Untitled

Today I had one of the most profoundly disturbing experiences of my life.

I was heading down to my internship site after doing Music Therapy observations at the Kansas State School for the Blind, when I received a phone call. It was a young woman explaining that her father lived at the apartment building that I manage and she hadn't been able to reach him for a few days and could she get a key to get into this apartment? I told her that, legally, that wasn't something I could likely do, but I would be more than happy to check on her behalf and then give her a call.  She said she hadn't heard from him in a few weeks and that her uncle had gone to her father's shoeshine store and it turns out he hadn't showed up at work in about two weeks either.

So I stop in at the building on my way.  I knock loudly on the door, and then I knock on the neighbor's door to ask if they've seen this man lately.   They said they hadn't.  So I reluctantly unlock his door and push it open a crack, announcing who I am and that I'm just checking in.  A baseball bat that was propped against the back door falls to the ground.  I don't hear anything, so I open the door a little more and notice a sour smell.  I walk into the apartment inch by inch. The smell is worse. I'm in the kitchen and the bedroom is ahead and to the left.  I see a hand. I think "Oh no."  I say the man's name.  And then I see the rest of him. Lying on the floor next to his bed. Wearing boxers. Puffy. I stare in shock. And then I run out, downstairs, outside.

I call my boss in California. I'm in tears. I tell her a tenant has died and I've found him. I explain it to her.  She says I need to call the daughter. I really don't want to.  So she does. I wait and my boss tells me the daughter is on her way.  I'm so uncomfortable.  There's a dead man upstairs.  A man I knew. 

The daughter arrives and she's inconsolable.  She almost collapses on the sidewalk. I tell her she doesn't have to go upstairs. But she wants to.  Outside the back door, I once again tell her she doesn't have to do this; but she's insistent.  She goes in with her brother and they both break down. It's one of the most terrible moments of my life, witnessing a family seeing their dead father. The daughter is a mess.  I would be, too, of course.  She keeps saying she doesn't know what to do.

They call the police, who arrive along with the fire department and EMTs.  The family and I answer some questions.  The daughter is distraught. It's at once uncomfortable, distressing, and humbling. The professionals are very kind, but a little formal.  I can't imagine doing this on a daily basis like they do.

Detectives arrive and they ask a few more questions.  The family has the keys to the apartment and I tell them that they are free to come and collect his belongings when they are ready to do so and offer myself at their service if there is anything I can do.

I feel nauseous.  I feel ill-at-ease.  I'm just uncomfortable. I keep seeing this man's hand.  His legs. His body.  I never saw his face. The way he was laying, I couldn't see it.  Maybe that's for the best.  He had started decaying.  His toenails looked brittle and white. His body was puffy and swollen.  The smell was unpleasant, although I was surprised it wasn't worse.

The man was black, and every time I saw a black man, I thought of him. Lying there for days, undiscovered.

I can't really describe how I feel right now.  I'm uncomfortable. A little distressed.  Ill-at-ease is the best option. 

I hope I never have to experience this again in my life.

Hold close those who you love.

A little 2017 recap

How sad - I didn't write a single blog post in 2017! Not that I even think anyone out in the universe follows or read this thing any way.  Still, blogging has always been cathartic for me so perhaps it's time to get back into it if for no other reason than as a personal outlet.

2017 was a shitty year in many ways for me - personally.  I changed a lot as a person and I'm still struggling to "find" myself again.  Some of my values took major shifts, and the things that I thought mattered to me seemed to perhaps not matter so much anymore.

So to usher in 2018, I'm trying to focus on tuning in to my intuition, to being more flexible and adaptable, to accept change, to make it through transitions with a little more grace, to make better decisions, and to put myself "out there", wherever "there" happens to be!

I've signed up to take a Yoga Teacher Training Certification at Midtown Yoga Kansas City.  Part of the reason is that I'm inspired to link my love of yoga with my impending career in music therapy, because I believe both modalities are central to rehabilitating from trauma.  And the other reason is that I believe this will be very important to me as a person!  Taking every other weekend to focus on my self, my breathing, my body, my mind, my heart feels important right now.

One thing that 2017 did bring was a new beast, literally: my puppy, Dexter. I didn't grow up with dogs, but found myself wanting one this year.  And when a friend of mine couldn't keep his puppy, I offered to take him off his hands.  So, this little rambunctious ball of joy came into my life and has turned into a big, dopey, jumping, hound.  He's the most handsome man, cuddlebug, shit-disturbing, drool-monster!  He makes me so happy and I'm so glad he's mine.

The other major thing that happened in 2017 was that I started my Music Therapy internship at Cornerstones of Care - Ozanam & Gillis Home campuses.  It's almost over now, just two weeks left.  I've been working with kids and teens with behavioral and emotional disorders - mostly due to early trauma.  I have an amazing team, with my flexible and inspiring internship director and the other music therapy intern who is as supportive and friendly as I could have hoped for.  I have learned SO much and feel fairly well-equipped to begin my career as a music therapist.  As things wind down, I have to brace for another transition, another change.  I feel ready for it...although I'm sure when that last day comes, I will be an emotional mess.

Finally, I lost my grandma this year.  The only grandma I had left.  My mom's mom: Beth Elias.  She was a strong, smart, funny woman.  Her directory of songs and poems and stories was something to marvel at.  She was in poor health, though, and passed in her sleep one night. At least she went in the most peaceful way one could hope for.  Still, her absence feels strange.  And of course I'm so worried for my grandfather. They were married for 60 years, and now he is all alone.  It breaks my heart.

Death....not fun.  Which is why I'm wondering if I should do my final music therapy practicum at a hospice - to face one of my biggest fears.  I hear it is such a blessing to help people transition out of this life.  But the thought of it almost stops my heart with terror.

That's all for now.

Happy New Year everyone!

Ritual

So today, to mark the passage of 2016 into 2017, I attended a Sound Healing and Burning Bowl meditation event at the local Buddhist temple.  It was an interesting experience! I have never been to a Buddhist temple, nor have I participated in a Burning Bowl Fire Puja.  But it seems like a popular event, seeing as I had to wait in line for 15 minutes to get in.  There were at least 200 people in attendance.

Each attendee received a slip of paper upon which they were to write things they wished to leave behind this year.  We were encouraged to write "Anything not serving you."  Really, the paper wasn't big enough for me to down all the things I wanted to burn up from 2016 - but I managed to pare it down to the essentials, which I won't post here because it's all burnt up and GONE!

During the "ceremony", we were invited to chant the following phrase: Om Mani Padme Hun, which means "the jewel in the lotus".  Some guy was playing a large didgeridoo-type thing and a woman was playing rock/singing bowls.  And person was guided to walk to the front of the room and burn their slip of paper.

Since I chose to sit at the back of the room, I was waiting for quite some time to go up and burn my paper.  I was able to let the sounds wash over me and listen to this roomful of people create a peaceful vibration together.  I eventually briefly joined in the chanting, but didn't keep it up for long.  I was thinking about ritual.

Rituals are fascinating.  What is our need to have them in our lives?  They ground us.  They provide clues to our identity.  They link us to people and communities.  And for some, rituals connect them to a higher power.  I didn't feel any of that in the ritual I participated in today.  For me, it was a powerful thing to watch my failings burn away, but it was very personal and didn't have anything to do with anyone else in the room.

I was wondering if there were any rituals that I had.  Honestly, I can't think of any...morning coffee??  And to what does that connect me?  So maybe I should incorporate some rituals into my life.  I'd hate them to be empty, though - but I also don't want to create some phony ritual that I pretend means something when it doesn't.  How does one find a ritual that speaks to them and that gives purpose and meaning and cohesion in ones life?  I don't know, but I'd like to take a journey to find out.

p.s. - See ya later 2016, don't let the door hit ya in the ass on the way out.

Under the Banner of Heaven

I just finished reading the phenomenal book entitled Under the Banner of Heaven, by John Krakauer, about Mormon Fundamentalism centered around the 1984 murder of Brenda and Erica Lafferty at the hands of her brothers-in-law.

I have always been intrigued/baffled by Mormonism/Latter-Day Saints (LDS), since falling in love with one in 2003 at the tender age of 18.  He was my first boyfriend and my first love.  I was head-over-heels and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.  Unfortunately, our respective religious views (I was still a practicing JW at the time), weren't compatible.  I faced huge pressure from my parents to avoid him at all costs - JWs are strongly encouraged to only date and marry other JWs.  And I knew he was preparing to go on a mission trip.  Still, I firmly believed we could make things work - and to that end we both agreed to study each other's religion.

I was sure that he would eventually "see the light" after studying with the JWs...but that never happened.  I'm assuming he felt the same about me, but I obviously never converted to Mormonism.  He left on his mission trip to the Philippines in December 2004, my heart broke, and that was that.  We kept in touch for a bit, but we both eventually moved on.  He's now married (to a Mormon) with a young daughter. 

Although the values systems of Mormonism and JWs are somewhat similar - emphasis on the family, reading Scriptures together, chastity, modesty, the command to preach the truth to the rest of the world, blah blah blah - the doctrine is quite different. QUITE DIFFERENT! 

I distinctly recall talking to my LDS boyfriend after finding out that Mormons believed that ancient Israelites had rowed across the Atlantic Ocean in leather boats to discover America, and that Jesus had visited believers on this new continent.  I was baffled - people believed this?! My boyfriend confirmed that, yes, he believes this.  And then the more I read, the wider my eyes grew: temple rituals, baptism of the dead, secret handshakes, men can eventually become gods, the necessity of having numerous children in order to provide vessels for spirits to come to earth, special underwear.  This stuff was super bizarre to me! 

Once it became clear that there was no way in hell I would convert to Mormonism, I left off researching it.  Over the years, references to Mormonism would make me bristle a bit - I was still nursing my broken heart - but mostly I would just shake my head at the inanity of it all.  I left my own religion a few years later, after taking a Judaism class at University and appreciating the banter and relationship that Jews had with God.  As of now, I would characterize my spirituality as non-existent and apathetic.

Recently, via a group WhatsApp chat with my 4 best friends, we started talking about Mormonism after we noticed that many pretentious lifestyle blogs and instagram accounts were run by Mormons.  (For a hilarious parody site, check out Seriously So Blessed.)  One friend mentioned her own in-depth study of Mormonism, and referenced a history of violence and racism in Mormonism that I had not heard before. She suggested I read Krakauer's book, and, the last time I saw her, she had brought me a copy to borrow.

This has been one of the most fascinating books I may have ever read!  And also eye-opening about, as my friend mentioned, the history of violence and racism from the beginnings of Mormonism through to at least the 1970s when the LDS church finally allowed black people to join the priesthood and participate more fully in the religion.

The book chronicles the history of Mormonism since its inception in 1829 when The Book of Mormon was published, through the colonization by Mormons of the Midwestern United States, the defiance towards government by church leaders, and then various sects that branched off mostly in relation to the church's eventual outlawing of polygamy/plural marriage.  All this is told within the context of the 1984 murders of Brenda Lafferty and her baby daughter, Erica.

Although the book contains helpful maps, it would have been beneficial to have had some kind of family tree chart.  It seems everyone is interconnected in some way through varying marriages and step-relations.  To be fair, though, figuring out the family tree becomes a daunting task when a father takes his own step-daughter as a new wife, effectively making the step-daughter a step-mother to her own mother...mind-boggling!

This kind of incest and pedophilia is rampant throughout fundamentalist Mormon communities, and is extremely disheartening.  Families there continue to practice plural marriages, with girls as young as 12 years old being married off to much older men.  These communities are run almost exclusively by Mormons, who control everything from government to banking to policing.  Escape is difficult.

I highly recommend this book!!

TRUMP

Eight years ago, I watched Obama win his first presidency. I was filled with hope – it seemed that the world and America was on the verge of change! They were ready to move forward. Of course, growing up in a household that valued multiculturalism and diversity, it never made sense to me in the first place why racism was still happening in the world.  A rather privileged upbringing, of course.  I remember wanting to blog about all the hope and optimism I felt.  And I never did.

Now, it seems America really wasn't ready for a black president. Or maybe America just wasn't ready for progress of the social variety. The only thing that's happened in the last eight years has been more division, more hatred, more racism, more sexism, more misogyny. Was it always like this? And I just never knew?   More than likely, as it’s only in the last decade that I have become more involved with social justice, and I'm realizing how privileged my life has been and continues to be.

Years and years and years of patriarchy, white rule, oppression/genocide/slavery of people of color, cannot easily be undone! We live with these ancestral issues buried within us.

And now look at where we are. America would rather have a racist than a woman. America would rather have a mansplainer than a woman. America would rather have a rapist than a woman. America would rather have a sexist person than a woman.

I am shocked. I am sad. I am outraged! This country is about to explode. I was so hoping that this toxicity would be over on November 8. Well, I have to point out my own privilege in that previous statement, because I just failed to properly acknowledge that our system is compete toxic and will never be “over” until we undergo an overhaul of the numerous unjust policies in place that continue to oppress the most marginalized members of our society.  But at least I knew this toxic election campaign would be over.  As if that’s supposed to be a consolation.

Instead, a new toxicity is about to be born and bred. Born and bred?  It’s BEEN born and it’s BEEN breeding…But what I mean is the way in which Trump has granted permission for people to be openly discriminatory and hateful.  In that way, I can't even imagine what age we are about to enter. I know that I'm scared for anyone who is of color, disabled, LGBTQIA, a woman, transgender, poor, an immigrant, a refugee.

I scroll through my facebook and I see post after post about how scared my friends are.  My friends who are disabled, LGBTQIA, women, trans, immigrants, refugees, people of color.  One of my young students told me yesterday “If Trump gets elected, my family might have to go back to Mexico.”  I think of my young black and brown students, growing up with a president who ridicules those who are different than he is, who wants to close the gates to this country, who wants to build walls, who refuses criticism and discourse and dialogue.

My husband is working in Florida right now, and his colleagues are jubilant over the Trump win.  However, another colleague told him that her daughter’s 10-year-old classmates were telling the girls they were going to grab their pussies.  We are now in the business of raising rapists.

I am so scared for the kinds of people Trump will bring out of the woodwork.  As my brother so eloquently put it: “It’s [Trump’s] followers who are the real problem.  Alt-rightists, misogynists, xenophobes, and any other number of disaffected grudge-toting deplorables who will not feel validated and legitimized by the outcome. Don’t know how that genie will get bottled up again.”

I’m uplifted by the protests being held around the country.  I hope we can continue to be angry, to support each other, and to work to fix this giant cluster-F.

CONTACT Training - Brattleboro, Vermont

I'm currently at the CONTACT Training program in Brattleboro, Vermont. CONTACT stands for Conflict Transformation Across Cultures. The program is held at the SIT Graduate Institute, a branch of World Learning. This is the first year that the program is offering a joint training by Musicians Without Borders, which is the main reason I've enrolled.

 The MWB portion of the session is not until next week.  This week I'm learning about non-violent conflict resolution through amazing teachers such as Tatsushi Arai, Bruce Dayton, Susie Belleci, and Mehlaqa Samdani. Future lecturers include playwright Court Dorsey, Hon. Patricia Whalen (former Judge, War Crimes Chamber of Bosnia Herzegovina), Vahidin Omanovic, and the trainers from MWB.

 Today was all about IDENTITY. This portion affected me quite deeply, as we examined the ways in which we see ourselves, and the ways in which society sees us. But more than that, I kept coming back to a question a colleague asked some months back, which was - "What is the big deal with identity? Why is everyone talking about identity?!"  This was really a question in response to the transgender bathroom issue, that people who are trans should be able to use the bathroom associated with the gender by which they identify.

 And so today I kept coming back to that question from her - why is everyone talking about identity?

Here's why:

Identity helps situate ourselves in the world. It gives us a reference point to not only walk through life, but also to survive, as we may need to find the groups where we feel safe and protected.

Identity gives us a way to be known - and we all want to be known. We all have stories that we want to share about who we are and why we are that person. A strong sense of identity allows us to know ourselves and where/how we belong on this planet.

 Identity is a source of conflict - when what we feel within is not the way we are perceived by others. Or what we feel within is not seen on the outside. Who we think we are may not be how or who others think we are. So then we have a personal identity, and a social identity. These two essences may not connect.

 When aspects of our identity are attacked, it influences our behavior. That aspect of our identity might shut down. Or it might consume us.

**

 My colleague who asked the earlier question is a white middle-aged woman. She has mentioned that she identifies strongly as a woman.

So, in terms of a bathroom, she would use the one assigned to women. It is where she feels comfortable. It is where she feels she belongs. It resonates with her because it aligns with her identity.
This is exactly the same way that trans people feel about using the bathroom corresponding to their gender. They want to use the space in which they feel safe. In which they feel comfortable. In which they feel as though they belong. The place that aligns with their identity.

Finding these aspects of identity that we share can go a long way towards understanding the points of view of another person who we consider to be very different from us.

NICA.1 - Leon

Congratulations, Nicaragua, you win for being the most disorganized immigration proceedings I've ever experienced. I can only compare it to the Qalandiya checkpoint between Ramallah and East Jerusalem in terms of disorganization, length of processing time, and sleepy border guards. Although at Qalandiya, the turnstiles meant there had to be some kind of line formed, some kind of order. The Managua airport in Nicaragua had no stanchions, no authorities trying to guide people to order (and no young, bored soldiers standing around with large guns) - just clusters of visitors and residents, all trying to get ahead of one another. It slightly, but only ever-so, diminished my excitement about landing, for the first time, in Central America. Once you were actually in front of an immigration official, things were easy. You presented your passport, your declaration form, and your $10 visa fee (which an American man in line behind me seemed to think was a ridiculous charge); they took a picture of you and sent you on your way.

One of the first things I noticed about Nicaragua was the smell: that miasma of acrid smoke; of something burning that probably wasn't intended to be disposed of in such a way. The smell immediately took me back to landing in Uganda in 2009. It was the same smell. And it was one that I would encounter continuously throughout the next 9 days in Nicaragua.

Another thing you notice immediately about Nicaragua: no one speaks English. Information booth at the airport? Barely. Immigration official? Nope. Security guard? Nope. Guy outside directing traffic? Nope. Other airport workers? Nope. Oh silly me, who hasn't traveled beyond Canada and the USA in the last four years, don't you remember that people speak different languages in different countries?! Of course I knew there would be a language barrier, but I thought that there would be some English spoken considering how many tourists are in Nica! Oh how wrong I was. Not that it was a bad thing. I was able to put to use the year and a half of Spanish I took in my Undergraduate degree, and which I was thankful for taking every single day of my trip. Being (mostly) fluent in French also helped.

So then, a word to the wise: apparently you can't just catch a taxi in front of the airport. Well you can and you can't. It has to be a certified taxi...maybe? I'm not 100% sure on this one, since some people were climbing into taxis left right and center; but when we asked to be taken to the UCA Bus Terminal, we were turned away. Finally, one taxi driver motioned to us to leave the airport grounds and he would pick us up on the street, which he did!

Now, I'm not sure if I was aware of this fact before I landed in Nica or not, but Nicaragua is the second-poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. And you see it. On the fifteen minute drive from the airport to the bus terminal, I was again reminded of my time in Uganda: dirt roads, slums, scruffy kids running around shirtless and barefoot, stray dogs and chickens everywhere, metal-fronted shops selling chips/cigarettes/snacks/sodas, tons of trash (not that this list of observable poverty is all there is to observe in either Uganda or Nicaragua, by any means).

My husband and I were slightly worried when our taxi driver picked up two other people en route to the bus terminal, but he dropped them off quickly. He pulled over to pick up two others, but after less than half a second of interaction with these men, he zoomed away. Apparently he knew immediately that they were drunk. A rather astute fellow!

Managua UCA bus terminal, like all the bus terminals in Nicaragua, has 14/15-passenger mini-vans for expreso trips to your destination - as in, not stopping every fifty feet to pick up/drop off a passenger - and large school buses, or chicken buses that cost less but cram as many people on as possible and constantly stop and start. We stood in line for an expreso bus to Leon, but considering it was Christmas Day and there were a solid thirty people ahead of us in line, we figured this would take a while. We befriended a young Nicaraguan woman beside us who, fortunately, spoke English. When a man made an announcement that he would drive to Leon if he got fifteen passengers to pay 80 Cordobas (up from the usual C60), she translated for us. Interestingly, almost no one (besides us, our young friend, and another tourist couple who had already been waiting over an hour for an expreso bus to show up) jumped at this opportunity. The regular price for the bus was 60 Cordobas, just over $2. An extra 20 Cordobas is ~ $.75, and yet Nicaraguans standing in line didn't even budge when the offer was made. For us, an extra $0.75 is nothing. To a regular Nicaraguan, perhaps it's an unaffordable luxury.

In any event, we made it to Leon where we checked into our room at El Nancite Guesthouse, a lovely hotel with two beautiful inner courtyards. Nearly every building we entered in Nicaragua - homes, hotels, restaurants, bars, etc. - had an inner courtyard filled with plants, trees, flowers, maybe a fountain and/or hammock. So gorgeous. The owner of El Nancite is John Corronna, a New Yorker from Brooklyn who is married to a Nicaraguan woman and who has lived in Nica for the last 16 years. He's a straight-shot kind of guy. Really laid-back and easy-going, quite helpful, very friendly, and as candid as they come.

Our time in Leon was spent eating at an amazing French bakery, Pan y paz, checking out the beaches Poneloyas and Las Penitas, Volcano Boarding with Quetzaltrekkers, and wandering around the town square trying to make sense of a bizarre tradition whereupon kids dressed up as a tall Spanish lady and a short Nicaraguan man dance to random beatings of a snare drum, played by other kids. We easily could have spent another day in Leon, especially to check out some of the museums and art galleries, but didn't think we had time.

The (extremely windy) day at the beach was somewhat tainted when my iPhone took an unexpected dip into the salty waters of the Pacific Ocean. Fortunately we had a yummy dinner (plus a bag of dry rice which would encase my phone for the next nine days) at Barca de Oro to make up for it. The bus ride home was an interesting affair. I ran to catch the bus and ask the driver to wait for my husband, who was inside at the restaurant paying. In the time it took the bus to turn around, my husband climbed safely aboard. But the bus was absolutely jam-packed; it was one of the last buses of the evening, and beachgoers were trying to get back into Leon. Seeing as my husband and I were practically hanging out the open door of the bus, the driver scooted his seat forward and indicated that we should clamber behind him and wedge ourselves between his seat and the first passenger seat of the bus. There, we had a stellar view of just how crammed the bus was: 3-4 people to a seat, 70 people in the aisle, crying babies. Just as we started down the road and I thought "We can't possibly fit anymore people in here", the driver stops to let on about 15 more passengers, mostly sopping wet kids who pushed their way into the interior of the bus. As I came to find out, personal space seems to be somewhat of an option in Nicaragua...

Volcano boarding was a really fun way to spend a day, and I highly recommend Quetzaltrekkers! We had a really nice guide from Sweden, Arvin, who is volunteering in Nicaragua. We took a truck ride to the base of Cerro Negro Volcano, and then did a 45-minute hike up a rocky, dusty path to the top. The views from the top were really amazing - Nicaragua is definitely a beautiful country! I had a completely different idea of what volcano boarding would entail: I imagined boarding down right next to red-hot lava. Apparently I don't know much about volcanoes or how they work. Instead, we rode wooden boards down a steep hill of dry volcanic stone and ash, resulting in lots of rocks in my bra, underwear, eyes, mouth, and hair. But it was fun! Then we hiked up and did it all again. This time, though, we took a little detour to check out some steaming sulphuric vents in the side of the volcano. Very cool.

Tip: if you go volcano boarding, absolutely bring two bandannas - one to cover your mouth and the other to cover your hair. As I only had one bandanna, I chose to cover my mouth, which meant my hair got full of rocks and dust. Despite washing it three times in succession, I was still picking rocks off my scalp several days later.