in on a counseling session in a rickety school building, light shining through the cracks of wood illuminating the beautiful faces of 50 teen girls. The whole meeting consisted of these girls telling stories of the several creepy men who wander their village and make them feel uncomfortable everyday.  When the teacher asked me to say something- I stood up with sudden fear in my belly. As I looked over the group of girls I realized that many of them had already experienced the sexual violence the others were so fearful of. In fact surely, it was THE quiet ones that have dealt with it. There I was talking to a room full of girls about sexual violence, and all I could think to say was the facts.  I told them the stats. I told them if they have been, or ever are victims of sexual violence to not hold that in, to tell other woman or men they trust. I told them it’s never their fault and even if you go through something as awful as that, you are not damaged. You are still beautiful, strong, and important to the world. 

I said many things in those few minutes, but I didn’t tell them of my sexual violence past. I didn’t tell them I was 1 in 4. I wanted to, but… I couldn’t. I could feel the spirit in me sit down next to the other quiet girls as it often does and instead chose to put my voice(and that part of my story) in my pocket. Foster care wasn’t always a kind place and even now writing this out loud makes me uneasy about how others will see me. The thought of someone pitying makes me churn. The thought of my family feeling bad makes me feel guilty. I have 100 other reasons why my core pushes against this. The thought that maybe I am damaged runs deep, but loses it’s power everyday I choose to move forward instead of staying stuck in a time I simply wasn’t in a safe place. But, it’s still really hard for me to say out loud, even to a group a young girls who may have needed me to. I think it’s time to say it anyway.

I think I figured it out a few minutes ago- 16 years after my abuser left, at 2 in the morning in Africa. Maybe if we want things to change we simply need to start finding the courage deep within to say out loud, “ I am 1 in 4.”  If the whole world wrote that on their shirt for a day, everyday until it stops or at least gets better, it would be easy to see how many people in the same room as you right now are affected.  We no longer would go through it alone. It would be bigger then some frustrated and angry blog post from some graduate student trying to change something that has directly affected her and so many children she loves. It would be OUR problem. 

It is OUR problem.

 I know that no victim wants to be labeled, but then don’t be. Call it what it is and in doing so take power away from the people who have taken power from you. Stick up for the others who come after us. Shove facts and fear of getting caught back in the faces of those who are committing sexual violence, and don’t be surprised when their shirts say “1 in 4” too.

 1 in 4 voices can make a lot of noise. Maybe enough noise to keep people up at night thinking about it, looking for solutions.

I am 1 in 4.