Where have all the cowgirls gone?

Day II: Egypt

2008-09-30T15:58:00.000-04:00

Was jetlagged last night and didn't get to bed till 3 or so. Naturallywoke up a bit startled at 10:00 and stumbled out of the hotel. As Iwas walking out the hotel doorman asked where I was headed and if Ineeded a taxi. I thought this was a good opportunity to test what hethinks the rate should be. He mentioned that for islamic cairo 25-30;which seemed absurd as the guidebook said 10-when I showed that tohim, he said "book lies" and also that I could take the hotel car for70. Oh well, needeless to say, I walked out and hailed one myself. Heagreed to 15(allright wasn't 10, but wasn't 25 either). Arrived atAl-Azhar, which is very much in the heart of everything--in asquare(midan) called midan al-Hussein. Its actually pretty nondescriptand melds into its surroundings, everything is pretty much sandcolored, in contrast to the colorful markets of course. It was foundedin 970 and the university(madrassa) in 988, apparently it is the placethat solidified the concept of large educational institutions, aka,mother of the concept of University.

Anyways, back to the mosque--itis easily identifiable because it has three different minarets made inthree different centuries (14th-16th). I entered the courtyard andfollowed some women who were heading right, assuming they were headedto the ladies section, but then noticed that they were entering thisarea that seemed like a large confessional, when I peeked in, therewas a scholar sitting and deliberating on some argument between a guyand a woman and these other women were getting in line to have theircase heard I guess. Entered the main prayer hall and noticed somewomen praying and said, hey why not. There were a few men restingduring their aytekaaf I guess. This caucasian woman also walked inwearing a black chador all the way down to her ankle. I struck up aconversation with her while we both were taking a few pictures, shewas from France and had been in Cairo for a month now. How is it thatthe Europeans can take these times off and make it work? Our conversation was cut short by a beggar asking us for money for her three children.

Let's take a detour as I guess I have not talked aboutsocioeconomics much. It pretty much feels like a third world countryentirely dependent on tourism, a bit poorer than India, but cleaner asit is less populated; although with the number of young people you seearound I am sure they are going through the same growth and issuesthat the other middle eastern countries are. Enough sidebar; I thenheaded out and right outside al-azhar was the mausoleum of sultanal-ghouri that had a beautiful mehrab, although a dude told me I couldnot take a picture. Next I walked through khan-al-khalili marketwhich is essentially what is depicted in all the market lithographsfrom ages ago, pretty much looks like that too except the mainpathways are all chalk full of trinkets for tourists-in-laid woodwork,papyrus, perfume glass bottles etc. etc. Although as you walk inwardsyou notice spices, jewelry, pottery, daily household things are allbeing sold this way to locals mostly. Interesting scenes, will justhave to share some pictures. The same on the mosques, I could keepwriting down the ten different mosques/tombs I went to but that wouldbore you guys. will share the pics with you, atleast from places Icould take them. The architecture of some of them is very differentbecause of the rich history as the Fatimids, the Ottomans,Ayuubids(Salauddin), Mamluks all were here at one point or the other,not to forget Alexander the Great and Napolean and the Brits... thatwill be explored tomorrow.

One impressive mosque/mousoleum/madrassa was that of Qalaun built in1279. Loved the intricate inlaid work, althugh was shooed out of themausoleum area, and the mosque area is very small. That is the casewith almost all these places, the actual mosque space is very limited,most of it is the madrassa or the mousoleum. One interesting thingabout Qalaun was that the complex had a hospital in it. It is the samehospital that was mentioned in Ibn Batuta's travel books from the1300s-nothing impressive, but cool that it was built that long ago.Another impressive building was the Mosque of Al-muayyad, seemedrecently renovated, had a very open courtyard, reminded me of theMughal mosques in India, was mostly empty except for this old Muezzinwho kept trying to charm us into a bakhsheesh.Oh, I forgot to tell you, during my wanderings into the mosques, Ibumped into this woman, Christina. At the entrance of qalaun she askedme how much I had to pay to get in, and I said I didn't, there is noticket to any of these places except one of the mousoleums. She saidshe was asked for an entrance fee at all the mosques and not allowedin a few. So, we decided to go together to a few of them and see what happens. She was not asked for tickets anymore and I could get herinto the female areas. Although in one of the mosques, she startedimitating my movements prayer and this woman stopped her and told hernot to do it. l understand how it might bother some people, but whatis disrespectful if someone tries to do what we do in prayer? Absurd objections I tell you. How is this not against da'waa(not that I amdoing any)? Also, one of the woman objected to my nail polish, but Ialways ignore that...

During the 4 hours or so that we were together Ilearned all about how Christina was this 50 year old from, BaselSwitzerland who had a freak accident where she fell on her head andwas in the hospital for 3 months or so, in the meantime her husbandleft her and it took her a while to get back to normal and startearning again to raise her 4 kids, one of whom died (oi wei, we haveit easy...). She is an artist working with modern media. She spentsome time in Cairo and realized that there are others less fortunatethan her and that helps her keep perspective so she keeps coming backevery few years. Another character that I met today was Mohammad Said;BTW, everyone around is Ahmad, Mohd., Abdul or Ali-bet you, use one ofthese and someone will respond with a 90% probability. Mohd. took usup the minarets of one of these mosques. It was a great experience tosee the whole city from the top. Reminded me of the view from theclock tower of a church in Geneva. Mohd. has been doing this for 15years (he was 28) and makes a living off the bakhsheesh he gets fromtaking people up. Said goodbye to Christina at around 5:00, she wasstaying at a hotel right around the area with her son and daughter.Near her hotel(in the same midan) saw the last mosque I had notcovered-the Al-Sayyadna-al-Hassan mosque.

Apparently this is where thehead of Hassan (the prophet's grandson) is buried. Although anothermosque in Damascus claims the same thing, but who is keeping track.This complex was fun though, a complete blast of all the senses, thewhole square had tables lined up from the neighboring restaurantsgetting ready for iftar and probably thousands of locals and touristsclamoring for space on the ground, along with humungous tourist busesand mopeds. Loudspeakers were blaring sufi chants intermingled withthe Quran and smells of spices etc. were emanating from the entranceof the Khan al Khalili. Ended up at the girls section of the mosquewhich is completely separate (the only one I came across today) and itjust so happened that the tomb(if a head(allegedly) is the only thingthere, is it still a tomb) was open from this entrance and got tocheck it out for like 2 minutes before the guys took over and theentrance was closed. Very colorful and impressive ornamental decor.The first masjid that I noticed the use of color to this extent. Hadto pay the guy to keep the shoes at entrance and didn't have change sohe kept the 20 saying, donations to the masjid. I hope so! All aroundthe mosque there were people with large mats(chatayees) and men andwomen sitting on them with some woman cooking rice and meat rightthere on what looked like camping stoves. Some people were alsodistributing pre-made iftars. I ended up making my way to one of therestaurant tables and had traditional iftar with kibbeh and otherkababs (pigeon was also served although I opted out of it...) And thishibiscus drink again, whose name escapes me... Anyways, after beingproposed at by one of the waiters, decided its high time to go forMaghrib. Returned to al-Hassan and prayed and sat there for a few.Remembered I had bought guavas with Christina as she had never tastedone and began eating one. This old woman noticed and came and asked mefor one and the two of us shared a non-verbal experience. Another funexperience was when Christina and I were in the redone mosque, thisyoung girl walked over and we communicated enough to understand thatshe was asking us if we wanted to buy shoes as she had a stall outsidethe mosque that she was manning(or womanning), we said no thanks withthe help of a few words from the guidebook and she was so excited tosee the book with Arabic and English side by side and asked where shecould buy one. She is apparently studying tourism oraccounting(couldn't understand which) at the Cairo University.Anyways, I got her address and told her I will mail a betterbook(perhaps an English-Arabic dictionary).Back at the rooftop. Mostly large groups of young people toinight.Feel like I am Jane Goodall witnessing the dating rituals of theaffluent Egyptians. They are in groups of 5-8 equally distributed,drinking chai/kahwa/water/bebsi and sheesha while Arabic pop isblaring. Some girls have an interesting way of not shaking hands withthe guys-they just give it a clap instead of holding the hand. Equaldistribution of hijab and non-hijab. Mostly all wearing fitting topsand jeans/pants.Anyways, as much as I love the breeze and the view of the Nile lit-up,I should head to bed so as not to start late tomorrow. One of my Bschool friends Mauricio also arrives tomorrow for the day. May shiphim to the pyramids. Will be meeting Sundus tomorrow(she had some workto finish before the eid holiday today), we are going to go on aboat(falluka) ride on the Nile, will explore the Citadel(build bySalauddin during the crusades) and the Coptic churches as well. If Ihave time will also go to the Islamic Art Museum, the book says itsperpetually closed, although the concierge said it may be open. Whoknows, perhaps the book does lie!Ma-as-salama,R

Travelogue: Day I: Egypt

2008-09-28T19:48:00.006-04:00

It was an interesting start as I noticed that the Egyptian Museum is right behind the hotel. It is full of stuff that is basically anything and everything that came out of archaeological sites--Mummies, pottery, jewelry, tons of hyeroglyphics on boxes etc. Also had these carts that looked like horse-drawn carriages from Ben Hur. What was perhaps more telling was that it was pretty run down. It was 80 degrees out and the Museum has no AC or climate control of any sort
and you have rows and rows of Mummies and limestone stuff sitting around, some in boxes that the British probably built 100s of years ago when they invaded. Also, there is no description of anything, except that it is chronologically organized. That said, it was a more fun way of exploring a museum, you pretty much went to things that attracted you, read minimal descriptions if available, and also saw the more important things because you know where the tourist guides and 50,000 tourists are all gathered.

The guidebook surprisingly had a good description of stuff. There was very intricate Jewelry, I thought it was cool how they had figured out clasps, and colorful beads etc. thousands of years ago and there was such fine detail and exquisite craftsmanship. Another thing that they had were these pots(like vases) that had different heads of animals as their tops-there was a monkey, jackal, goat(I think) and snake; I bumped into a description on the wall that said that each of these signify which organ was taken out and put into these so that it wouldn't rot with the Mummy. One was for lungs, the other for Liver, another for intestines and I forget what the last was. They would place these with the Mummy so that when the soul came back for the
body to be reborn, it would know where to find these things. Genius! Although I wonder where it would find these among literally the million other things that were left with the Mummy. Not unlike the Terracotta soldiers I guess, although that was one and this was about
100 plus that we know of so far. That reminds me, it was interesting to see Chinese and Russian
tourists (and more fun, Egyptian guides speaking Chinese and Russian) for the first time. Also could hear Swedish, German etc.

Anyways. After 4 hours of this and smelling sweat and 5000 years of decalcification, decided
to duck out. Oh one more thing, everything was guarded by guards and other workers--there were three different uniforms, so I am sure it was different levels, but they were all dozing off or chatting with each other. At one point I noticed that all the workers in the blue uniforms ran out(like 15 of them) and this woman outside gave each of them like 100 Egyptian(EL, conversion rate $1=~5EL); wasn't sure what that was about.

Anyways, got out at about Noon and thought I should head to the Pyramids as it was close to afternoon opening time-tickets are given only twice a day in a limited amount. Guidebook said I could cab it for 20-25EL to and 40EL back and the ticket would be 100EL(could have
done it more cheaper with 4EL with their version of the Tempo, but didn't want to bother finding the getting off and on point as only the locals know where they are and didn't feel like practicing my Arabic, they do look at you a bit strangely that you are traveling alone). As I was walking out of the hotel lobby though, I happen to glance that American Express had a tour as well and it was all inclusive for 180EL-figured it was a good enough deal with English guide and airconditioned minibus and opted for that instead. It was me and 7 Swedes in the bus. The pyramids are in Giza which is across the Nile from Cairo. Its exactly like the Boston-Cambridge situation. Its about
a 25 minute drive from where I am staying. One thing you do notice as soon as you get a bit out the city is practically all the buildings are all unfinished. Redbrick, no plaster, iron beams open and sticking out. Read later that it is the way Egyptians evade taxes--unfinished building, will have to pay taxes when finished, so let's leave it perpetually in build mode. You would think govt would have caught on by now.

Anyways, the Pyramids are pretty much on a sandy plateau with limestone dug up all around. This complex had 3 main ones. Huma-i am sorry to say behind one of the smaller pyramids were three even more little ones and I was told that that was for the 3 main wives. Its basically a complex of graves essentially, if you think about it. With important people closer to the Emperor's grave-the largest pyramid, family next, nobles after and common folk somewhere out there. Anyways, apparently they were gilded with white limestone and gold and the tops had solid gold so the sun would make them glimmer but it has all been pillaged. One interesting thing the guide mentioned was that the limestone was now beginning to deteriorate because of a sudden, due to global warming, egypt is becoming humid and humidity is apparently the worst enemy for limestone. sigh! In one of the pyramids, you can crawl in. I tried, was claustrophobic and about to pass out from smelling sweat and walked back out. Apparently didn't miss much as there is just a burial chamber and no hyeroglyphivs or anything. The one in another town is more interesting I was told.

There was the usual hoard of touristy gimmicks with camel and horse rides that you have to endlessly bargain and trinkets. Saw the Sphinx next, same complex. Apparently when they were done digging up all the limestone around the pyramids to make them there was this mound of bad quality limestone left, it looked like a lion so they shaped it like one and put the pharoah's head on it. It used to be colorful and gold with a beard but no more. The beard is apparently in the V&A museum. After about 2.5 hours we were done walking around and ended up at a genuine papyrus store as a last stop. I got a good bargain on a market scene because the owner noticed I was fasting(didn't order drinks); gave me a couple of pieces free and the market scene at 1/3rd the marked price. I am sure he still made a profit, but it was the gesture. On the way back through the crazy traffic, noticed that a BMW stopped on the middle of the highway and
about 10 people rushed to it and the guy gave them all money. The ones that got hold of the money were arguing with the others to share. The guide explained that it is the rich distributing zakat this way in Ramadan. Very inefficient and demeaning way I think, but hey, if it works... Maybe that is what the woman at the museum was doing as well.

Came to the hotel right in time to take a quick shower before heading out to hunt for iftar. The concierge pointed out a place on the map that was walkable distance and traditional Egyptian food. I walked over and got thoroughly lost for half an hour or so as there are no street signs that make sense(perhaps its the map). Could hear the Maghrib azaan so bought fresh mango juice from a store and broke the fast, a passerby was distributing dates to everyone so took one of those and noticed the sign for the restaurant right in front of me, but it was closed. Most people around were breaking their fast with food they took out of lunch boxes-looked like rice, meat, peas and carrots, bread, stuffed peppers and lentil soup. Anyways, the most crowded places at this time were KFC and Hardee's, full of families, young couples, all dining on fried chicken. Found one restaurant but the clientelle looked almost all male, so decided to walk back to the hotel and opted for the pre-fixe iftar at one of the hotel restaurants. Drank like three bottles of water! Was so tired that came to my room and crashed. Woke up an hour and a half later and am now at the rooftop restaurant/tapas place. Although the menu has nothing spanish on it. The weather is great-70 degrees pbably with a breeze. Am staring at the nile all lit up. Families, other tourists, arabs, all hanging out smoking sheesha. Had some foul(red beans) and Kharoub(like hibiscus tea-a special ramadan drink) and am now thinking of retiring to bed.

If you have read this far, I commend your patience. Tomorrow, Islamic
Cairo and Al Azhar University. Meet with a friend of a friend, sundus,
for iftar.

Let's Discuss

2008-09-11T16:27:00.003-04:00

I'm taking a class on human rights in which we discuss whether human rights exist, whether they are natural or positive law (meaning are people born with them or are they created by men and institutions?), and whether there will ever be any consensus on universal rights. Along with those questions come attendant issues of dialogue, language, power dialectics and political struggles, and what happens when some (powerful) countries start naming what's going on in other (less powerful) countries. The problem of countries naming and condemning what goes on in other countries is a difficult one, particularly given the force of state sovereignty in foreign relations, but when those countries' power is unequally weighted, it can get really tricky. This is an interesting article I read a while ago in the London Review, but am reading again now as I begin to rethink these questions.

LRB
8 March 2007
Mahmood Mamdani

The Politics of Naming: Genocide, Civil War, Insurgency
Mahmood Mamdani

The similarities between Iraq and Darfur are remarkable. The estimate of the number of civilians killed over the past three years is roughly similar. The killers are mostly paramilitaries, closely linked to the official military, which is said to be their main source of arms. The victims too are by and large identified as members of groups, rather than targeted as individuals. But the violence in the two places is named differently. In Iraq, it is said to be a cycle of insurgency and counter-insurgency; in Darfur, it is called genocide. Why the difference? Who does the naming? Who is being named? What difference does it make?

The most powerful mobilisation in New York City is in relation to Darfur, not Iraq. One would expect the reverse, for no other reason than that most New Yorkers are American citizens and so should feel directly responsible for the violence in occupied Iraq. But Iraq is a messy place in the American imagination, a place with messy politics. Americans worry about what their government should do in Iraq. Should it withdraw? What would happen if it did? In contrast, there is nothing messy about Darfur. It is a place without history and without politics; simply a site where perpetrators clearly identifiable as ‘Arabs’ confront victims clearly identifiable as ‘Africans’.

http://www.lrb.co.uk/v29/n05/mamd01_.html

Op-Ed

2008-09-05T10:30:00.004-04:00

Ignore Hopelessness NOT Homelessness in NYC

Sitting on the train on my way home and all I want—like most of the riders—is to get home, eat dinner, and watch a little TV before going to sleep. While passing time playing Texas Hold-em blackberry style, I hear someone open the separating car doors. Right on cue a disheveled man says, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am sorry for disturbing you, but I am homeless and I am hungry…”

Homelessness is one of the most depressing parts of living in New York City. It's difficult even for those who just work in the City to avoid the heart-wrenching reality of NYC's poorest. I struggle daily with the guilt of trying to ignore the discarded men and women wandering the subways, or—if I do decide to give a few coins— the guilt of trying to avoid touching them. Perhaps one dollar could save this person from the fate of starvation. But then the internal dialogue ensues: how do I know that my hard-earned money is used for food and not drugs or alcohol? And what about the man or woman who gets on at the next stop pleading for money? The simple fact is I wish I could help them all, but I can't—there are simply too many.

Looking for solutions, I come across another layer to the problem: many homeless people are also mentally ill, needing specialized care. I doubt they all had mental issues and then ended up on the street. Rather, I suspect that for many the detachment from reality began after losing their homes. Once one loses the ritual of cleansing and changing clothes (the daily routines that hold us intact), perhaps all the other things that once made sense start to slip away.

Although single men are the most visible portion of the homeless population (which is on the rise), families, particularly children, make up over two-thirds of those who are in need of housing. These children are often subjected to greater exposure to violence and are up to three times more likely be physically or sexually abused. Services are available to address issues of child abuse, but unfortunately society's sympathy to a child's trauma wanes as he or she gets older, which only perpetuates the problem.

The truth is any one of us could be one of them—all it takes is one false move or for fate to deal a blow: the loss of a job, a marriage break-up, a breakdown. Any one of us could also play a role in improving the situation. Several organizations, like Partnership for the Homeless, make it possible for us to volunteer in a homeless shelter or donate to a charitable organization. We (the average working New Yorker) may be frightened about getting involved or overwhelmed by the thought of another responsibility, but even the most skittish among us can take the bold step—albeit small—toward improving the lives of all our city’s residents. We can do more than be depressed.

Marguerite Saint-Preux

2008-09-05T10:24:00.000-04:00

September 19-20: What is Feminist Politics Now? Local and Global
Columbia University

http://www.columbia.edu/cu/irwag/events/main/fempoliticsnow/

2008-08-24T16:52:00.008-04:00

Went to this brunch place in San Francisco called Boogaloos. Had always heard about it - and absolutely loved it. The crowd ferociously eccentric, alternative and hip. After which we went to roche bobois - this very contemporary french furniture place. It wasn't my style frankly - mine is more dark wood, Asian/Eastern/Ethnic/I don't quite know how to term it.

Am feeling terribly sick today - have this bad cold and I am trying to take as much Vitamin C as I can take to get over it.

The Reverse Dictionary

2008-05-04T14:28:00.004-04:00

This is so cool. If you have ever had an idea but searched for the exact word to encapsulate that idea or communicate it to someone else (or wondered if such a word exists), then you may appreciate the reverse dictionary.

http://dictionary.reference.com/reverse/

Here's an article about it:

http://www.lexico.com/blog/2008/01/23/the-reverse-dictionary/

Enjoy!

Taking a break!

2008-04-24T13:35:00.000-04:00

We are beyond busy and are taking a break!
Hopefully, we'll be back to blogging in no time.

Till then,
Adios.

Love
Us

Please do not become a "Corporate Cockroach" - TD

2008-04-02T13:00:00.004-04:00

Please do not become a Corporate Cockroach!

A corporate cockroach is someone who becomes one of the many non-descript workers in a company. They do just enough to get by, doing no more or no less than asked. The “cc” blends in among the mass, always does what he is told and never questions anything because doing so might make him/her memorable and/or a potential target for retaliation (e.g. probing questions, responsibilities, accountability, leadership role). They stay under the radar so that they can live comfortably and retire at the company 30 years later. They don’t want to be noticed or known by upper management for fear that when times get tough, the people who management knows by name will be the first to go. They’re useless creatures, but will fight to the death when they feel that their job security is threatened. They will leave the company just as they started…bored, useless and unknown.

Angelique Kidjo

2008-03-20T15:57:00.007-04:00

http://www.batongafoundation.org/

Photojournal: Turkey

2008-03-20T15:57:00.006-04:00

Suth's thoughts for the day...

2008-03-14T15:59:00.004-04:00

The other day I was on the bus and an individual got on and started to have an argument with the bus driver. My take was that the guy wanted a ride and didn't have money to pay. The bus driver told him he would have to get off at the next stop. From then on the man kept cursing and arguing. I was seated in the middle of the bus and I wondered how long it would take me to run to the front if the bus driver was clobbered by this guy. You know, its odd, but I was surprised that the thought entered my head. My younger sister once explained to me the psychology of humans, whereby we often run away or close our eyes to those in need around us. We've often heard the stories of an individual who was robbed/raped etc. and several people were standing around, but they did not intervene. Per my sis, people often believe since there are so many people around, that someone else will take on the responsibility to help. We thereby make ourselves feel at ease that we are not in the wrong.

I have a cousin in london who was just sitting on the train, returning home from school. A young 19 year old boy, who to another's eyes may appear to be a thug because of his baggy shirts and a faze haircut. He is South Asian. Another South Asian ran in to the same compartment and sat down, breathing heavily. A group of boy of another background ran in and started beating this guy. My cousin looked down and away. At one point he looked up. They noticed and they started beating him as well. This occured in the U.K. While racial problems are by far from over and considered to be the more obvious cause of violence in this case, it really makes you think. What would you do? My cousin had a broken nose and a lot of pain, but he was safe. When do we step in and say no and when do we step back and let a situation play out in front of our eyes? Do we need to prep ourselves in advance as I felt the need to do on the bus? Does it differ if you are male or female? Is a female more likely to call 911, is a male more likely to get involved in a fight?

Another situation for your thoughts. In the midnight hours of downtown Toronto, a large festival was taking place. Out of nowhere a black SUV made a sudden left turn and swiped a guy crossing the street (on his bike). The sidewalks were filled with hundreds of festive-goers. At that moment 10-15 people ran towards the victim, some to help him, some to get the license plate on the vehicle. I was not one of those people. In shock, I watched as these shadows ran past me. For those who do know me, I pride myself on being kind, trusting and helpful. So much so that sometimes it does get me in trouble. So this made me stop and think, why didn't I rush forward? Why did I wait? Am I one of the bystanders mentioned by my sis, who waited for others to help. How do I change my behaviour and how can we encourage others to change their behaviour. When we as individuals stand up for others rights and are intolerant of violence, maybe, just maybe, those who commit the offences will think twice.

Couldn't be happier today!!

2008-03-10T19:28:00.003-04:00

Check this out everyone!! I am so proud to be alum of both: Goldman Sachs as well as Stanford Graduate School of Business. Both these institutions are putting their best foot forward in educating women in developing nations in business education.

I truly couldn't be happier!

http://www.10000women.org/

xo,
Huma

What matters to me…that didn’t before

2008-03-06T19:36:00.007-05:00

By Janice Li

The most important thing that I learned from my two years at the GSB is to be myself. Sounds simple, right? As cliché as it may sound, to me, being authentic is the most powerful attribute that a leader can possess. I came to the business school hoping to build skills and connections that will enable me to change people, change organizations and change the world. After two years, I realize that it all boils down to being “real”.

So what does being authentic mean? At the beginning of my first year, it seemed that I was in a race to impress everyone around me and it was such a consuming experience. My image of a Stanford MBA was a bright, energetic, confident and giving individual. I felt great pressure to be that person even though I struggled to achieve that image of perfection. Sometimes it felt overwhelming. For example, even though I did not feel like speaking in class, or did not feel I had a comment really worth sharing, I would force myself to raise my hand. I was afraid others would see me as incompetent if I remained silent; in short, I allowed others to dictate my sense of self worth and confidence.

I was blessed to be able to listen to many great leaders here at the GSB—definitely one of business school’s best perks. I was in tears when Lynne Twist (founding executive of the Hunger Project) shared her experience with poverty and children in Africa, and I was in awe when I listened to Richard Fairbanks’ touching story about Capital One and his father. I was inspired by all these leaders and realized that the common thread among them was their commitment to being themselves—to pursuing their passions, to maintaining their integrity, to being authentic. They’re not just confident; they’re secure about who they are.

Thanks to the intimate conversations I have had with many of you, my classmates and friends, I realize that I need to believe in myself; that I am at heart a special person. Only I have the power to influence how I feel about myself. Many of my fears of how others saw me were based on erroneous stories that I had made up in my mind. (Now, I do not even feel awkward ordering Diet Coke in those wild GSB parties!). I believe the best leaders are those who understand themselves and love themselves, and those who allow their confidence in who they are to shine through—it is this type of authenticity that others respond to. This is one of the most valuable lessons that I learned in business school and something that I will take with me as I strive to lead in the future.

Janice Li, recent graduate of Stanford Graduate School of Business.

More of Oregon!

2008-03-03T12:52:00.008-05:00

Portland, Oregon this past weekend!

2008-03-03T12:43:00.005-05:00

Buying a Car couldn't be any easier

2008-02-28T19:09:00.005-05:00

Dear Friends,

If any of you are looking to buy a car - cartelligent.com is the way to go. I was getting a bit overwhelmed with the whole process of looking for a car and a good deal. It was hard to make sure that I wasn't getting jipped! And then came in cartelligent.com!

I cannot tell you how stressless the process has been - they do all the negotiating for you, and the salespeople are some of the nicest people that I have dealt with!!

From their website:

CARTELLIGENT is a new car-buying service that guarantees you a better price than you can geton your own.We save you the time of looking, negotiating and getting the sales runaround, making the whole experience faster, easier and more pleasant.Thousands of satisfied customers buy from CARTELLIGENT every year. You can, too!

Check 'em out!

cheers
Huma

Music!

2008-02-25T23:21:00.007-05:00

I couldn't be prouder to have gone to Mount Holyoke! It has produced an amazing band in Pakistan - ZebandHaniya.com. I remember Zeb as an underclass-woman at Mount Holyoke and her voice is to die for!

I highly urge for you to listen to her songs at zebandhaniya.com. Her cousin Haniya went to Smith, our brilliant sister college not too far away.

Although the songs are in Urdu, I am sure that you will be intoxicated by the music and the feelings that they emanate in their songs - the feeling of strength, beauty and sensuality. Check it out at http://www.zebandhaniya.com/

xo!

Bleeding

2008-02-25T18:12:00.002-05:00

I do it every month. For a whole week. And there's no tiny toons bandaid I can put on it. And you know what's worse, all my life, I've been thinking that I have to pretend that it's ok, I'm ok.
Well it's not. And I'm not. I'm bleeding profusely and uninterruptedly! I can feel my own body tearing itself apart, literally, and then shedding itself rather grotesquely and graphically. Yeah yeah, I don't buy that the whole self-renewal theory applies here.

I have to admit it now, it's part of my self purging: I actually thought it was woozy (I know that's not a word, but the opinion really isn't ready for a real word, don't you think?) for us women to say oh but my period just started and I'm cramping terribly so no, I can't. I can't to whatever: hang out, have this conversation, run that errand… I would feel a certain disdain for that excuse, I would never accept it as a real excuse. I used to think well suck it up and deal with it, it's part of life, and this kind of attitude is what's kept us hitting the glass pad. I know, I know, I'm repenting.

But as I go through the journey of realizing that I have to accept and confront things and not remain in denial, it sunk in. 'You know what, I should not be forced to be as rigorous and productive during Aunt Flow's visits.' I have no explanation for this, but neither do I have a choice (one of the very, very few areas I can actually say that latter bit about). And, I believe that my gender's scientifically-proven greater capacity for physical endurance more than makes up for it, as does my intelligence quotient as a woman.

While I'm sometimes equally as un-thrilled about spiritually-based limitations on menstruating women, some that I hear about in other cultures, some that I adhere to, I sometimes think that maybe these seeming limitations were at some point constructed by women themselves to give us some time off. I mean don't use it as a license to be a raging hormonal monster, but at the same time who wants to cook three meals every single day? (Link to that thought, fyi: I've heard that in some cultures it used to be, or maybe still is, that menstruating women aren't allowed in the kitchen or to cook or something) (By the tangential way, part of all that feminist baggage has been confronted and I have just begun to admit that I do enjoy cooking - but only when I don't have to do it. Tangent # 2: Hmm, is that akin to enjoying writing when I don't have to write? By writing being an integral part of my professional choices, I hardly write for catharsis or leisure – I even associate my prized laptop with work and distance myself from it when actively trying to relax.)

So, I'm thinking of recommending to my wonderfully forward thinking corporate clients that they should have policies giving women flex times (at the very least) during their special time of the month – or wait, you know what no more pseudo-euphemisms, scratch that, during the days when their uterus self destructs and bleeds to death, only to regenerate and re-kill itself. Sounds like some torture technique out of hell, doesn't it? It's true. I'm grateful that I rarely feel horribly – in fact when it started to bleed to semi-death this afternoon somehow I instantly went into this holiday-mood, well not full-swing, but I was kind of happy. Don't ask me to explain everything – that's half the bane of my existence, or so many close and dear ones tell me,: that I over-think everything.

So what do you think?

We get maternity and paternity leave, don't we? We've accepted that it's a biological need we can't deny until science figures out how men can give birth. Not as an enforcement, but as a choice. If you want go full-swing and be discreet about your suffering, that's fine too. But if you'd rather work from home in your pajamas, at the very least, then wouldn't you like to have that option? So why not - at least for the first day of our uterine self-destruction?

Confessions of a feminist voter

2008-02-06T21:50:00.001-05:00

Courtney Skerritt is a proud graduate of Mount Holyoke College(my amazing class of 2001.)

I got to vote for her today. And it felt amazing. I don't know about the procedure in other states, but after one votes in Massachusetts they get a sticker. For most of the day, the message "I voted" screamed in bright blue ink from just below my left shoulder. Simply wearing such sticker prompted conversation amongst my colleagues as well as my students (I work in a high school). Although the conversation was good, I wish it had been more direct. What I really wish I had been wearing was a sticker that read "I voted for her". Those who know me knew I would vote for Hillary - I'm as close to a stereotypical Hillary supporter as you can get. For starters, I'm a women's college graduate. Secondly, l proudly dedicate my political leanings to issues relating to women and families and for those causes, she is our candiate. But as I watch the 2008 Presidential Election unfold, I can't help but reflect on my decision making process and the truth of feminism guiding my way.

It was not until the Iowa caucuses that I began to really pay attention to the presidential campaign. Prior to early January, the primaries were on my mind, but certainly did not capture my attention like they did for those living in the early primary states of New Hampshire and Iowa. Politics did not dominate family conversation over the holidays, but names like Obama, Hillary and Mitt passed through our lips as we talked about what was going on in our lives. But as the days ticked by, I knew I had to declare my intentions. As both sets of my parents live in New Hampshire, their mailboxes and inboxes were inundated with messages from the various campaigns; I watched as my husband weighed his options amongst the democractic candidates, finally deciding on Obama. His decision certainly made me question my leanings (as he stated a compelling case), but deep down I knew it was just a matter of time before I declared my intentions to vote for her. I am proud of my decision making. I listened to the candidates and even questioned my choice when the Clinton campaign began to sling more mud than I am comfortable with at the opponents. But with each passing day, I knew that this was my chance. When I walked into that booth today, not only was I able to exercise a right fought for me just 100 years ago, but I was able to vote for a woman. Elizabeth Cady Stanton would be proud. But what would make her more proud is knowing that I had a choice. Not only did I have the opportunity to vote, but I voted using a ballot with a woman's name listed. Not only did I get to vote for a woman, but I got to choose. And that is what is at the core of feminism. As Susan Sarandon is quoted in this week's Time Magazine, "It's insulting to assume that because you're a woman or a person of color, you would automatically back any woman or person of color. It's a little more complicated". Yes Susan, it is complicated. But as the debates raged on and platforms were expressed, I knew this was a woman who deserved my vote.

When it became clear to me Hillary was my candiate, I did not make public display of my preference. I did not wear a Clinton button. I did not post my decision on modern day personal billboards like Facebook or on my Gmail status. I wanted to, really I did. I wanted to scream so that fellow Americans in all corners would hear another voice in support of Hillary Clinton. But what held me back was fear of being sterotyped. I knew that voting for Hillary was what was expected of me and by keeping my vote to myself, perhaps I was excercising my right to just be. So maybe feminism has only gotten us so far? As the presidential campaign took a more central role in our daily lives, my friends and I had many conversations about who we would vote for. Almost always our discussion lead to the theme of feminism and choice. We all knew that we did not have to vote for Hillary just because we are women. Luckily we had a damn good one to choose from, but we did not have to wait for two women to run against each other so the gender card would be cancelled out. The pundits may argue a gender divide exists in America, but amongst the women I know, decisions were made based on issues, not estrogen. A strong, smart woman is what we get in Hillary Clinton and strong, smart women are going to vote for her. But they are going to vote for Obama, McCain, and Huckabee. And really, that is what matters. What matters is that they take the time to make a well reasoned, well researched decision. An old political saying goes, WHEN WOMEN VOTE WOMEN WIN. But secretly I hope that it is this woman who wins it all.

Why Beauty Matters

2008-01-25T17:42:00.001-05:00

Karly Randolph Pitman is a writer, speaker, and mother of four, as well as the founder of First Ourselves, an organization dedicated to encouraging women and mothers. http://www.firstourselves.com/first_ourselves/

Feeling beautiful, I've found, has very little to do with the reflection in the mirror, and everything to do with the inner landscape. In my work, I've talked with countless stunning women who can neither see nor accept their beauty. I've also spoken with size four women who aren't comfortable wearing a bathing suit in public; who bemoan their hips, butt, or thighs. Conversely, I know women who are at the heaviest they've ever been, and yet go swimming and clothes shopping with ease.

I'll save answering why some women are at home in their bodies, and some chastise every flaw, for another day. I think a more interesting question is why beauty matters at all. Why should we care what we look like? Why does feeling beautiful matter so much to women?

The two aspects of beauty

Beauty is tricky, because it does, and doesn't matter. No, in the grand scheme of things, our appearance isn't important. On our deathbeds, we won't lament the time we spent dieting or berating ourselves for being a size 10. We are ultimately spiritual beings; our true essence is not our physical self. Our beauty will change, and fade; our spirit, by contrast, grows and evolves.

Yet we are not only spirit; we are also human. And our humanity brings all the challenges and blessings of living in a physical universe. Our bodies are a gift: the vehicle for experiencing the world through our senses. Our beauty is also a gift, something to be honored and appreciated and used, just as we honor, appreciate, and use our other earthly talents. For everything, there is a season. There is a season to relish your beauty, a season to enjoy your body, and that time is now.

Overfocusing on the body

The key to understanding beauty is to accept both aspects of ourselves, body and spirit. Each has its place. We become unbalanced and suffer pain when we lean too strongly towards one or the other. When we're too focused on our physical selves, we become rigid, perfectionistic, holding our bodies to impossible standards. We bemoan the onset of wrinkles, cellulite, gray hairs; we denigrate any wiggle or jiggle. We live for someday ("I'll take that dancing class when I lose fifteen pounds") and worship our youthful past. We white knuckle our sensuality, shame our natural human desire for sexual pleasure, satiating food, and physical comfort.

Even worse is when we hate our bodies for unconforming to our impossible expectations. We think that somehow we can love ourselves while hating our bodies. But this is impossible. How you feel about your physical self influences your feelings about every part of you. Your physical body is in the house in which the rest of you---your spirit, mind, and emotions---resides. Hating the vessel pollutes every part. If you loathe your body, you loathe yourself.

This is slavery to beauty; being in bondage. Bondage is when your self worth, how you feel about yourself as a person, is defined by your appearance. Your physical self will fluctuate. Some days, you'll look smashing. Some days, you won't. This is where your spirit comes in. If you appreciate your spirit, your being-ness, then you can accept the changes in your humanity without fear, knowing that wrinkles and cellulite don't change who you are.

Overfocusing on the spirit

However, this doesn't mean we should ignore our bodies' needs. Sometimes we feel guilty for caring about our appearance at all, especially women who are focused on their spirituality. We feel unholy for wearing make-up or desiring pretty clothes. We feel egoic because we feel better when we look better. When we take time for a massage or a pedicure, we feel like we're indulging in something slightly sinful. This is shame talking; not your spirit. Shame is simply another form of slavery; another form of bondage.

Focusing solely on the spirit, and ignoring the body's needs for rest, proper nutrition, exercise, and, yes, beauty, is just as harmful as overfocusing on the body. Devalueing your body is as painful as overvalueing your body (vanity): they are opposite sides of the same coin.

It's human and natural to have a need for beauty, just as it's human and natural to have a need for rest, solitude, and peace. It's normal to want to feel pretty; to enjoy a new outfit; to pamper your body so that it can look its best. It's okay to indulge the body.

Balancing body and spirit

But how do we acknowledge our need for beauty without become trapped by vanity? How do we navigate a world that defines beauty in narrow terms? How do we balance our humanity with our spirituality?

The answer is twofold: self love, and self care. It takes both. Self care is what motivates you to exercise, eat food that makes you feel good, and rest when you're tired. It's also what inspires you to find a dress that makes you feel sexy, style your hair, and paint your toes lavender. Self care is treating yourself to a yoga class, silk sheets, and a makeover. Self love, by contrast, is what enables you to completely and deeply love and accept yourself at all times, when your toes aren't painted; when you're grungy and sweaty or camping in the woods. Self love is accepting the loss of your beauty with grace and levity. Self love is embracing the abundance of the universe, letting other women feel beautiful, too.

Combining self love with self care is treating your body as well as, but not more importantly as, your spirit. It's embracing your humanity and your spirituality with equal measure. It's letting your inner beauty match your outer beauty, and apologizing for neither. It's expanding your definition of beauty to include you at your best, your worst, and everywhere in between.

It is, in a word, freedom.

Women We Love # 4: Tara Beteille

2008-01-21T16:03:00.000-05:00

Tara Beteille is a dear friend of mine, and is currently pursuing her Ph.D at Stanford University, Palo Alto.

At this point, I’m in the fourth year of a PhD program in the Economics of Education at Stanford. Many things brought me to this university and program, but two things stand out. First, my work experience at ICICI Bank, India’s largest private sector bank, where I managed their non-profit funding in elementary education for four years. Second, the fact that I grew up in India, still a “developing” economy today, but also a large democracy — one that must contend with a deeply hierarchical, complex and changing social structure. Growth projections have been impressive, but these must be viewed against the fact that large sections of the population are deprived of basic health and education – and thereby the opportunity to participate and contribute to such growth – and potentially even jeopardize it.

I joined ICICI Bank within days of finishing my masters in economics from the Delhi School of Economics. This was 2000, I was 22 years old – and by most accounts, I had landed myself a pretty good job. I was going to head the bank’s non-profit funding in elementary education. ICICI Bank already had a long history in development sector assistance; now I would be helping them rethink their strategy, focus areas and terms of assistance. This was a very challenging job for a number of reasons, but mainly because there was no guarantee our new approach would make the kind of difference we were hoping for; unlike commercial work, social-sector work takes a while to show returns, and even then, many of these cannot be measured. Much of this would have been really intimidating had it not been for my coworkers, my immediate boss, who used to head the treasury mid-office operations and was a constant source of strength, and the big boss, who trusted our judgment and was always ready to stand by us.

As very young people, working on some very fundamental social problems, I think we achieved quite a bit. One of our initial battles was to be taken seriously by the people we wanted to work with: government groups, other non-profits, academia and multilateral agencies – they usually thought we’d come to sell credit cards. Nobody quite believed that an aggressive bank like ICICI Bank had any real interest in these matters. I think that changed very quickly; in fact, people began to come to us, not just for our money, but for help with strategy and thinking – and these were some of the best people in the field, people who had spent their lives working in the social sector. For me, one of the most rewarding moments was when my team was invited by the state government of a newly-formed state to coordinate setting up their educational systems. Related to being taken seriously was also the need to change corporate-sector participation in the social-sector in general, from being a publicity gimmick to a serious endeavor. I was nominated to the Confederation of Indian Industry’s National Committee on Primary Education and Literacy, where I would interact with different industry players regularly. I had a one-point agenda: to emphasize the importance of making real changes versus cosmetic ones. One of the other things my team and I did was build a research agenda, both for the work we funded and broader issues in elementary education. There was practically no rigorous impact evaluation of programs, but a lot of money going into whatever seemed like a good idea. I think we changed the culture on that quite a bit.

One of the main reasons for doing a PhD was my dissatisfaction with the kind of research proposals coming our way; policy research is very important, but it needs to be long-term, and we were not able to find good, long-term researchers. You know what they say about making numbers lie, right? That’s how most practitioner feel, and unfortunately, they are usually right. I’d like to change some of that. Being able to do serious policy-relevant research, stick with a research site, and use such research to improve the functioning of educational systems — that’s what motivates me. And Stanford is anyone’s paradise for learning such work.

Crowd the hillsides: Caroline Roga, '04

2008-01-14T23:11:00.000-05:00

Little boxes, sweep against the green firs and strut among each other.
In the middle wires reach, drawing me onward towards Tokyo, and
Away from the peaceful tourist-trap of Kyoto.
My contribution is several pieces of paper and a fan.
The machines take my ticket. There are three shots left on the roll.
Five bags, I think. Like a metamorphosis,
I have come undone.
The sparse traveller grows, my hair is shorter, my group
Has swollen by one, there are presents, books, new shoes,
The outline of a pavilion that was lost.
To me Japan is rice fields, wild flowers gently tweaked to submission.
The soft circling of birds of prey against the noontime sky. Ramen. Hot mochi.
I will take you to my izakaya for sashimi that will have you throwing out cooking pots in wild abandon.
Nama beer-u onegaishimas
Japan is the first, long draught to quench this thirst.

Be Careful What You Ask For, You Might Just Get It.

2008-01-11T14:25:00.000-05:00

Moushumi Khan, a proud Graduate of Mount Holyoke College.

My law school application essay was entitled, “Bridge over Troubled Waters.” Fourteen years ago I wrote that the three things closest to my heart were Islam, Bangladesh and the necessity for individual critical thought. I defined myself as a bridge, as someone who tries her best to transcend barriers, to reach out to opposing camps. I ended by saying that I wanted to develop the skills of a mediator as well as a litigator, to bridge conflict as well as to engage in it. During interviews I went on about how I wanted to ‘serve my community,’ without really understanding what this meant.

As I come to end of my legal career and prepare to study public policy, and I reflect on these goals, I find that I am still passionate about Islam, Bangladesh and critical thought. Over the last six years in my private practice I have learned what it means to ‘serve my community’ in a post 9/11 America. I have started a consulting company, “Jisir (‘bridge’ in Arabic) Consulting” which seeks to help companies and organizations bridge relations with the Muslim community. I have been humbled by seeing my Muslim, Bangladeshi and other immigrant clients try to realize their American Dream. I have become frustrated at the state of international and interfaith relations. I have gone into debt paying tuition at the school of hard knocks trying to establish my legal practice. I am grateful to all those who took the time to mentor and provoke me into becoming a better lawyer and activist.

The biggest lesson that I have learned is that if you sincerely want something, you will get it. Perhaps it won’t be in the form that you expected or take longer than you hoped, but it will come. So be careful what you ask for. When I asked for the opportunity to serve my community, I did not think that would entail my learning how to do residential closings in Queens because my Bangladeshi cab driver clients were buying real estate, nor appealing deportation cases resulting from Special Registration since I had no interest or experience in real estate or immigration law; I could not have imagined that so-called Muslims would attack my country seven months after I started my solo legal practice and change the nature of my advocacy forever. I did not anticipate that I would become a spokesperson for those things that I held closest to my heart and speak out against my fellow Americans’ lack of critical thinking about the War on Terror. I have become a lawyer who is wary of the ways in which laws, such as the Patriot Act, are used for political ends. I am a lawyer who still believes that our legal system works and can protect all of our civil liberties. In the end, I have become a person who believes that no law can save us from the ravages of bigotry, that building community is the ultimate defense to terrorism. As the water underneath me gets more troubled, I continue to believe in the power of bridges in mediating conflict.

Mexico: HK

2008-01-06T11:28:00.000-05:00

I just took a trip to Mexico with my sisters and would like to share some pictures with you. I have a lot going on and will soon share my stories from Mexico, truly a splendid nation.

Branching Out: Caroline Slama

2008-01-01T22:07:00.000-05:00

I recently felt this rush to write down all my thoughts, feelings, and ideas for this world before my passage into scholarship at Bryn Mawr College would alter them. But minutes into taking inventory of my mind, the realization came that my thoughts were not the unadulterated “me” I had assumed they were. Finding the origin of even one thought I have would be comparable to tracing the lineage of topics in one of those late night conversations you have with a friend you haven’t seen for months. It’s impossible, as connections are made— between you and that old friend, or you and your mind—that you are not aware of, and that just slip by your consciousness. In sophomore year of high school, my English teacher dropped a faded pearl of wisdom on my class: he told us there were no connections. Without knowing exactly why, I found his words strangely empowering.

“But it’s so true,” I would later explain to doubting friends, “Nothing is connected outside the human mind. Everything we perceive, we perceive as ourselves, and each of us is an individual. So we can’t be sure that things that one person sees as connected are connected in every other individual mind.” Connections truly are gossamer-thin, wending their way through our minds, taking as peculiar a route as we wish them to take. It is a tribute to the power of our minds that we can forge bonds between so many discrete topics and objects, and that we sense these bonds as being so real. And if things are not inherently connected to each other, that means only thatwe have no time to waste in creating new ties and strengthening old ones, anchoring experiences in some sort of knit reality. Such connections give my life meaning. So, for my own sake, and for yours, I want to make bonds, connections, links, ties, anything that will harness everything we can lose and love into a network of humanity. This might sound like an enormous dream, but don’t be daunted. In reality, it’s just many little, connected ideas in the mind of a new freshwoman.

A Postcard: P. Davanzzo

2007-12-17T13:18:00.000-05:00

“For a woman to starve to death is a small matter,

But for her to lose her chastity is a great calamity”

This is written on a postcard that I brought from Ghana. It is part of a series of postcards produced to support national tourism. And it portrays a woman sitting by some baskets, hands crossed over her lap.

How can this be? How can people be so different, think so differently? How can we be at peace when we are traveling, learning and sharing other cultures, coming across things that hurt and disgust? How do we stop our judging and accept? Or even: should we? Should we accept something that feels like a punch in the stomach, should we fight for change? What is our reach, how fair is our understanding, how fair is our point of view? How fair is our interference?

I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to any question. Open mindedness brings me a degree of exposure that is scary and irreversible. The only thing I know is that in my world, the world that I create in my imagination, this postcard doesn’t exist. Instead, there is another postcard that says:

“For a woman to lose her chastity is a small matter,
But for her to starve to death is a great calamity.”

Quote Of The Day

2007-12-11T15:03:00.001-05:00

Apply yourself. Get all the education you can, but then, by God, do something. Don't just stand there, make it happen.

--Lee Iacocca, industrialist

Figuring it Out

2007-12-09T15:19:00.000-05:00

This August, recently armed with undergraduate degrees in literature and political science, I did what any directionless American liberal arts major lacking financial ambition might do: ship off to teach English abroad. I was lucky to land a year-long Fulbright English Teaching Assistantship at the prestigious Bilkent University in Ankara, Turkey – a part of the world I’d always wanted to visit. I could take free graduate classes while teaching “speaking skills” to small classes of would-be Bilkent undergraduates lacking the language skills necessary to meet the English-medium university’s standards. Read: they wanted warm-blooded native speakers to talk for twenty hours a week. Sounded simple enough. Little did I know just how provocative those hours of essentially free-for-all conversation would be.

My original goal was simply to hold the students’ interest, avoid philosophical landmines (i.e. obey the law) and nudge them towards fluency. I start out with a seemingly flawless lesson plan: an analysis of the Beatles’ “When I’m 64,” followed by predictions of what their lives will be like when they reach that age. To my dismay, my chirpy questions are answered with blank stares. The distant future? They’re late teens still trying to pass the upcoming exam, much less deal with answers to existential questions fifty years from now. To top it all off, the questions are coming from a wacky 23-year-old teacher – barely older than them – hiding anarchist sentiments under awkward-fitting “professional” clothes. The fact that I’m ditching my friends and family to teach them the English they need to get a Turkish education is beyond comprehension. What can they say? Will they end up staying in Turkey or go for the “utopian” dream of graduate school – and potentially life – abroad? Will their passports ever double as tickets into the EU? Is Turkey sliding down the same “slippery slope” towards fundamentalist Islamic rule à la Iran as some Turks insist? For those with immediate family in current or potential war zones, the future is even more precarious. “Insh’Allah, teacher,” they say, Arabic for “god-willing,” “we want a good life, but we don’t know what will happen.”

Actually, each time I walk into a classroom, neither do I. I consistently find myself in a crossfire of social issues I only vaguely understand. A macho student in a pink playboy-bunny shirt fiddles with his brand-new BMW keys in one hand and seductively swings his prayer beads in the other, bragging about the girls he’d met at a bar the night before; next to him, a girl pats her hairpins to make sure the hat she’s wearing covers all her hair (since by law she can’t wear a headscarf to school) as she complains about society’s expectations of women’s physical appearances; next to her a heavily made-up girl in a skin-tight miniskirt and knee-high boots furrows her brows at the mention of alcohol (technically prohibited in Islam) and promises to bring me a copy of the Koran next class. An Iraqi exchange student describes her recent trip home as “peaceful” while an adrenaline-charged boy fresh from his military service demands an explanation of the US’s presence there. A previously quiet girl offhandedly suggests the army destroy Kurdish villages out east; an invisibly-Kurdish boy from the far east is silent. The Bulgarians and Azerbaijanians need special translations of new vocabulary. Those on scholarship need help circumventing the all-too-prevalent topic of “shopping.” Most students are happy discussing their hometowns and Turkish food, but for a small yet vocal minority, the topic of Greeks and Armenians (not to mention Jews, Asians, and blacks) offers endless material for cruel jokes. One boy says he wants to “holocaust gay people.” And I am to say…what? “Holocaust” is not a verb?

The problem is, I’m trying to juggle a little too much: teach English with laughable training, wind my way through a labyrinth of cultural nuances, and figure out what to do with my life. Let’s be frank: for most young graduates, “teaching English” is less a passion for grammar than it is a “gap year” between school and “real life.” Meanwhile, the luxury of my indecision feels increasingly unfair. Bilkent University is one of the top universities in Turkey, and the Turkish-born English teachers I work with are some of the best in their field. Their jobs are competitive and they work hard towards advanced teaching degrees. Me? I didn’t take a single education course in college – yet I have the option of teaching virtually anywhere until I decide to dabble in the myriad of choices available to me. Japan or Spain? Journalism career or graduate school? I’m the face of the cultural imperialist force neither side can escape: no matter how hard my coworkers study English, I’ll always have a leg up just because my native language happens to be the current international one. No matter how much I struggle with the assigned English translations of Foucault and Deleuze in my graduate courses, my Turkish peers are facing an exponentially more difficult battle. And yet no matter how American foreign policy taints my students’ gut reaction to my nationality, they’re always up for talking about Justin Timberlake’s new song. Not necessarily because it’s good. Just infectious. Because it’s everywhere.

These students don’t particularly care about the Beatles. Like most of the industrialized world they know Lost and Angelina Jolie, but they’re also growing up in an especially conflicted and diverse country currently facing issues with enough conversation material to last a lifetime. They deserve teachers who will encourage critical thinking relevant to their lives. I’ve adjusted my lesson plans to discuss topics like gender roles, global warming, and international standards of beauty – even the wildly popular (and arguably anti-American) Turkish television show Valley of the Wolves Iraq. We have debates. Heated debates. And I learn far more about Turkish culture from my students than I ever could fumbling through Turkey on my own.
The cliché rings true: I learn just as much as – if not more than – my students. What was originally a vehicle for getting abroad has become the most stimulating aspect of my life in Turkey. I can’t always give them my all; teaching, studying, translating, and missing home is exhausting. However, I give them more than I expected. Like them, my future life-path is fuzzy. We’re figuring it out together.

After graduating from the University of Pittsburgh in December 2006, Lisa Brunner tried radio journalism and nannying before arriving in Ankara in August 2007. Her job ends July 11, 2008 - any ideas????

She’s Cheering You On

2007-12-05T15:10:00.000-05:00

At the beginning of 2006, I organized a creative retreat for nine women in my artistic community. We had all known or known of each other for many years through our work as artists and writers, but we had never spent time together face to face. We met for three days at my home in Solvang, CA, where we spent time talking, creating, taking pictures and having one great big slumber party. There were structured activities and free time, a wine tasting picnic and a dancing in my living room, and by the time the weekend was over we had formed a bond that will always be with us, reminding us of the beauty and importance of our creative community.

One of the activities we did was an exercise led by Andrea Scher, an artist and personal coach, in which we all imagined a conversation with our future selves. We were instructed to visualize where we were, the environment, the weather, the time of day, even what we were wearing. When the exercise was over, we all shared our conversations with each other and contemplated why our future selves said the things they said, as well as why we asked the questions we asked.

When I imagined sitting down with my future self, I pictured a living room in a cozy house. There were tall ceilings, a fluffy, oversized couch, and a fireplace with a beautiful fire burning. The sun had just set beyond the French doors, and the back yard served as the foreground to a gorgeous view of the mountains. The image exuded peace, comfort and a delicious intimacy, and the most important message I took away from this encounter was that I would always be OK. My future self wanted me to know that no matter what, I would always have whatever I needed to get through any challenge or triumph that lay before me.

This experience has stayed with me ever since - the knowledge that my future self is actually out there, cheering me on and encouraging me every step of the way having made a mark in my psyche that I can always turn to when I feel lost, overwhelmed or uninspired. I imagine my future self sometimes looks at me and shakes her head, but in the gentlest way, knowing I’m simply doing the best I can despite my stumbles and foibles. I sometimes hear her in the back of my mind saying, “It’s OK, you’ll figure all of this out and I’ll be here for you no matter what.”

I do various things to pull myself deeper into my faith when I start to lose my way – I pray, I draw cards from a deck of Rumi quotations, I look to the stars for inspiration and I talk to my grandma, who passed away less than two years ago, for guidance. While all of this is wonderful and meaningful and spiritual, I find the idea of looking to myself now and then for spiritual affirmation very powerful, for if I cannot look to and rely on my future self - which I hope to be my very best self, my wisest self, someone who may still have many lessons to learn but most assuredly has learned more than I know now - then I really have lost all hope of finding meaning in anything I do.

It is my future self that is waiting for me. She knows me best, knows what I am capable of, and can teach me so much of what I need to learn. Your future self is waiting for you too, and knows you are strong and beautiful and powerful. Listen to her; hear her cheers.

Christine Mason Miller

Luisa Weiss: The Wednesday Chef

2007-12-01T17:34:00.000-05:00

Luisa Weiss writes The Wednesday Chef, a food blog that she calls "a food section face-off" and I call a lovely, lively column about food and life written in a down-to-earth style that's both witty and slightly self-deprecating, yet always warm and genuine. You've heard of comfort food? Well, this is comfort reading ... about comfort food. With pictures! Luisa allowed her to interview her a la the Vanity Fair Proust Questionnaire, and this is what we got. Salud!

Name: Luisa Weiss

Age: 29

Relationship Status: Happily paired with my boyfriend, Ben

Living Situation: With roommates in a Chelsea rental

Job/how do you support yourself: I'm a cookbook editor.

What is your ideal way of spending time: It depends, on the weather and my mood, I guess. In winter, I'm happiest inthe kitchen or curled up on the couch with Ben and a good book or somenot-yet-seen episodes of The Office. In the summer, I love being outsidewith friends - having a picnic, discovering some random hike or beach (Idon't get out of the city enough), or just going on a stroll in the city.

Where were you born? Berlin, Germany

Where do you or would you like to call home? I currently call New York City my home, though with each passing day I'm finding it harder and harder to really imagine myself here for the long run. For one thing, I need more space, more quiet and more green. And yet, I can't entirely imagine myself as a happy suburbanite. So I'm stuck for now. I'd love to move to Los Angeles and live in a little bungalow for a while. With a lemon tree in the yard and palm trees out front. Doesn't that sound like a nice kind of home?

What is it like being you: Hrmm. That's an interesting question. I'm not entirely sure how to answer that. Lately it's been a little tiring being me - lots of work, busyweekends, not enough time decompressing in the kitchen. But it's going to be pretty happy and relaxing being me in about four days - we're off to Bermuda for a friend's wedding, then to Europe for another wedding and a week with my family in Italy.

What are you listening to right now: The hum of traffic on 19th Street.

What did you eat today: Milky tea and a gulp of OJ at home this morning, and a hazelnut flute from Le Pain Quotidien (my go-to breakfast when Ben eats all the cereal at home and I've got nothing left for breakfast).

What is the most exciting thing that's happened to you in the past year: Getting a new job and my trip to Los Angeles in March where I spent a morning at the Santa Monica Farmer's Market with Russ Parsons and Amy Scattergood, and visited the LA Times' food department and test kitchen with Leslie Brenner, the food editor. It's been a good year so far! And it's only May.

Coffee or Tea: Tea.

How did you get involved with food/cooking/writing: I've always loved to cook and bake, and writing has been a hobby of mine since college at least. Two years ago, in a moment of insanity, I decided to start chronicling my journey through my recipe clippings. I'm so so glad I did.

What breaks your heart: Watching old people eat ice cream cones. Seeing other people cry.

What swells your heart: Being with the people I love.

What is the most important thing in your life: Um, the people I love? And trying to find equilibrium in this totally insane world.

What is your idea of perfect happiness: I don't really think that perfect happiness exists - trying to attain it seems to be a sort of futile exercise. Though I imagine that the advent of world peace precisely when I'm on vacation after winning the lottery and giving all of it away to people who need it more than I do would come pretty close.

What is your motto: Don't live by anyone else's standards but your own. Sometimes I have to make myself repeat it a little more forcefully than I would like to.

What is your favorite journey: It's always changing. It used to be flying home to Berlin over the red roofs while I gazed at the skyline. Now? It's dreaming about journeys I haven't yet taken - India, Africa, Vietnam.

What is the best piece of fashion advice you've gotten: Two things: Less is more. And better to spend a lot on one thing you love than to spend a little on many things you just like.

What is it you most dislike: Competition, aggression, dishonesty.

What words or phrases do you most overuse: I'm an English major! I'm always editing myself. (At least I hope so.)

What book(s) are you reading now: Nigel Slater's Real Fast Food and Cormac McCarthy's The Road

Describe your current state of mind: A little foggy (it's Monday morning), but excited - I'm meeting my friend's week-old daughter this afternoon and I can't wait.

Describe the current state of the world: I'm not sure you want to get me started on this. Our world is kind of freaking me out these days. Violent, angry, polluted, mismanaged. The only thing that keeps me going some days is watching The Daily Show. If Jon Stewart can still find something to laugh about, then so can I, right?

Quote of the Day

2007-11-25T00:45:00.000-05:00

"There is a special place reserved in hell for women who don't help other women." - Madeleine Albright

Old and New and the Bridge Between

2007-11-06T11:41:00.000-05:00

As I was brushing my teeth this morning, my mind began to wander. I'm no longer squarely in my mid-twenties, but inching toward thirty. In my mind, college is a breath I just exhaled - but in reality, it's several years in the past. Now I'm at the threshold of a new journey: law school. As I meet the people around me - teachers, peers, mentors - an impression of my new environment begins to form in my mind like a cloud slowly gathering its condensation into a mass. A picture comes together, along with a story, and I start to sketch myself into it. I do this with all the enthusiasm, excitement, thrill, and fear that accompanies any new (ad)venture, and with all the friendship, love, and support that has sustained me and carried me up to this point.

Enough rumination: I began to think about my friends. Specifically, the friends I met in college, my best friends, the ones who shine in my mind as examples of the kinds of people that make this world a wonderful, joyous place to be. And I thought about what thrilling variety they embody: one's a lawyer, one works for Yahoo, one works in community development, one is studying German history and the Holocaust, another is in law school, one is doing microeconomic development projects in Bangladesh, one is a poet, one is in art school, one is a sculptor, another in Turkey, one works at Morgan Stanley, one is in business school, one a journalist in London...all doing things that excite them.

As I move forward to take my place in the world, I feel so lucky to have these people as friends, peers, mentors, confidantes and partners in adventure. They breathe light, laughter, and love into the world every day - an image that warms me every time it's conjured in my mind, even when they are far away.

Turtle

2007-10-29T12:08:00.000-04:00

Jennifer Raver is of the most caring, thoughtful, introspective women I know (through my sister) .... I can hardly wait for her new novel to come out. Here is a peek at the prologue.

Small, sleek, silver like a bullet shooting across the green, run Rabbit run as fast as you can through the tall summer grass into the sea of silver birches. The trees’ leaves shimmer green and gold in the setting sun that strikes Rabbit senseless. She darts here first- then there- blind to the path but mindful of the finish line. Round and round Rabbit runs skirting the forest’s edge until the sun descends and dazzles her eyes no more.

Master of her senses again, Rabbit dashes headlong into the forest. She sprints at a speed terrifying to lesser creatures, crushing the earth underfoot or crashing into nature’s larger elements. Her feet are sticky with grass and wild strawberries, her fur matted and torn from tree and shrub but nothing stops her. Nothing slows her. Rabbit has a race to win so run on, my fleet-footed friend!

The forest grows more dark and wild the deeper she goes. A lush canopy of feathery ferns obfuscates the earth’s floor. As rabbit dives into the green expanse, the ferns tickle her nose and brush against her furry cheeks, reminding Rabbit of baser needs. She scampers under the sheltering ferns and bites into a soft frond. It is cool and sweet. Eat your fill then lie down with us, the ferns whisper. For a long minute she is tempted but then her animal spirit cries: Tarry not!

On and on Rabbit runs until the ferns disappear and she enters the dark heart of the forest. She stops, afraid to go farther for the forest has drawn a heavy velvet curtain across the land. She looks heavenward for relief- some stars or the moon may reveal the path- but the trees’ branches blanket the sky with leaves.

She believes that the dark has bested her but her eyes grow friendly with the dark and it reveals a series of tall, broad and timeless trees. Thick tangles of roots separate the trees; the roots pop out of the ground and pulse with life, a bluish-black, slow-moving blood. Even with light, the land cannot support new life for the trees’ ancient roots run deep and long and drink greedily of the earth’s goodness.

Ready to run again, Rabbit surveys the land. She spots something, and hops gingerly over one tangle to get a better look. Age has felled one majestic tree. Shriveled roots extend from the tree’s base like a cat’s paw ready to strike. She carefully hip hops along the trunk as if it were a compass pointing in the right direction. She smells water, wood and dirt then the acrid odor of decay and death invades her nostrils and checks her progress. In the tree’s branches something once living has made its final bed among the brown withered leaves.

Rabbit backs away and turns to run but the cold, damp ground sends a shock- both thrilling and terrifying- through her body. She rears up on her hind legs desperate to run but the darkness locks her in its chilly embrace. The stench of decay and death draw near and threaten to overwhelm her.

She steps outside herself and sees a meagerly proportioned bunny doing a stiff two-step with the air. Ha, a high-pitched squeak escapes through the perpetual smile she wears then her pink-rimmed eyes water and a twinge pierces her furry, white breast. Even if Rabbit wins this race there will be others, and even if she wins every race, she will one day return to join those who have run before her. Rabbit’s front paws smack against the ground and her head lists to one side. Where to, she cries.

Suddenly Rabbit’s ears prick at the sound of a branch snapping. The eternal Song sings, Run, run! She hurdles roots and dodges trees in her flight from the forest’s dark heart. She runs and runs; sprinting so fast her feet do not touch the ground; so fast that it seems she has become one with the air.

The light grows stronger as her haunches carry Rabbit out of the woods into a clearing. Beams from a low-hung moon light a smooth, even ground. The wind brushes her back and tickles Rabbit’s tail. Her animal senses tingle and she runs onward, fleet of foot, stout of heart- a champion running the final lap. Each step brings Rabbit closer to victory, and in her mind’s eye, Rabbit has already crossed over into glory; the sound of the crowd’s roar fills her ears. Victory seems certain until the moon’s rays reveal a bright expanse of water. At first Rabbit thinks it a mirage for she has run a long way without sustenance. Her feet slow then stop. She hops to the pool’s edge and taps the surface with a hind leg. The cold water makes her body shimmy and shake. Rabbit bends her head towards the pool.

The water’s surface plays mirror: oblong ears trimmed in white hair, pink-rimmed eyes with dilated pupils, gray tufted cheeks with long pale whiskers, a pink triangle of a nose and a mouth that always smiles. This is no mirage, she thinks and drinks deeply from the cold, clean water. Refreshed, Rabbit remembers the reason for her thirst. She looks right then left but sees only water. She can run but she cannot swim. What will you do, oh runner of races?

Her senses sing as someone- predator or competitor- approaches. She hops around to face the forest and scans the horizon. Her ears strain for sound; her nose sniffs the ground for the smell of another. Throat parched, she licks her lips and taste metal. Bang bang bang bang the rhythmic beat fills Rabbit’s ears and blood rushes to her temples. He comes! Run, run!
Rabbit’s mind races but her feet remain still…or do they? She looks over her shoulder to see her right hindquarter hammering away at the earth. Her foot slows and she sighs, able to breath at last, but the rush of oxygen to her brain makes her giddy. Unbalanced, she staggers backwards and falls into the shining pool.

Down, down into the deep water Rabbit dances, torso twisting and limbs kicking. The current carries her deeper still and water fills every orifice. Her lungs burn and head pounds with red impotent rage at the heavy, cumbersome and slow being she has become. As she watches her last breath bubble to the surface, a calm replaces the rage. Rabbit thought she’d return to the dark heart of the forest to die but death visits her instead, releasing Rabbit from her physical form.

Heaven here I come! Rabbit’s spirit navigates the once treacherous current with a speed and agility that her body lacked. Lighter, nimbler and faster, her spirit glides towards the light, rushing higher and higher, parting the water with ease and assurance. Rabbit’s spirit breaks through the surface to join with the radiant, all-powerful light.

Daylight strokes its warm fingers across her back, ushering Rabbit once again into the physical world. I’m alive! I’ve not died! She raises her head still heavy with sleep to see the risen sun. She has dreamt a strange dream- a nightmare that somehow ended well.
Suddenly Rabbit sees something. It’s him! It’s my competitor! Bulging black eyes covered by thin eyelids, a boxed-in nose, no mouth to speak of, a skinny neck, and a hard, wide shell too large for its extremities. It’s a reptile; order Chelonia; family Emydidae. Ha, her squeak is low and muffled, It’s a turtle! More precisely, it’s a painted turtle.

He fixes his bulging black eyes on Rabbit then both Rabbit and Turtle crane their necks to get a better look at each other. Bold Turtle, she thinks then her nose touches water and he becomes a wave. Rabbit is frightened to be so near the water again. Her head snaps back and darkness envelops her. Where am I, she wonders. It seems to be a kind of cave, one that is dark and unknown but somehow familiar and safe. She sees nothing but senses that her legs are nearby. For a moment she wonders if she’s gone mad then a thought occurs.

She ventures forth from the darkness, trying to hop but too heavy to do so. She doesn’t hear or smell so well but she can still see, and waddles towards the pond. She looks into the pool and finds Turtle staring back at her. She takes two steps back then two forward; Turtle disappears and reappears. A horrible thought fills her head: I am the turtle. She stares at her reflection then big watery turtle tears begin to fall.

When she finally sheds her last tear, she creeps to the pond’s edge to take inventory of her new self. She is short, squat and low to the ground with a tough, round shell and a soft underbelly. Her senses of smell and hearing no longer sing but she sees just fine. She cannot run or hop; at best she manages a brisk waddle walk. Yes, travel on land is laborious but then she remembers: I can swim. She waddle walks to the bank and this time, she enters headfirst, eyes open.
Those watching see a small, brightly painted turtle making short but steady strokes through the pool, water fanning out behind her like the lower-case v of a young child.

Equality without Protest: Reviving Political Engagement

2007-10-23T10:07:00.000-04:00

There are a significant number of women who are reluctant to identify with feminism.

Nevertheless, they consider themselves equal to men and expect to be treated as the equals of men. The extent of this ‘proto’-feminist consciousness — an awareness of the inequality of women and a determination to resist it at an individual level — is a definitive accomplishment of the women’s movement. But the rupture between feminist consciousness and the movement from which it emerged is something of a conundrum.

Perhaps it is an inevitable fissure. Take for example the women’s enfranchisment movement. Recently, my mother-in-law, upon learning the subject matter of the book I was reading — Kumari Jayawardena’s Casting Pearls — was flabbergasted when she heard that at some point in history women did not have the right to vote. How many women today, young or old, identify with the women’s struggle for the vote in the early 20th century? Nevertheless, women today understand the power an individual vote has in determining the future of our country; and, I would imagine, be outraged if the State decides, say on the grounds of family cohesion, to introduce legislation allowing only male heads of household the right to vote. One could argue that this unquestioning acceptance of political rights as being fundamental to citizenship, this shift from a demand to the idea of an entitlement, signals the success of the suffrage movement.

Let’s take what I would like to call the 'proto-feminists' in the corporate sector: smart, savvy women who have excelled academically and who now hold management positions. They would not tolerate without protest any notion that men are smarter than them. They know that’s not true. They’ve outperformed them in the classroom, more often than not. These women certainly would not accept being paid less than their male counterparts either. She thinks, perhaps unconsciously, that as long as her contribution to the organization is recognized and she is equally rewarded for her hard work that there is gender equality.

Even in the home, these women would not accept, without protest, the gender division of labour—that they should do all the cooking, cleaning, ironing and child care without assistance from their husbands. Take for example my friend Iromie—mother of two, running her own small garment business who actively negotiates on an everyday basis how she and her husband share child-care and house-work responsibilities. Or Cristina, who actively protests stereotypical images of female beauty by refusing to wear makeup and ‘feminine’ clothes despite the many hints from her family. Iromie would be shocked if I tell her she’s drawing from a feminist consciousness, and Cristina cannot see any parallels between the choices she makes and feminism.

One danger posed by the expanding rift between feminism as a movement and this (proto) feminist consciousness is that feminist consciousness is losing its radical edge, argues Barbara Epstein, a professor at the University of California Santa Cruz, in her article “Feminist Consciousness after the Women’s Movement.” This has happened, she says, in the professional fields where feminism has tended to absorb the obsession with individual success that prevails in that arena. Rhonda Garelick, an associate professor at Connecticut College, writing in the New York Times, reflects on the lack of political engagement in the contemporary classroom about women’s rights and cultural politics. “Although virtually all of my female students expect to pursue careers, this is where their enlightenment seems to end. For them, the reassuring power of a college degree to unlock professional doors seems to have rendered ‘feminism’ obsolete. In other words, the fires of feminism may have burned down to the ashes of careerism.”

Let’s take an example of a young woman working for an international NGO. Having chosen to work on women’s livelihoods, she’s now preoccupied with writing countless reports and attending meetings. Because gender equality is part of the organizational philosophy, if not one of its explicit objectives, she may not think that there is any need to have a feminist awareness, and certainly does not identify herself as a feminist. (Perhaps, she’s even embarrassed by the label because of its associations with angry, humourless women with scant regard for personal appearance.) This lack of a feminist consciousness means a lack of political questioning of the work she does. So, she may not find it problematic at all to ‘work’ towards women’s ‘empowerment’ by setting up beauty culture and sewing classes.

Young women today are more self-confident, are climbing the corporate ladders, and are not afraid to speak their mind, for the most part. However, they are like the present day environmentally conscious people Epstein describes, who take action on environmental issues largely in individual ways - such as in their shopping habits and in recycling - but bear no resemblance to the activists who engaged in radical political activity. To some degree, this expansion of ‘consciousness’ beyond the borders of the movement in which it first emerged, as Epstein argues, shows the lasting influence of those movements. But as she says, it also has to do with what appears to be the decline of political and protest movements.

But, wait! Protest cannot become irrelevant or old-fashioned because the struggle is by no means over. Personal success is not equality. What about domestic violence? What about equality before the law with regard to land and property rights? What about women continuing to be regarded as wives and mothers and not valued for who they are? And what about being classified with children and the disabled—in our Constitution no less! What about the barrage of gender stereotypes and sexist imagery that is spewed at us in the name of advertising? Why do women continue to be told how to behave, how to dress, and what to look like? Why do we accept without protest the misogynist commentary of our radio DJs during morning shows?

A feminist consciousness is a consciousness that is not complacent—it is forever analysing and always critiquing.

What about sexual harassment? Otherwise strong, independent women continue to tolerate it in the workplace because of fear. Fear to tip the precarious balance of equality because it would prove that women really are not up to the task of serious work if they’re going to cry every time the boss makes a sexual innuendo. Fear that one would lose one’s popularity with the boys and perhaps even other women. Fear that one would be labelled a ‘feminist’, i.e., a ‘prude’ with no sense of humour.

A (proto) feminist consciousness is inadequate to the challenge.

Asha Abeyasekera-Van Dort (MHC '98) is a native of Sri Lanka.

Why Smart Men Marry Smart Women

2007-10-04T00:55:00.000-04:00

by Dr. Christine B. Whelan

Conventional wisdom - and more than a few hysterical headlines - would have us believe that the odds are stacked against smart, high-achieving women when it comes to marriage. Men don't want to marry women who are ambitious in their careers, the naysayers declare. Or women who make as much, or more, money as they do. Once a successful woman hits 30, her chances of finding a husband are limited, if not dire.

Nothing could be further from the truth! My new book, Why Men Marry Smart Women, explodes the ongoing myths about high-achieving women and marriage. The good news is backed by solid statistics from U.S. Census data, a Harris Interactive survey commissioned specifically for this book, and more than 100 interviews with high-achieving women and men in nine cities nationwide.

This groundbreaking new study corrects the bad-news lies widely perpetuated on television talk shows and in the pages of bedrock publications such as Newsweek and Forbes.com and shatters widespread myths:

Myth: Men want to marry subordinate women.Reality: 90% of high-achieving men want a woman who is as or more intelligent than they are. And more than 80% of high-achieving men said they want a woman who is as or more accomplished and educated than they areMyth: Successful career women aren't good mothers.

Reality: 68% of high-achieving men agree with the statement: "Smart women make better mothers." And two-thirds of high-achieving men said they believed a woman could be just as good of a mother if she worked outside the home.

Why Men Marry Smart Women is packed with personal stories and advice for smart, ambitious women who are worried that their career success is holding them back in their quest for love and happiness. Among the advice:

* Stop perpetuating the myth that men are intimidated by smart women. There's a high cost to the conventional wisdom that accomplished women don't get married - and it could be a self-fulfilling prophecy for you if you have a bad attitude toward dating.

* Don't downplay your career or educational success. One-third of the high-achieving women are hesitant to tell a man about their job or their educational background for fear it will intimidate him. But 71% of men say a woman's career or educational success makes her more desirable as a wife, so be proud of your accomplishments.

It's all about having the right attitude: For more information, visit http://www.whysmartmenmarrysmartwomen.com/ and buy your copy today!

Womanhood – A State Of Being

2007-10-01T17:47:00.001-04:00

I am a ‘woman’, and I am proud to be one – are you? Maybe not. Know why? Because ever since you were a little girl it was drummed into you that a ‘woman’ is any overweight female with about three kids and facing a midlife crisis. Wrong. That is far from being a woman.

Ever gone to a party and heard ripples of laughter and girlish giggles when a grownup man enters and says "hey girls?" Compare that to the response you would get to "hello ladies" or worse – "ah women.". Nope not even a smile to that last remark. Ever wondered why?

I’ll tell you why. The word ‘woman’ is associated with so many negativities that no female wants to be called a woman. Shame isn’t it? Draw a mental picture of a ‘woman’ in your mind. Now let me rip that apart. Because a ‘woman’ is far from what has been portrayed and the general connotations people associate with ‘womanhood’.

Misconception 1: Womanhood does not come with age. It is an attitude, a state of being. Womanhood is not a physical state, but rather a stage of mental maturity and emotional intelligence. It is maturity not only of action, but thought and emotion. Perhaps that’s why it is usually misinterpreted with age. But a 20 year old female can also reach womanhood.

'Womanhood' is the most beautiful, fulfilling yet challenging experience any female can have in her lifetime – if she ever reaches that level of competence and security within herself. To be able to look the world in the eye and say I will, I can, I am and I accept myself for not having the physical strength of a man – but emotions as firm as boulders, a mind as intelligent as can be and a will strong enough to move the world. To not only accept herself as the physically petite sex, which was not made to do certain tasks but still be able to make decisions which can change the world. A woman knows that she has to and is capable of running a house, rearing children, and being extremely competitive at work. Women are the only beings who can juggle so many tasks and still not lose their feminine touch.

Ah ‘feminine’ – does not mean stilettos, a perfect figure, manicured nails and picture perfect looks. Feminine is a feeling. Within your heart you must know that you are the most beautiful creature God ever created. That even ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’ and the most beautiful adornment of heaven is also – a ‘woman’!

Womanhood comes only from the test of times, and signifies strength paired with delicateness. A woman is graceful not in her physical attributes, but in her manner, her poise, her actions. She can compete at the highest levels of intelligence and still not be classified only in one box. Any female who comes even near the feeling, the always vibrating emotion of womanhood in her existence - like being in love – can conquer the world any day, and will love to be called that which she is – not a girl, not a baby, not a lady, not a little lady – but just a woman – and oh – that is so hard to be!

Afreina Noor

Pakistan

2007-09-23T20:01:00.000-04:00

I get up every morning to enjoy the people I love. Yes I want to contribute to society, change something in the world, understand my place in the world -- but these are abstractions that shape the undercurrents in my life. But that feeling of I must support, be with, learn from, and give and receive joy to those who are important to me is very tangible. It's what I breathe.

I don’t know that I can tell my story in 400 words. I was born in Chennai, India. I lived in Tennessee, Florida, Massachusetts, New York, Missouri and, now, Philadelphia. I studied English and journalism and I’m working for the University of Pennsylvania as a writer. I’ve been with my boyfriend for three years and still miss him when I go to work. These are about .1% of the details that have gone into making me who I am. But who is that? That’s the real story, and that’s the one I’m making up as I go along. When I was 21, I could tell you what my life meant. As I’ve gotten smarter, I can’t anymore. This brings me back to the tangibles, the people whom I love. That’s something I don’t have to make up – proof that my life is real.

The obstacles I’ve faced have primarily been of my own construction. The biggest obstacle one is my tendency to deconstruct my accomplishments so that I can no longer see how they add to my story.

This may have begun during my childhood, which was happy, but gave me many opportunities to ask too many questions. When you’re an immigrant, when you move around a lot, when you read a lot of books, when your parents encourage you to think for yourself and won’t buy you expensive sneakers, you learn very early in life to not accept the stories people tell you. This is good, because the only people who make society go forward are those who question and voice their questions loudly. But sometimes it’s bad because you even learn to be critical of the stories you tell to convince yourself that the things you do mean anything.

This brings me to my experience in the field, which, you may not be surprised to learn, involves writing stories. I interview people and then cobble their answers together to present a meaningful package to readers. My job is to write, but really it’s to listen to other people. It’s great because pretty much every day I learn how someone else makes meaning of their lives and those perspectives help me figure out how I want to lead my own. And I have to listen really carefully, because if I don’t I basically end up writing a lie, and a misrepresentation of life, even a perfectly grammatical one, does great damage to everyone.

My advice, even though I don’t like giving advice, is to women in business, but also to everyone in everything – listen and question. That’s the only way to do the difficult job of figuring out what things really mean, and it’s the only way to begin making your life mean something real.

Finally, the best advice I’ve ever gotten is from Michael Scott, lead protagonist of the American version of The Office. He says, “Sometimes you have to take a break from being the kind of boss that’s always trying to teach people things. Sometimes you have to just be the boss of dancing.”

Priya Ratneshwar (MHC '98)

The European Problem

2007-09-18T01:55:00.000-04:00

How American Muslims could become as alienated as European Muslims.

The two terrorist attacks known worldwide by their dates—9/11 and 7/7—inspired suspicion of Muslims in communities in both Europe and America. But each one also symbolizes the different relations each continent has with their Muslim populations. On 9/11, America was attacked by Muslims who came here solely for the purpose of attacking it. On 7/7, London was bombed by British Muslims who were products of their own society. What lessons Europe and America each draw from this will determine the future of their Muslims and their national identity.

The Muslim communities of North America and Europe are often compared, with the conclusion that American Muslims are better integrated, less likely to be radicalized than their European counterparts. But as the war on terror proceeds, racial profiling, the lack of direct communication between Muslims and the government, and the use of paid confidential informants to monitor the Muslim community are all causing an increasing rift between American society and Muslims. In the end, these issues could undo the integration that American Muslims have previously achieved and create the same marginalization and exclusion from society facing European Muslims. This alienation became painfully evident two years ago, when the suburbs of Paris were burning in protest after two French Muslim youths were killed trying to run away from police. The barrier of suspicion made it virtually impossible for French authorities to quell the violence. In response, European countries have been busy trying to create "moderate" Muslim organizations for them to interface with. But these organizations carry very little legitimacy among the Muslim communities they supposedly represent. America is fortunate enough to have a strong civil society from which indigenous Muslim organizations are already emerging. But the strained relations that helped cause the French riots could be developing in the United States if America is not careful to avoid Europe's missteps.

The color-coding of our threat level has not been very good at telling us how to deal with or prevent the actual threats. What has been shown to fight terrorism is local police working with local communities. In last year's Toledo, Ohio, terror plot, where three men were accused of building bombs to aid the insurgency in Iraq, the Muslim community was credited by the local FBI office with stepping forward to support the terror investigation. But these community/law-enforcement relations are strained, particularly because of the increased use of informants—one of the causes of greater alienation of European Muslims. Europe has a longer history of using informants as a surveillance tool in its Muslim populations.

But there is little evidence that this technique works. The case of Shahawar Siraj Matin illustrates the potential problem of using informants. He came with his family to the United States from Pakistan while in his teens. He worked in his uncle's Islamic bookstore in Brooklyn, where he began to speak out about his views on Palestine, the Iraq war, and America's role in the world. Matin was 21 when he was arrested during the 2004 Republican National Convention in New York for plotting to blow up the Herald Square subway station. During his trial, conversations taped by the government informant showed the informant egging him on, saying that the "Brothers"—a fictional terrorist cell created by the NYPD—were counting on him planting the bomb, while Matin is heard saying that he had to go home and ask his mother whether he could do it. This "mama's boy terrorist" had only a high-school education.

In February 2003, the U.S. District Court had granted the NYPD's request to modify the Handshu Agreement, which put limits on police surveillance, to allow, among other things, sending police informants into religious institutions, which is already common practice in Europe. This has had a profound impact on Muslims by substantially increasing domestic surveillance of mosques in America. The 2006 conviction of Matin may have been its first public result. Many Muslims felt that Matin's comments against U.S. foreign policy were being used to paint him as a potential terrorist and that a paid government informant who was decades older than him was pressuring him to plant a bomb in the subway station. The conclusion was that Muslims could not afford to voice their political beliefs.

Historically, the American Muslim immigrant population falls into a higher socioeconomic background than their European counterparts. But like Matin, the next generation of diversity visa winners and others are more similar to European Muslim immigrants. And many of the recent U.S. "terror plots" involve immigrants similar to European ones. While there might not be actual radicalization in the American Muslim community, there is a danger of increasing frustration leading to alienation. In June 2005, Hamid Hayat, a 23-year-old Pakistani-American farmhand with a sixth-grade education, was charged with attending an al-Qaida training camp in Pakistan and being a part of a terror cell in Lodi, Calif. Later that year, Tashnuba Hayder, a 16-year-old Bangladeshi girl who grew up in Queens, N.Y., was accused of being a suicide bomber—though she was ultimately only charged with immigration violations and deported. To the Muslim American community, these cases represented a witch hunt against young Muslims who were being targeted for their interest in Islam and who had limited education or socioeconomic means. They certainly did not demonstrate proof of "homegrown terrorism." Rather, they were symbols of the disenfranchisement or disillusionment of these young Muslims from the mainstream society. Hayder herself illustrated this tension when she told the New York Times, "The F.B.I. tried to say I didn't have a life—like, I wasn't the typical teenager." While the vast majority of Muslim youth are wondering how they can be civically minded Muslim Americans, the government seems to be stuck on the theme of the radicalization of Muslim American youth. Perhaps they have received too much training in Europe.

European Muslims and American Muslims have not had much in common until now, but if we unreflectively adopt the European view of Muslims as the perpetual "other," we risk making this true. "Equality not integration" is the rallying cry of European Muslims. Ours is "due process." Some of our worst laws were passed and later regretted at times of reaction against ethnic communities, from the Palmer Raids of 1919 to today's Patriot Act. In a land founded by immigrants and the rule of law, our nation's strength lies in its resilience; our way of life depends on equal opportunity. Europe and European Muslims are suffering from the inability to bring Muslims into the economic and political mainstream. Will America turn its back on its rich heritage of celebrating diversity? Will we start to see Muslims as a "law and order" problem as Europe does, rather than as the next wave of dream-seekers?

Moushumi Khan graduated from Mount Holyoke College and received a J.D. from Michigan Law School.

On Doing What You Love

2007-09-17T22:40:00.000-04:00

The best advice I’ve ever received is to follow your passion. It basically means: do what you love. I know the second part of that sentence is that the money will follow – but trust me, sometimes the money doesn’t really matter if you are doing what you love.I was born in India, and raised in Crown Point, Indiana. I would say my defining characteristics are my ability to laugh at myself, poke fun at others, and my love of reading.

Reading defined my existence. It probably defined my personality than anything else in my life. I learned about different worlds, foreign cultures, and most important, reading allowed me to find out who I was and what I really wanted....And what I wanted was to read. I read anything and everything. Work was anything that wasn’t reading. In college, I chatted with one of my friends, an English major (who could make money doing that??) and she mentioned an internship as an editor in a publishing house.

I was pre-med at the time, and basically flunking organic chemistry. I realized that this was the job for me—it was perfect. I could read, talk to authors, read, edit books, and read some more. I could talk about books all day long with no one to stop me!I graduated in 1999 and accepted a job at HarperCollins Publishers. There, I lived in a very shady area of Jersey City (rent was $300 a month) and my starting salary was $22K. I loved it.

Now, I’m a full editor. It’s taken me a few years and the salary is higher, but it’s a job that I can’t imagine leaving. I don’t doubt for a moment that for me this is the job I needed – and I can’t imagine that I was once set to go pre-med.When you are doing what you love, you are happy. Happiness to me breeds serenity. And if you have the passion for whatever it is, be it a plumber, an editor, or whatever, you’ll be successful. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, and maybe not in the same terms you thought you would be when you started, but the work becomes its own reward. In doing whatever it is that you know you’re good at, the work is no longer work. It transcends work and becomes something else. It becomes passion.And don’t worry...I’m still waiting for the money.

Devi Pillai graduated from Mount Holyoke College in 2000.

Remove the Ring?

2007-09-06T11:19:00.001-04:00

This article appeared in the Wall Street Journal back in February, but I just came across it on another great website, Ms. JD. Although I've never encountered this issue before, I have to say that I - sadly - wasn't surprised to read of this woman's concern. What do you think women should do? Has anyone experienced this dilemma firsthand?

Wall Street Journal, February 27, 2007, 10:50 am

When You Land the Job Interview, Should the Ring Come Off?

Posted by Sara Schaefer Muñoz

Should women applying for jobs take off their engagement or wedding rings?

When we posted about a study that showed employers still screen résumés for mommy status, some Juggle posters said they’d think twice about making a reference to their children in their CVs, and they’d consider slipping off the wedding ring, as well.

I was shocked — until I remembered I had done the same thing with my engagement ring. Several years ago, during my engagement to my husband, I applied to the Journal. On the way to the bureau where I had my interview — in the midst of checking my résumé over dozens of times for typos — I weighed whether or not to remove my ring. On the one hand, I felt ridiculous for even considering it — thinking that in this day and age it shouldn’t matter. On the other hand, I really wanted that job. I had no idea about the office culture and I didn’t want anyone making assumptions — however unreasonable — about my commitment to the position. Before getting on the elevator, I slipped the ring into my pocket.

I can say now I’m sure it wouldn’t have mattered. It turned out that many in the office were married with kids. They sold Girl Scout cookies and discussed Halloween costumes. Editors oohed and aahed over my wedding photos and, later, regaled me with parenting books and name suggestions when I was pregnant. Looking back, I felt that the ring-removal had been absurd.

But the recent comments suggest I wasn’t alone in my concerns. Has any other woman — or man! — considered this? Have you known some employers to flinch when they see a wedding or engagement ring? Or was your decision based upon your own — possibly unfounded — concerns?

Wordplay

2007-09-03T09:03:00.000-04:00

H
O how we hanky panky harum
scarum in our happy home, dancing hootchy
kootchy. Sure, it makes for hugger mugger
but we give a hoot for happenstance.
The yard is full o' hound and hares; the door
adorned by hammer and sickle; in the closets, hand-
me-downs. If Hammurabi and his Queen come
by, we won't be hoity-toity, we'll
offer haggis or humble pie. Our bed
floats on hocus-pocus (our corpore
wholly habeas) and the kitchen hums
a hymn, Hail to Higgledy-Piggledly.
If the world can't call our hurly burly hunky
dory, let it hara-kiri if it dares.

- NATASHA SAJÉ

Word of the week: gumption!

2007-09-02T20:42:00.000-04:00

I absolutely love the word "gumption" and know so many splendid, courageous women who embody this particular quality, and lead their lives boldly. I looked up the exact meaning on dictionary.com, since I was throwing the word around on a daily basis, and today I'd like to share it with you.

gump·tion / [guhmp-shuhn]

1. courage; spunk; guts: It takes gumption to quit a high-paying job.

2. initiative; aggressiveness; resourcefulness.
3. common sense; shrewdness.

[Origin: 1710–20; orig. Scots] —Related forms gump·tion·less, adjective; gumptious, adjective.

Send us some more words that you use to describe your friends, role models, mentors, and teachers!

Note to Self: Need More Diplomacy

2007-08-28T13:53:00.001-04:00

The personal lives of "rights-conscious" women are often inextricable from our professional and academic lives. We tend to infuse everyday acts with resistance. One friend of mine refuses to learn how to cook because women are expected to know how to cook. Many of my friends hesitate in the face of acts of modern chivalry. My skin crawls everytime I see an ad on TV where a woman is cooking, cleaning or rushing to get a meal on the table. Such banal acts of resistance, which often take on a life and will of their own, can be exhausting because we are never able to let our guard down. We are constantly under seige, if not by external agents then by our own calculations of justice. Our defensive offensiveness also means that we sometimes fail to take advantage of certain situations to foster greater dialogue and understanding between the sexes.

I have often accused generally well-meaning people of sexism and created situations that have yielded less than optimal results. Once, an older relative complimented me on my sense of direction, saying, "Women don't usually have such good sense of direction." I immediately told him such skills vary from person to person and that we should avoid making gender-wide generalizations. The problem is that I wasn't able to deliver my response in a calm and collected manner. Instead, I raised my voice and probably precluded the possibility of any further discussion. My knee-jerk reaction was to associate him with practitioners of centuries-old patriarchy and condemn his statement. If my goal was to make him critically re-evaluate his statement, the fierce emotion in my voice counterproductively deflected attention away from the substance of my response.

Harvey Mansfield's book, Manliness, has achieved notoriety to charicaturial proportions. His book does, however, remind women's rights activists, feminists and would-be feminists that we do need to address how our decisions and our struggles affect the men in our lives, be they friends, co-workers, or family members. It seems that we often feel alone in our struggles with opponents both real and mythical and forget to forge alliances that may be of great benefit to our own struggles.

While this is often because we are up against robust patriarchy, it may also be because we have alienated well-meaning people who could have been our partners in struggle. The benefits of gender equality to men are often less tangible than those to women. It is difficult for a husband to continue to support the struggle for gender equality if he is continuously accused of not doing enough by his wife on the one hand and ridiculed for being hen-pecked by his male friends on the other. Why should a man choose to give up privileges that most societies still bring him up to expect and value? There are many answers to this question, but clearly they have yet to persuade many human beings. Women are not the only victims of patriarchy. Men who support gender equality at the theoretical level can also become its victims when they try to implement it in their own lives. As women, we need more partners, not fewer, and empathetic diplomacy, not ferocity, seems to be the way to go.

Sarah Shehabuddin (Mount Holyoke College '02) is currently pursuing her Ph.D. at Harvard University.

Notes from Sarajevo

2007-08-17T20:52:00.000-04:00

Alison Morse , Mount Holyoke College '02, is a graduate student at the Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy at Tufts University, where she is focusing on development economics and issues affecting refugees and displaced persons, particularly women. This summer, she is working with BOSFAM (BOSnian FAMily), a non-governmental organization that supports Bosnian women who were displaced by war by providing them with income-generating handicraft products. Alison, who is keeping a blog about her experiences, originally contributed this article to I-Witness.

Sarajevo is a city on the mend. New construction, chic European stores and all the ice cream one could ever eat make for a happy façade to this city that saw over 1400 days of conflict just a decade ago. I arrived in Sarajevo to hours of honking in celebration of a football win over Turkey. I was immediately brought back to the 2004 Red Sox World Series win when the streets filled with happy revelers and cars honked until dawn. The mood in Sarajevo on the night of my arrival demonstrated the life of a city that has celebrated every small victory in an effort to move beyond its not-so-distant tragedies.

The remnants of war are of course still present in the city. Many buildings remain gutted and covered with tarps. There is a general darkness to parts of the old town that can only be attributed to the drabness of Tito’s era. Craters in rooftops, windows without panes, and wires dangling from buildings are not uncommon once one leaves the main tourist drag. Transportation, though excellent and inexpensive, is the most obvious remnant of international aid. UNHCR buses that have not been upgraded in ten years are packed each morning with school children –worn tire treads carry sagging frames that are filled to capacity. The tram cars vary between those with German slogans and those marked with Japanese flags, both donations to the post-war reconstruction effort.

As every guide book will tell you, Sarajevo has a rich history –it is in fact the proverbial “crossroads of civilizations.” The sights and sounds of Sarajevo prove that the city remains a bastion of both religious tolerance and mingling cultures—the Muslim call to prayer is followed by the clanging of church bells around the city. Nuns travel in tight packs followed by bands of teenagers in tight jeans talking on cell phones. The main promenade gives way to the cobblestone streets of the old town where men and women sit outside shops hawking their wares. Fine French fashion is sold just doors away from display cases of Turkish delights.
It is from here, this city on the mend, that I will make my way to Tuzla, the third largest city in BiH and largest coal producer, to begin my summer internship. I will be working with a small non-profit that assists refugee women build sustainable livelihoods through handicrafts…so if nothing else, I will have an enormous supply of wool socks and hats to ward off the cold winters in Boston.

As We Are

2007-08-08T12:43:00.000-04:00

http://www.aswearemagazine.com/

As We Are is a new magazine for women. Read about issues and ideas that support the belief that you are good enough as you are right now - and let us know what you think! In my mind, we can always use more female-positive outlets like this to showcase the endless stream of fascinating women that are doing really inspiring things. Cheers!

I WANT MORE!

2007-08-05T21:13:00.000-04:00

A friend of mine sent this to me in Portuguese and I will translate it for you. When I read it, I felt it. I felt it in the gut and I knew that if I did not let myself feel it now, then I would certainly feel it tomorrow. I said to myself "I will feel this way", and then I did, I just did. It is puzzling, and at the same time, I'm free.I want more. I-W-A-N-T-M-O-R-E.

She wrote, "It's full of bargains out there, there is always somebody offering less in exchange for conformism. If you accept now, don't complain later; saying that it's not enough, blaming the world and being sour. Accept, desperately convincing yourself that if it wasn't for this, it would be nothing; that it's better to have something you can touch than the illusion of a tired mind. Accept with resignation, which is beautiful to see, and sad to feel.But if you are strong, if you have courage or if you lack common sense, say no, say you want more."

"NO, THANK YOU, I WANT MORE".

Your voice might shake, with a touch of uncertainty, like the voice of things that make no sense, like the voice of the unrecoverable. Then your eyes might even fill up with tears - but do not be afraid. The worst has passed and you have absolved yourself, and even if you end up naked, with nothing, at least in this one instance of refusal, you have given yourself the love that most will never even dream of receiving in this life. The love of those who believe themselves to be worthy of their dreams.

Patricia Davanzzo just completed her MBA degree at Stanford University, and is going to rule the film industry some day.

Women We Love #3: Suzan-Lori Parks

2007-07-31T17:11:00.000-04:00

Since Huma and I both went to Mount Holyoke, we have a special place in our heart reserved for students and alumnae of our alma mater as well as students and alumnae of other womens' colleges. The sisterhood exists, and it's powerful. Even if you didn't get to go to a womens' college, or if you are (or were) a guy, there is much wisdom, love, and humor in the commencement speech given by Suzan-Lori Parks to the graduating class of 2001, so I'm reposting it here. I really think that her advice is worth taking to heart and possibly even tacking it up somewhere you're likely to encounter it frequently. I used this as the inspiration for the "encouraging banner" I submitted to the fabulous interactive community art project Learning to Love You More, which you should check out if you haven't already. Here goes:

COMMENCEMENT SPEECH TO THE MOUNT HOLYOKE COLLEGE CLASS OF 2001
Held on May 27, 2001

Thank you, Graduating Class of 2001, Fellow Honorary Degree Recipients, Distinguished Administration and Faculty, Alumnae, Parents, Family and Friends, thank you all so much for inviting me to speak with you today. I graduated from Mount Holyoke in 1985. Here I am 16 years later. The learned faculty is seated there behind me, and so, before I get into the swing of things, I want to state that any grammatical errors, historical fabrications and inappropriate flights of fancy contained within the following speech are the sole responsibility of the Commencement Speaker and, if found objectionable, should in no way be viewed as an example of the caliber of education one would receive at Mount Holyoke College.

It is commencement and you all are commencing—you are beginning. Today is yr birthday. Its a sort of birthday for me too: this is my first honorary degree. Yr sitting there looking forward into me and Im standing here looking forward into you. I'll be yr mirror for a few minutes, if you'll be mine. All of us together, we are commencing. It is the beginning of things, its also the end of things and Ive brought along 16 SUGGESTIONS which may be of use—as you walk through the rest of yr lives.

Suggestions and Advice are funny things. In 1982 I took a creative writing class with James Baldwin. He suggested to me that I try playwrighting and I tried playwrighting and here I am today. That was some good advice. But it wasn't the best advice I ever got. The BEST advice I ever got was also the WORST advice any one ever gave me. In high school I had a very stern English teacher and one gloomy day she summoned me into her gloomy office. She knew I loved English and that I wanted to study literature and perhaps someday become a writer—"Don't study English," she said, "you haven't got the talent for it." What a horrible thing to say. What an excellent suggestion. It was an excellent suggestion because it forced me to think for myself. And that's my first suggestion for you.

SUGGESTION #1: CULTIVATE THE ABILITY TO THINK FOR YRSELF. When someone gives you advice, you lay their advice along side yr own thoughts and feelings, and if what they suggest jives with what you've got going on inside, then you follow their suggestion. ON THE OTHER HAND—there are lots of people out there who will suggest all kinds of stupid stuff for you to incorporate into your life. There are lots of people who will encourage you to stray from your hearts desire. Go ahead and let them speak their piece, and you may even want to give them a little smile depending on your mood, but if what they suggest does not jive with the thoughts and feelings that are already alive and growing beautifully inside you, then don't follow their suggestion. THINK for yrself, LISTEN to yr heart, TUNE IN to yr gut. These are just the things for which Mount Holyoke has educated you. You've all received an excellent education here and education, excellent education, is just a kind of ear training. That's all it really is—Inner Ear Training.

SUGGESTION #2: EMBRACE DISCIPLINE. Give yrself the opportunity to discover that discipline is just an extension of the love you have for yrself—discipline is not, as a lot of people think, some horrid exacting torturous self flagellating activity—Discipline is just an expression of Love—like the Disciples—they didn't follow Christ because they HAD TO.

SUGGESTION #3: PRACTICE PATIENCE. Whether you sit around like I do, working for that perfect word, or yr working toward a dream job, or wishing for a dreamy sweetheart. Things will come to you when yr ready to handle them—not before. Just keep walking yr road.

SUGGESTION #4; And as you walk yr road, as you live yr life, RELISH THE ROAD. And relish the fact that the road of yr life will probably be a windy road. Something like—the yellow brick road in the WIZARD OF OZ. You see the glory of OZ up ahead—but there are lots of twists and turns along the way—lots of tin men, lots of green women.

SUGGESTION #5: DEVELOP THE ART OF MAKING A SILK PURSE FROM A SOW'S EAR. Cause, you know, it aint whatcha got, it's how you work it.

SUGGESTION #6: For every 30 min of tv you watch, READ one poem outloud. For every work of literature you read, spend at least 30min in the mall, or in a mall equivalent such as Wal-Mart. This is cross-fertilization—a now-age form of crop rotation—a way to cross train yr spirit and keep interested in everything and not get too stuck in yr ways. Speaking of yr ways and yr way:

SUGGESTION #7: GET OUT OF YOUR WAY. You can spend yr life tripping on yrself, you can also spend yr life tripping yrself up. Get out of yr own way. Yr young, brilliant, and today is yr birthday. Yve got yr whole lives ahead of you and each of you will spend yr life doing some hing, or maybe a host of things. Don't just spend your life. SPLURGE

SUGGESTION #8: SPLURGE YR LIFE BY DOING SOMETHING YOU LOVE. My husband Paul is a musician. He says that the concept of talent is overrated because "talent" is really the gift of love. "Talent" happens when yr in love with something and you devote yr life to it and its yr love of it that makes you want to keep doing it, its yr love of it which helps you overcome the obstacles along the way, and its yr love of it that begets a talent for it.

SUGGESTIONS #9, 10, 11, 12, & 13: Eat Yr Vegetables, Floss Yr Teeth, Try Meditation, Get Some Exercise, & SHARPEN YR 7 SENSES: the basic 5 Senses + the 6th Sense: ESP & the 7th Sense which is yr sense of HUMOR. 16 years ago I sat where one of you is sitting now. The class of 1985 was graduating. And we were lucky as we had a great poet speaking to us. She was a great writer and an MHC alum. She was pretty and poised and she had such grace—so much grace that I sat there looking at her thinking that she looked more as if she had gone to Smith. Anyway it was sunny and we were all in black probably sweating a little and she spoke brilliantly and eloquently and to this day I have absolutely no memory of what she said. I don't remember one word of her brilliant commencement address - the address that launched the class of 1985. Not one word. I want you to catch my drift. I'm not saying our speaker was boring. I'm saying that I don't remember what she said. But I do remember some words that went through my head at the very moment our speakers words were passing by. It was a voice, coming from my gut, a voice coming from my heart and the voice said: "Ah, Suzan-Lori Parks, the next degree youre going to receive is an honorary degree from MHC." Yep I really said that to myself. And here I am today.

SUGGESTION #14: SAY "THANK YOU" at least once a week.

SUGGESTION #15: LOVE YRSELF. Why not.
16 years from now who will remember these words? Maybe no one. But maybe someone will. Maybe, from back in 1985, there is a classmate of mine who, to this day, remembers every word of our commencement address and this classmate repeats those words and they lighthouse her stormy days, maybe. Or if not a classmate remembering then maybe an alum if not an alum maybe a family member, maybe a parent, up there, gathered in the background having given so much, helping you get to this special day. Whether my words today will be remembered is not the issue because, you see, what Im saying to you right now isnt as important as what you are saying, right now, to yrselves.

SUGGESTION #16: BE BOLD. ENVISION YRSELF LIVING A LIFE THAT YOU LOVE. Believe, even if you can only muster yr faith for just this moment, believe that the sort of life you wish to live is, at this very moment, just waiting for you to summon it up. And when you wish for it, you begin moving toward it, and it, in turn, begins moving toward you.
As the great writer James Baldwin said: "Yr crown has been bought and paid for. All you have to do is put it on yr head."

THANK YOU

The Power of the Red Pumps

2007-07-30T15:57:00.000-04:00

Every woman should own a pair of red pumps! I was recently introduced to these magical creatures a few weeks ago when I went on a mini shopping spree for the first time in two years. It was completely impulsive and I probably wasted $100, but it was worth every penny. When I spotted them, it was like love at first sight. I tried them on and got a reaction like no other. Two older women yelled at me, “Those look fabulous! You have to get them.” The salesmen chimed in and told me how beautiful they looked. I didn’t know if the compliments were meant for me or the shoes, but I didn’t care. I felt sexy, beautiful, and confident. At that moment, my legs became my favorite show piece. I’ve always had hangups about my legs because I thought they were too big. They are big, but that is what makes them attractive. So why did it take 28 years and a pair of red heels for me to realize this?

Red has always been a powerful color in my life. It represents heat, passion and energy. As a child, I was drawn to fire and once burned my finger because I couldn’t contain my curiosity. This experience made me fearful of the color red. Once I realized the power and danger associated with red, I tried to stay away from it, but somehow I couldn’t. The color was there when I had my first bad accident and scraped my knee to the bone from a fall on the concrete. It hurt like hell, but I couldn’t stop looking at the deep, rich color of my blood. I was thankful to oxygen for giving it such a vibrant color. I felt quite exposed and vulnerable at that moment, and loved it. When we bleed we are releasing a small part of our lifeline to the universe, sharing our inner beauty and soul with the world; something that’s rarely done. I realized that instead of running from the color…from the electricity…from the power…from myself, it was time to embrace it.

The turning point in my love-hate relationship with red came in college. The colors of the sorority that I pledged were Crimson and Crème. This time, when red was forced upon me, I embraced it! I made a commitment to the color and wore it proudly. In this new context, it represented the leadership, confidence, and greatness of the thousands of women who came before me. It was then that I knew that red always had been and always would be a part of me. I rediscovered this when I tried on that pair of red heels. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I was transported to a magical place; one of confidence, self-love, and freedom. I was reminded once again that I am beautiful.

A pair of red pumps from Nordstrom: $100
The confidence to rediscover yourself: Priceless

Confidence and happiness are contagious. Spend time with the people, places, and things that make you happiest. Find your own confidence catalyst. For me it was a pair of red pumps. What’s yours?

Tanisha Drummer is an MBA student at the Stanford Graduate School of Business.

Can we please start a revolution?

2007-07-29T16:41:00.000-04:00

Why is it that more than half my female friends hate their bodies?
Perfectly muscular, uniquely fragile, or utterly stunning,
they all hate their bodies.
I am a culprit at times as well.

Can we please start a revolution?

Can we start loving ourselves, just the way we were created?
Can we look at ourselves in the mirror and see the strength
that has been given to us, as women?

We are mothers, daughters, sisters, lovers, friends, brokers,
bankers, teachers, firefighters, lawyers, thinkers, philosophers,
politicians, doctors, cooks....

We are beautiful and we need to love ourselves!

Including the love handles, including the stretch marks, including
the not-so-shiny hair, including the ultra-long legs, including the small
breasts,

Including all our imperfections.

And most importantly the imperfections that society and oversexed magazines
and all the noise around us have dumped on us.

I HAVE HAD ENOUGH, REALLY!

Can we please start a revolution?

Samjhauta Express (Reconciliation Express)

2007-07-28T14:22:00.000-04:00

My best friend Nadia sent me this poem, written by a Pakistani friend of hers, Afreina Noor. A train from Pakistan to India was burnt by activists in rage against peace talks between India and Pakistan, which deeply impacted her.

sixty years ago
there came home a train
all burnt and black
with carriages filled
of corpses mutilated
they were angry then
that we had broken off
they said we were a part of them
and we always would be
why then should we have a separate nation
they couldn't understand
today we sent a train
we named it Samjhauta Express
it was going back home
we were trying to re-establish ties
which we broke off sixty years ago
and for every one of those years
they paid us back
by burning alive sixty of us
sixty people
who had nothing to do with politics
innocent lives
prisoned in a moving, burning furnace
what was their crime
why did they have to pay
and with every life
they broke a home
they shattered childrens lives
incomplete
emotionally maimed
who will pay the price
for parents lost
for broken homes and hearts
for lives torn apart
when all we wanted was to be friends again
was it so great a crime?
and what about your own people
in their memories
how they tried to save a train full of burning people
won't your childrens nights be haunted
for the rest of their lives?
we paid then
and we are paying now
but we will not pay tomorrow
our children will not pay the price of our freedom
we will break through these barriers
we will not let this last
we will still cross borders
and you can keep your fires
burning in your hearts!

Afreina Noor
Pakistan, February 19, 2007

The 'F' Word - An Ongoing Debate

2007-07-20T15:26:00.000-04:00

I came across this article in the Valley Advocate last week and I find the question over the word 'feminist' fascinating, so let's discuss! Feel free to share your thoughts and comments...

Teaching and Learning the F Word

"I'm not a feminist."
In classes I teach, a female student invariably tosses this one into conversation, using the phrase to make sure that, despite what she is about to say, no one should think badly of her. And I have taught many different kinds of students, from a variety of backgrounds in a variety of settings. Still the same sentence:
"I am not a feminist."
The statement is always striking-- not only because students rarely come up with anything self-consciously radical in many classroom conversations, but also because the very fact of the student's presence, from her butt in the seat to her hand raised in the air, actually signifies feminism's ideal. In the moment of her declaration she is asserting her right to participation; she is making her voice heard. And that is important to feminism, no?
At the same time, she very likely has a point. True, she is making her voice heard, but she might also be concerned that her voice will be over-heard, in the sense that it will become overdetermined in its association with a discourse with which she is uncomfortable, or even concerned that her voice might be appropriated by that discourse. And I totally think she is right to feel that way. I know I do.
When discussing topics that reflect feminism's basic tenets, everyone generally is down with the program, as long as I don't give it a name. But if I call anything "feminism," almost all will turn away. And indeed, only very recently have I come to refer to things I do and say as specifically feminist, even though for years I have been teaching classes on women and power, come from a family of powerful, "I'll shoot your damn balls off if you cross me" women, and have generally held as gospel the notion that women are equal to (or better than most) men. But, to me, that wasn't feminism; that was just who I am. Sometimes I would call it womanism.
Backlash, or some bad PR for feminismBorn after ERA, the vision of "feminism" I grew up included unshaven legs, really bad fashion sense, and an "irrational" and mean-spirited hatred of men. I believed this even as, on the level of rights and the kinds of identities access to rights make possible, I had been afforded every opportunity feminism had made possible. And these opportunities were further enabled by a media apparatus that feminism had itself enabled, movies like 9 to 5, The Color Purple, and Thelma and Louise. My girlhood was heavily affected by such films, and even though I could today offer sophisticated critiques of each, I know that, in its moment, each film impacted my nascent womanself in positive ways. They contributed to a sense of self that I have absolutely been allowed to take for granted.
But, again: I have a sneaking suspicion that if you were to ask any of the film's protagonists if they are feminists, the answer would likely be "no." For in their cultural moments-- the late eighties into the late nineties-- feminism did not mean "sisterhood," or black, or any of the themes such films identify and celebrate. Now that I have a little bit more perspective on that era, however, I think that we can read this disjuncture between act (being a powerful woman) and its description (not feminism) as symptomatic of a wide-scale conspiracy to undercut the advancements made by women in the seventies.
Okay, maybe not. But I do see two things happening to feminism at once. The first involves feminism falling victim to a kind of backlash grounded in mainstream anxieties around the social transformations the seventies signified (we also see this in media representations of race in the same era). The second is a matter of feminism suffering from its failure to adequately recognize its own implication and participation in other kinds of social oppression, particularly vis-à-vis race and class. Feminism's inability to broaden its recognition of women's struggles forced the movement to close ranks around female difference as its signature difference. I don't blame the backlash on feminism, but this enclosure likely contributed to its reputation as a limited movement set against a limited term, men-- and not as a vital social movement with concerns against a broader term, patriarchy. In the popular imagination, feminism isn't against "oppression"; feminism is against men.
The problem of difference
A misrepresentation indeed, but feminism's problems-or rather my problem with it- isn't all about one big misunderstanding. That second thing, the failure to recognize diversity in female struggle, really hurts. Indeed, as I write this, I can't help but think about how a good portion of my identity as a woman of color has been constituted, ironically, against mainstream feminism-particularly after I came to feel that the black working class background that established my sense of difference from feminism was precisely the kind of identity mainstream/academic feminism imagined itself through. I found it tiresome and dispiriting. I became thoroughly displeased with what I saw as the production then appropriation of my alienation.
I remember sitting in a woman studies class as an undergrad, the only black student there, and it being announced that "everything Marisa says is very, very special" (wait: it is!). I remember taking another such class in graduate school, again the only black student. After gritting my teeth through a semester of smiling, white matriarchy, I received a B+, my only, and was told that they (it was team taught) were "disappointed" that, after a "stunning" presentation on race and bell hooks, I left "that line of inquiry" behind to do something "more unexpected but too classical" (a paper on gender and justice in The Oresteia). The kicker, of course, is that not only had I been judged for not performing as expected viz. race, but I had never done a presentation on bell hooks. That was my friend Mike, and he is white!
Needless to say, I declared myself done with feminism. Now, quite a few years later, I am back in the fold, but only because I have become comfortable with my reservations and my assertions thereof.
A final example: Upon being asked if she would identify herself as a feminist, Michelle Obama gave the following response:
"You know, I'm not that into labels," Obama said. "So probably, if you laid out a feminist agenda, I would probably agree with a large portion of it," she said. "I wouldn't identify as a feminist just like I probably wouldn't identify as a liberal or a progressive."
Like many of my female students, powerful and thinking hard about their futures, Michelle Obama here reduces feminism to a label. For much as many students probably aren't going to sit in class and (consciously) speak through what they imagine to be an exclusionary discourse, Obama's response is quick and diplomatic, acknowledging that she's down for women's rights, but also trying to dissociate from any perceived negative affiliation. Her response offers yet another way of thinking about why a class filled with women-- poster children for feminism and its achievements-- shun the term. "Feminism," it seems, has become tainted, resonating more as an -ism and less as a way of naming women's right to make choices for themselves, a right that has been hard won and is always at risk of slipping away.
There is danger in refusing to give woman-centered action a name. Michelle Obama is big and fancy, but in our daily lives such diplomacy puts us at risk for losing sight of our interests as women. After all, conceding important rights and concerns to those of others, in order to keep the peace? Now that's stereotype to look out for.
To end, I must admit that calling myself a feminist requires an uphill battle, a battle to nevertheless hold the trust of other women of color and also to set forth the terms through which I would like to be recognized by white feminism. I am still uncomfortable. But I have come to believe that this is a battle worth fighting, for the costs of not making connections across gender, race, and class are too high, and will likely be borne on the backs of the very women kept at a distance from the term's nascent power to force recognition, to make alliances. As I've said elsewhere, I might sometimes leave the term behind, but not the game.

Brain is the real source of 'girl power'

2007-07-15T03:10:00.000-04:00

Susan Jane Gilman wrote this article for the Los Angeles Times when I was in college, and I still have the newspaper cutting hanging on my wall.

Do young women care more about their bodies than their brains? Time Magazine recently answered "yes". In a cover story titled "Is feminism dead"? Time reported that young women today equate power with glamour and beauty. Said one 18-year old: "Girl power means you wear hot pants and a bra with some sequins on it."

Yet the very same week, another piece of news made quieter headlines. According to the Census Bureau, for the first time in history, more women than men ages 25-29 are earning college and graduate degrees. This level of education, the study found, enables women to earn at least 40 percent more than their high school educated peers. It also improves women's income dramatically more than men's.

And so, as girls head back to school, it's important to remind them that their brains, not a bustier, are the real source of "girl power."

No woman's beauty has ever outlived her, with the possible exception of Marilyn Monroe - and that's largely because Andy Warhol turned her face into wallpaper. And Monroe's image serves mostly as a hallmark of tragedy - a reminder that looks ultimately do not win women love, happiness or respect.

The women who have truly changed the world have done so because of their conviction and intellect. Jane Austen, Harriet Tubman, Marie Curie, Helen Keller, Indira Gandhi, even Oprah Winfrey - none of them made an impact because they were cute girls in hot pants. Millions of lives have been saved because Clara Barton founded the Red Cross. Margaret Sanger, who pioneered birth control, has done more than Madonna to liberate women sexually. Rosa Parks never made the cover of People Magazine, buy her impact on history is certainly greater than Jenny McCarthy's. As far as I know, Sojourner Truth never wore a sequined bikini. Nor, for that matter, did Joan of Arc or Golda Meir. Mother Teresa was not exactly a "10" in the looks department. Ditto for Eleanor Roosevelt, arguably the most important woman of the 20th century.

And while Camille Paglia may argue that beauty and sexuality are the greatest sources of women's power, her own influence was gained through academia, not the Miss America pageant.
Obviously, it's important for girls to be healthy and to feel good in their own skin. And there's just no getting around the fact that looks are still the premium form of currency in much of junior high and high school. Girls everywhere understand that beauty has the power to excite boys and men. But face it - so does a box of doughnuts. I want my younger sister to aspire to more than being a flavor-of-the-month - or a Spice.

The women of tomorrow need a reality check: Ultimately their brains, and not their bodies, have the capacity to enlighten and influence the world well into the next century. Why should they obsess about the shape of their legs when they can shape history? Real girl power lies between their ears.

Last Minute

2007-05-04T16:07:00.000-04:00

This poem was written by January O'Neil, author of Poet Mom (http://poetmom.blogspot.com/), a wonderful blog about poetry and writing. Ms. O'Neil is a verifiable sassy lady, a mom, and a fantastic writer to boot. I always enjoy reading her entries, and I especially loved this poem. Thanks, January, for allowing us to share it here!

Last Minute
Say nice sweater. Say I look beautiful.
Say the rain is a shadow inside my body.
Maybe you meant to say shallow. Maybe
I was mistaken. Maybe I was only thinking
about the rain and someone’s woolen voice
wrapped around me. Say I am an Amazon rainforest,
with a canopy of leaves protecting my understory.
Say the words so I can stretch them across my dry,
cracked body. Say that gravity is just the earth
pulling me back home. Tell me all of this
and I’ll tell you how I treaded
an ocean of indecision to get to this sweater,
its woven imperfections under the heavy layers of winter.
Tell me how lucky I am to recognize irony
as an element of beauty, that I chose something last minute,
because in real life that’s the only real minute we have.
Tell me I look like rain today.
Tell me I must be mistaken.

Women We Love #1: Julia Child

2007-05-04T12:10:00.000-04:00

Julia totally subverted the traditional idea of what it meant to be a 'housewife' - over six feet tall, strong-minded, and just a little endearingly 'off', she was one of a kind both in and out of the kitchen. And I love that she sent a Christmas card of her and her husband in the bath together, and that she referred to death as "slipping off of the raft". This woman had spunk and real spirit. I can imagine her throwing her head back and laughing loudly and with abandon at all the complexity and, ultimately, the utter simplicity of life.