The heritage that drives me.

In the last three weeks, I've been asked a dozen or so times why I care... why I care about the Shan... why I care about the victims of this genocide... why I care enough to move around the world to teach in a relatively remote location. Each time I've basically stumbled through this answer, mumbling something about the last time I was in Thailand and visiting a refugee camp and memories that stay in your head... etc.

But something absolutely fundamental is missed in this answer. Why do some memories stay forever in one's head? Why do some life experiences become the driving force of direction in one's life, while others pass away with only a gently nagging tug of guilt? It's not merely the idea of responding to the other in compassion, because I have seen suffering in many places around the world, including my own country. For me, it's this soul-sickening word called "genocide" that grips me.

You see, my response is fully rooted in the narrative into which I was born. Much literature has been written about the sense of guilt many children of the Jewish diaspora feel for surviving, for living, in light of the Holocaust and the pogroms of the 20th century in Europe. I have also witnessed the shame and guilt that is expressed in German culture over the Holocaust. As a product of American culture, where old world family histories do not determine new relationships, the memory of both types of guilt run deeply through my veins and perhaps more intensely than usual. It has always felt easier to claim solidarity with those that died (the distant Jewish relatives and the not so distant Bohemian relatives) than to recognize the ugly history of a few times removed cousin, who stood beside Hitler as one of his right hand men and directed the murder of millions. I am Bohemian, Jewish, and German (and by this I do not mean German Jewish, rather the relative a Nazi war criminal), and the histories of each have gripped me and caused me to wonder how it is that entire people groups can turn to hatred. It is what forces me to respond and to refuse to passively ignore genocide as it exists in this world.

I suppose this is not an easy answer to give when someone asks casually (as if any answer can be casual) why I care, and I will probably continue to mumble and stumble through in response, but here's the truth: I care, because the blood running through my veins dictates only two options in response to the face of genocide, either an actively compassionate response or a sickening hardening of heart. I choose the first.

Mud.

Today someone at the Partners staff meeting asked how the drive up to and back down from the camp was. This question greatly perplexed me, because I am not sure how to describe the drive.

Well, there's the first four hours from Chiang Mai to Pai, which are fine. Twisty but paved roads. Beautiful views. Fine really. Lovely even.

And then there's the last four hours, which apparently is only a 45 minute trip during the dry season. Only one word suffices here:

Mud.

Deep, deep red gooey mud. Not the kind of mud that feels nice to squeeze between your toes, but the kind of mud that if you step in, you will literally have strain your muscles to then pull your shoe (and foot) out of. Not the kind of mud that goes up to your ankle, but the kind of mud that swallows half your calf or more. Not the kind of mud that SUVs equipped with chains merely sink into and stop, but the kind of mud where you feel the truck slipping side to side as you get thrust around the back.

Mud on stunning mountain vistas.

Mud on slicing twists of road.

Totally obliterating mud sweeping across the road, reminding you of a recent mudslide.

Mud.

"Are you afraid to return to your village?"

I've learned a lot in the last week. I had no clue that I could begin learning a language, particularly a non-Germanic or tonal language so quickly (thankfully this one is closely related to Thai, which I had studied in the past). Yet I have found myself in those wonderful moments in which 25 or so "teachers" sat around me pointing to objects, telling me their names, correcting my tones, and repeating questions multiple times until I learned how to answer them correctly. I felt like a real linguist, trying to quickly scribble things down in IPA (International Phonetic Alphabet) until eventually the Shan alphabet began to unfold itself into consonants, vowels, and tones to me that actually made sense and which I could read. Don't get me wrong, I can only utter the most basic phrases, but this last week caused me to learn more and quicker than I ever imagined. In this regard, I give all the credit to my teachers, the young female community health worker and medic students at the clinic, who took me under their wing. These girls, valuing education highly, know how to study, and they know how to guide studying. They will go hours with me, without pause, studying, reviewing, laughing, and studying more. We've now entered the stage, where they will allow me to play games with them as part of my learning, but they never ease up on their intensity regarding my own learning of the Shan language. I cannot even begin to express my gratitude enough for these girls (most of them between the ages of 16 and 21). They look out for me, and because of them, I am learning to express myself in their language.

One particular lesson stands out to me however. I had previously learned the word "afraid," and they just taught me the words "return" and "village." I took a risk and attempted to ask them if they were afraid to return to their villages. I must have succeeded, because, without any hesitation, all four girls sitting around me nodded their heads. Then one girl (my closest friend of these girls) went a bit further and told me in Shan (and lots of hand motions) that she's not afraid if the Burmese military never knows she was here, but if they find out, they will shoot her. I asked them then if the military had ever attacked their villages, she drew a map and pointed to one dot which she told me was her village. She drew a line and wrote "3 miles" over it and connected it to another dot, which was another village. She then said that her village had not been attacked, but this other one had.

Every one of these girls intends to take their medical training back to their villages. I'm selfish and wish they were a little less brave so I would fear for my friends a little less.

I love food.

Finally I'm somewhere familiar. For the last five days, I've been wandering (or more often tagging along with others) through unfamiliar parts of Chiang Mai. Though so much of Chiang Mai contains extraordinarily vivid images in my mind, the part of the city that I've been staying in is utterly removed from those memories. Unfortunately, without an inborn sense of direction, I feared returning to the Chiang Mai University area, where I know my way, because I wouldn't be able to get back. However today, five days into my time here, I did it. I grabbed a tuk tuk and met with my friend from three years ago, Kratai, for lunch.

Not only was it nice to find myself in a part of town I knew and with a friend I'd not seen in a long time, but Kratai took me to her favorite restaurant and ordered the food. Perfect. I told her I would eat anything, so she went to town. Green mango salad. Spicy calamari salad. Pork neck with sweet chili sauce. Chicken som tum soup (a clear broth and lemongrass soup). Everything was spicy; everything was delicious. My tastebuds were alive with all the reasons I love this city.

It is true, I'm getting ready to leave this lovely town to head up to the refugee camp, and my eating will quite possibly change dramatically. But the thing is, at the end of the day, I can claim no great hardship, because I get to leave when I choose, and I get to come back to a city like this where a friend can order a feast, and still we both pay less than two and a half dollars. I can only be grateful that in my life I get a choice.

listening to the rain

I seem to sleep in 3 hour chunks right now. 4:30 PM to 7:30 PM (oops!). 11:30 PM to 2:30 AM. I'm not sure when the next sleep shift is coming, but it's hard to be upset to be awake right now when all around me outside I hear the sound of a soft rain on tin roofs everywhere. It's a beautiful sound. There's a light breeze carrying with it other wonderful smells of Chiang Mai into my room through the open windows, and in this sleepless moment, I am happy to be here and happy to be awake and able to store this moment in my memory.

Chiang Mai

First day in Chiang Mai: talk to Partners, attempt to read which turned into a 3 hour nap, pad thai, Quiz Night at the local Irish pub. Not a bad start.

Ramadan Mubarak!

Safely made it to my layover in Doha, where I'm very grateful the sun set shortly before we landed so I could freely drink water in public (during Ramadan). The Doha airport is also quite a pleasant layover airport--clean, relatively small, and clearly marked signs. Getting a whole row all to myself on the 14 hour flight here makes flying Qatar Airways something I will attempt every chance I get. I am rested and refreshed, ready for the next 7 hour flight.

Where I start and end...

I'm in DC, and tonight I get on a flight that will begin the journey to the Thai-Burma border.

Documents and anxiety...

Today is my final full day in North Carolina. It frightens me to think that tomorrow I load my suitcase into a car and drive with my parents to DC. Thankfully, nearly every new life experience (minus just a few) has started in DC for me, and the ritual will bring about its own calmness.

At the moment, however, I don't feel the calmness of my DC ritual. I keep staring at my duffel bag and thinking I've got too much stuff and thinking about weeding out still a little more. Then I run through my list of documents that I need on the airplane: Qatar Airways itinerary, Qmiles membership card... wait, what airline is it that I'm flying from Bangkok to Chiang Mai? My mind freezes and for a few horrible seconds I wonder if it's all in my head that I've even purchased a ticket from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Being stuck in Bangkok without any plans sounds horrid, but, good news, I'm flying Bangkok Airways. I will also need the paper with my membership to that airline's frequent flyer list. Additionally, I need the address of the couple I'm staying with when I get to Chiang Mai, and I should probably have the address of Partners. Oh, and my virtual insurance card. I definitely need to print that. Somehow, all of this makes me feel slightly anxious that I might forget any one of them and then reminds me that I'm not coming back, which scares me, even as I'm simultaneously so excited to be going.

Of course, there's also all the things I'd like to copy for my parents before I leave (passport, itinerary, vaccination records, etc.), and still all the other things I'd like to accomplish. For example, I'd really like to see my mom's new food blog set up and ready to go: Grandma's Gone Global (she's hasn't written anything yet, but I cannot imagine a better chef for a global food blog).

And then in that rare moment, when my thoughts are not focused on all that I must accomplish, I remember why I'm doing this. I'm going for people like this one:

Not So Different from Partners Relief & Development on Vimeo.

And these:

War Refugee from Partners Relief & Development on Vimeo.

The first video is of a Karen girl, and the next video is of a Kachin refugee camp, which are both different than the Shan, with whom I'll be working, but I cannot find a better way to explain why I'm going, because all three groups have been victims of the same military regime. And when I remember these, I feel strangely very focused, and all anxiety about the details of this document or that falls away in light of the purpose of going.

Journey without an end date...

In the last few days I have most undoubtedly begun procrastinating the very final touches that would allow me to zip up my bags and call them packed. It's not that I am any less excited to go, because I am excited... but... there's something final in those last actions that reminds that this time I do not know when I'll return. In five days I get on an airplane and fly to Thailand. This time my itinerary doesn't have "round trip" checked in the little box, and there's not a return ticket saved somewhere in cyberspace. For once I am not planning with an end date looming.

I've lived a rather nomadic life for the last eight years, and each experience has always come with a specified amount of time and commitment. I've welcomed those end dates, knowing that I could plan based on them. Paging - 9 mos. Germany - 11 mos. College - 4 years. Egypt - 4 mos. Thailand (the first time) - 4 mos. Teach for America - 2 years. During this time, I've lived with 35 different people, and each housing/rooming experience likewise had a start and end date, sometimes a fact I mourned and other times a fact I hung onto.

One distinctive part of my life has, therefore, necessarily become planning for the "thing after this thing." On the one hand, I have a real strength for long-term planning and casting vision. On the other hand, my futuristic dreams have also pulled me away at times from the present moment. Sometimes I wanted that and admittedly used the future as an escape, and sometimes that's just how life worked, because I had some application or resume to work on.

But now: Thailand (the second time) - indefinite.

So here's to the present and living life, for a little while, without leaning on my knowledge of what comes next. :)

Who loses under sanctions?

Sanctions have always been one of those tricky subjects. In my mind, there has to be a place for the tools of soft diplomacy... and, yet, what do economic sanctions actually accomplish?

Today I stumbled across this article from the Financial Times, titled "How sanctions made Burma's richest man." Referring to a man too close to the Burmese government for American interests, it describes,

"European and US nationals are banned from doing business with him – and his estranged wife, oldest son, mother, brother or sister-in-law. Yet his wine cellar is stocked with a series of vintages from Chateaux Petrus and Margaux, while a Rolls-Royce and a Lamborghini stand next to the Ferrari. His palatial Rangoon home sits down the street from the dilapidated villa where Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi spent more than 15 years under house arrest."

If only the powerful, well-connected, and government officials have continued to be able to profit while under sanctions, one can't help but wonder who are they hurting? Is it just those who would have made up a middle class through trade and foreign exchange?

I am neither for nor against the sanctions, because I do not have the economic background to really examine whether they are successfully impacting the intended individuals, but articles like this one make me nervous and frustrated. I want there to be some sort of soft diplomacy magic pill that puts all the right pressure on regimes that abuse their people.

What if I had never been a Page?

When I was 16, I left home to travel to DC and spend my junior year of high school working for Congress as a U.S. House of Representatives Page. During this time I attended school from 6:45 AM to an hour before Congress went into session or 11:30 AM at the latest. I frequently worked late nights, often after midnight, and when I didn't, I still had homework to do until midnight and then got up at 5am the next day. I was exhausted all the time, and yet I consider it the best choice I ever made, and I know I would not be who I am today, were it not for the Page Program. I learned discipline there, in a way I could not have learned anywhere else, and a passion was lit in me for people and places that I never imagined. Sadly, yesterday the Speaker of the House, John Boehner (R-Ohio), announced the ending of the Page Progam, a 235 year tradition, due to the prohibitive costs. I cannot tell you the travesty this is for all the young high schoolers of every economic background that the program accepts and gives the opportunity of a lifetime to. In fact, I cannot tell you the travesty this is for the country who gains far more than the annual $5 million it pays to run the program from the kinds of individuals that the program produces.

For me, Paging snowballed into a series of events that fundamentally changed my life direction for infinitely better. So, in light of that, and in honor of the program that this country should truly grieve, I ask what if I had never been a page? If I had never been a Page, then I, who entered with a desire to go into medicine, would never have encountered the hard questions that eventually led me into the humanities. I would never have known a self-proclaimed communist friend or a socialist government teacher. I would have maintained a black-and-white view that such ideas lacked no merit or logic, rather than see them in a three dimensional understanding. I would also have not met a gay friend until sometime in college and probably would have been still firmer in my black-and-white stance on that one, showing little understanding and finding no need to address the issue. I would also not have encountered the feelings of facing beggars on a daily basis and trying to juggle compassionate and sustainable responses. I wouldn't have met a man on the streets from my hometown and realized how quickly one's privilege can disappear in a few short bad choices or bad luck. I would today be far less of a compassionate individual than I am, and I would not have met my dearest friend, Mike, who has walked with me through all of life's twists and turns and challenged me into being a better me. In short, my views would not have been stretched, and I would have remained fully enmeshed in a conservative, evangelical subculture without any opportunity to see the greater world or understand another perspective.

Moreover, I certainly would not have ever learned of the Congress-Bundestag Youth Exchange, so I would never have gone to Germany on a full scholarship. I would never have become fluent in a second language, meaning my brain would be far less developed and I would be culturally less understanding. I would not have developed a deeper compassion for immigrants into America or some understanding of minority-hood. I probably would not have paid so much attention to racism in the church in America, and I would not have gotten involved in groups to help compassionately bring understanding of white privilege in college. I would also not have met my German friend, Judith, who grew up in Egypt and challenged my biases about Arabs. I wouldn't have experienced those conversations or have been nearly as open to the possibility of one day traveling to Egypt myself, having only a very negative stereotypical (and racist) view of that part of the world. I wouldn't have experienced my German family or friends, who taught me what real cultural immersion meant and have proven to me that true immersion is possible and not a frightening thing to be avoided. I wouldn't have been nearly as courageous about travel later.

Of course, not having been a Page and not having gone to Germany, I would not have looked nearly as impressive on college applications either. I would likely have continued through my last two years of high school taking classes at the community college. Even with strong SAT scores, I would not have been so exciting for the College Honors Program at Messiah College and probably would not have gotten a 60% scholarship. Being surrounded by North Carolinians, who all went to state schools, I would likely have done the same and attended school in Chapel Hill, because it was more affordable. I would have found myself involved campus ministries that affirmed my faith, but I would not have had theology classes that gave me the space to question everything or forced me to ask myself if my faith had become more American than loving. I probably would have kept God in my religious, evangelical box.

Of course, having stayed at the community college throughout high school, I would have had only two years of college left and would not have had time to study abroad. I would not have ever participated in the Middle East Studies Program, traveling to Egypt, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, and Israel, and the Arab Spring that occurred this past spring would have meant nothing to me, save for how it affected my sister's security. I would also not have gone to Thailand, because, even if a program was offered at the state school of my choice and I had the time to participate, it would have been far too exotic for a first-time overseas experience. I might have studied in a place like England, where I wouldn't been really forced so much to face the fact that people of deep faith commitments practice different religions than me. I wouldn't have noticed how much I respected certain faith leaders, regardless of religion, and how much others disgusted me--that this fact remained as true for other religions as for Christianity. Most definitely, I would not have ever made it to a refugee camp on the Thai-Burma border, where a long-term commitment would form for the victims of the Burmese regime.

And Teach for America? Well, at that point, I would have been just an ordinary student with an ordinary educational background. Perhaps I would have been very successful in my couple years of college, and perhaps I would have taken a couple leadership positions that would have made me stand out in the areas that mattered most to Teach for America. Perhaps I would have had a chance of acceptance, but, most likely, I would never have developed a passion or deep interest in alleviating the achievement gap formed out of my own privilege, so I probably wouldn't have even applied and would probably be finishing up medical school or something like that right now. I would not have met Kalanda or Braylen or Coddie or Travis or Lederricka or Camisha or Trevis or Chris or Crystal or so many other students who fundamentally changed my approach towards youth. I wouldn't know now about loving others, regardless of the returned sentiment. I wouldn't know how to lead or manage the way I learned in controlling my classroom.

I would not be a teacher. I would not have found this calling, and I would not have given back to society in that way or be about to head over to the Thai-Burma border as a teacher. Perhaps I would plan on doing medical missions one day, but probably those would be distant dreams. I would be leading a good life, even a compassionate life, but my world would be small, and I would not know the kind of deep caring that I have discovered in far away places.

I will never put a price tag on what the Page Program gave me or any of the other thousands of students who had the opportunity to serve in DC under its auspices. We are who we are because of this opportunity. I am so grateful and so deeply grieved that future students will never have this opportunity again. Ending it simply does not make good economic sense, for we will always give back more than we received in mere dollar amounts.

Remembering 8888

Today is the 23rd anniversary of the 8888 (as in August 8, 1988) student protests in Burma. Students and citizens of all walks of life (monks, lawyers, farmers, etc.) desiring democracy successfully toppled three consecutive dictatorships in 31 days. Protests continued every single day all over the country on into September. On September 18, 1988 General Saw Maung retook control of the country, leading to the deaths of an estimated 1,500 students, monks, and schoolchildren in the first week of power. Five hundred of those were slaughtered in front of the US Embassy, as protesters appealed to the US and UN to take a stand. In all, it is estimated that 10,000 individuals died during the protests and unrest.

Today I honor the dreams of the protesters of 8888. I hope for the day when Burmese citizens will see the dreams of 8888 fulfilled. I pray for the citizens of all democracy movements, such as we see with this year's Arab Spring, to see success more immediately than Burmese citizens have yet felt. Most of all, I hold onto hope, for I truly believe "the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice" (MLK).

Remember 8888.

August has arrived

I bought my ticket to Thailand back in January. At the time, I remember thinking how long I had before August would come, and it was true. I still had left 1/2 a year of teaching (a whole 1/4 of my TFA experience). I needed to focus on my Louisianan students and be present for them. I had to also tell them I wouldn't be coming back and tell them that I loved them.

Those months have soared past, and August has finally arrived. In 22 short days, I board an airplane to Doha, from there I take an airplane to Bangkok, and finally an airplane to Chiang Mai, where I will spend a few days before heading to the border.

People have lately been asking "How do you feel about leaving?" It's really a strange sort of question. Truthfully, I'm in action mode. At the beginning of the summer, I was in reflection mode and felt a lot of different things, but now it's action time. I have tie up all loose ends, buy any last minute items (ziploc bags!), and pack it up. Mostly, I guess I just feel ready. I've been preparing, and it's time to go. But, yes, I will miss people, and, yes, my parents are sad to have both their daughters so far away. Please comfort them if you see them. These are the questions asked most often, but the other side of it is also, yes, it's time for August to be here.

the painful stuff

Today requires a discussion of some tough stuff. My thoughts and prayers remain with Norway, as they weather one of the world's deadliest shooting sprees and a bombing ("Scores Killed in Norway Attacks"). The evil behind the extreme right wing efforts that led to this shooting breaks my heart. God help the victims.

Unfortunately, Norway has not been the only country to be in the news for very depressing reasons this week. As many of you know, I am going to be living and working among the Shan, an ethnic group on the Thai-Burma border. I will be teaching English to displaced youth and adults on the border. According to the Voice of America, Maj Gen Aung Than Tut, the man responsible for all Burmese military operations in the Shan state has given the command to kill all men and rape all women while in conflict with the Shans. I encourage you strongly to read "Burma Army's War against Shan: License to Rape plus License to Commit Genocide?".

The organization with whom I will be serving has also published a report ("Report on Shan IDP Situation") regarding the situation and their response, which may be of interest.

Before I finish, I must admit that I hesitate to publish these links. For all of us, it is so easy to become paralyzed in the face of unimaginable evil. We see the news about Norway, and we read about what is happening to the Shan and many other ethnic groups in Burma. It's all too much. If my words cause this emotion in you, then I will have done wrong in publishing today's links. The reality remains that evil acts occur in the world, and I believe we should remain educated on them so that we can see opportunities to make a difference when they come. However, for the vast majority of the world, on an individual basis, there is a minimal amount that can be done in response to repeatedly negative news coverage, and that can cause a level of callousness to distant pain to develop. However, I believe when we approach the news this way, we miss the opportunities that are in front of us. Many of us confront in a minor way at least the racism and/or messed up thinking that becomes the roots for the kind of attacks that happened in Norway. Do not be silent. When religion becomes an excuse for racism and fascism, confront it lovingly. When it comes to Burma, it may be harder to see action around, but an educated populace about a situation like that of the displaced persons is a very powerful thing. Talk about it. If refugees are in your community, reach out to them. Be educated, though, because unexpected doors occasionally open. Just do not become frozen in despair.

My prayers are with the victims of terror and brutality today and also with every person looking on the terror and brutality and trying to figure out how to respond.

Betty

Many of you who know me know that I have always enjoyed spending time with those in the last quarter of their lives. I have even considered what a great summer job being a senior citizen bus tour guide would make. When it comes to my use of CouchSurfing.org, I make no excuses for the fact that most of my hosts belong to the 50+ crowd, and I thoroughly enjoy that fact. I think I am more likely to forgive a person's occasional rudeness if they happen to be over the age of 70 (probably due to some early training in respecting my elders), though certainly some individuals make it easier than others. I also get my own personal exhilaration from making the quiet elder chuckle. The excitement level triples if there exists a significant language barrier or the elderly person involved has a speech impediment. After all, communication challenges provide a strange sort of vibrancy to life... I never liked the easy problems in school.

However, this week I have met someone who reminds me of what aging can look like for all of us, and I pray that when I am 83 I have the spirit and sweetness of this woman. Partially, she's had a few lucky breaks, because she remains very healthy and alert, though she will also remind you that though good genes have played their role, she goes to the gym to exercise three times a week still. Yet it's not Betty's physical health that causes you to suspect that Betty is in fact only 50 or 60. She's got spirit and spunk. It's not the kind though that some people develop as they age that borders on rudeness and runs all over people because aging causes a loss of inhibitions. No, Betty is graceful, tactful, and not afraid to politely disagree at the right moments. If her son is discussing some expensive purchase, looking at Betty will reveal her rolled eyes--as if she were were 23, not 83. If someone tells her what to do, she will inform you that nobody has ever successfully told her what to do, so it's best not to start.

Betty also carries the ability to artfully tell stories of the past from decades we all wish we could remember. Of course, everybody has known the story tellers that forget the present and fall into distant monologues with unconnected details and little to no beginning or end. With those story tellers, we eventually excuse ourselves as we walk off trying to figure out what the story was all about. This is not Betty. She knows the present moment and knows which story or snippet applies, and she tells them the way a 30 year old would tell a story from 3 or 4 years ago. She can talk about living all over the world, as well as growing up in Oklahoma, or getting engaged in Wilmington, NC. When Betty jokes with the others in the crowd or lightly teases her son, it is not hard to still see in her the 20-something that has in no way disappeared from her countenance. I suspect the only frustration is that others do not expect this from her. They expect her to act old and decrepit, and these words are entirely wrong for Betty.

For those of us, who have a long ways to go and are still consciously and unconsciously making the choices that determine whether or not we age as gracefully, here is to reading challenging books that keep our minds alive and exercising rigorously to keep our limbs active. Here is to aging better than a fine red wine in an oak barrel. Here is to those that have already made their choices and made the right choices, clearly, to the delight of all of us.

hope

Right now I'm relishing the cool, warm sensation of resting indoors after hours of sun, wind, and waves at Oak Island. I've been reading good books and quietly enjoying the conversations of my mom's friends--frequently reminded of how young I am. My mind soars during times like these, and I think of all that could be. I suppose that's why we all need "vacation" time--to free our minds up from what is to open it to the winds of what might be one day.

There of course have also been conversations of justice. We've discussed human trafficking and the problem that exists in America and the rest of the world. We've discussed the criminal justice system and the death penalty. We've discussed Burma and refugees. Everyone wants to know every detail I can provide about where I am going and what I'll be doing (these are the adults that watched me grow up). They especially care about knowing why I am going into this particular situation. To answer their questions, I must paint a picture of the current moment--a frequently frustrating picture of injustice.

But still the waves beat another song of what might be someday...

That is the song that we all live to be a part of--maybe not all in Burma, but in the situations that surround us. We must go on believe that "what is" is not the final answer.

my Louisianan students

I did not appreciate my students enough the last two years. Oh, I suppose it's all quite cliche to make a statement after the fact, but what I'm trying to say is actually more important than the cliches. Sometimes I became so overwhelmed by the experience, by a very real experience that could also be terrifying at times, that I survived on only my time away from work. That was wrong.

I went into Teach for America and into my position specifically, because I believed every child deserved an excellent education, and I still believe that. Yet today, in reflection, I have become overwhelmed with the truth of my frequent attitude. I forgot to repeat to myself and to my students how much I loved them often enough. I let violent threats and assaults control my emotions and my attitude. I was wrong for that.

My students deserved better. My students were fantastic kids who have the real potential to not just do well, but also to impact the world for good. When I let a threat shake me up or when I became overwhelmed by the facts of my school, I did not make the best choice for my students. I, of all people, needed to be their best advocate. I loved my students, and I still love them with my whole heart. My students can succeed. My students have a chance at a good life. My students will be productive citizens.

Yet these mantras do not simply become true by saying them after the fact. I am not confident that I convinced my students of them always, because I escaped emotionally. I learned something about burnout this last year. Its risk is the greatest when you attempt to escape it the most. I did not face the emotions. I did not take time to meditate and pray. I ran. I watched TV. I surfed the internet. I tried not to think about school or the overwhelming grief I felt over what I watched my students experience and do to each other. In doing so, I prevented myself from appreciating them fully. I certainly developed thicker skin, but it was the wrong sort--the type that is cold and distant. I'm not saying that I was this person all the time, and I think most of my students did in fact know another version of me (a kinder, warmer version), but I regret how often I did distance myself from the pain of the situation. I regret that I did not appreciate their young lives and youthful expressions of the image of God everyday. I regret that I ever feared them even for one second. In my fear, I held back a bit of the love that they so desperately needed.

Rosenwald Elementary is getting a new principal this year, and the school will be receiving a significant shake up. I pray for the absolute best for Rosenwald. This is the year for turning things around and showing the community what an excellent education can mean. This is the year for determining that our students have the potential to reach for the highest positions in American society. Rosenwald, I wish you all the best, even as I will not be there for this part of the journey. Most importantly though, Rosenwald teachers and all teachers who find themselves in the particularly challenging schools in this country, I wish for you the deepest and most profound appreciation of your students, no matter what. Cultivate it, because your students so desperately need your appreciation.

As for myself, I am committed to growing in this area. Escape is not a mechanism I want to embrace.

church

I'm choosing to be bold today, despite a few inner qualms. I've decided, given that it's Sunday, to post today about what I did not do. I suppose I've thus far envisioned this blog as mostly a means of allowing people to follow along with the things that I see and think about as I move to the Thai-Burma border. However, since I've already entertained a few off-subject posts (and will likely continue to do so), this one may be permissible. You see, there's something I really want to say and get off my chest. It's something I'm generally afraid of saying, because I'm afraid of people's reactions, but I want to be honest about it this time.

Today I did not go to church. In fact, I was trying to remember the last time I went to a church service. Despite a very real, persistent, and honest faith, I'm afraid I cannot even claim to be a holiday church goer. Perhaps the last time I attended a "church" service (that is, a service that would have self-claimed such a distinction) would have been about a year ago when I visited my German family and that having been the first time again for several months. I rather imagine my readers, confused by my directness and openness, will likely miss the sadness in these words. Yet, to be clear, there is something I miss.

So here's the truth: I have not belonged to a church for five years. FIVE years. Half a decade. While for some readers who have never attended church, this seems a minor thing, to a person who grew up faithfully in the church (generally 2-3 times a week), half a decade is quite notable. And, honestly, I have made far less efforts to place myself back in one then I usually try to let on. When talking to others, I generally emphasize that I've been out of church for the last TWO years while living in rural Louisiana. And I mention how in college I attended a Christian college, where I was surrounded by Christian community. I also discuss all the many different churches and types of churches I visited during those college years. I seem so afraid of people knowing the truth about my absence in church. I almost never really use the number FIVE. It's like if I say five years, then I will have to relive in my mind all the events that unfurled five years ago that left me without a church. I'll have to remember why applications that asked for a pastor's reference reopened old wounds, because I simply did not know who to ask. Yet, that fear reduces the ongoing choice I've made to a single series of events, over which I had no control. This is not that. I've made my choices, and I've not chosen to wander into just any old church and commit to regular attendance.

So fact: churches are messy. Also fact: what we call churches are not the only expression of the Body of Christ. I'm trying to start something new by being open and honest about where I come from and how long I've been on this journey. And I am on a journey. God continues to woo me, and through the events that propelled me from the safe place I had grown up under, the image of God that I see is so much greater (and kinder) than ever before. I've come to experience the corporate silence of an unplanned Quaker meeting and the beauty of global unity in the scripted prayers of the liturgical churches. But, at the end of the day, I think this journey has truly been about dropping the religious baggage of my past and keeping my eyes open for other ways in which the Body of Christ lives and breathes. We exist in game nights in which we encourage the friend in despair, we exist in listening ears to the friend in love, and we exist in service to each other and others. This can happen in existing church institutions, but we are not limited to there, and, in fact, the institutions of church that we have imagined may even be fatally flawed. So, in hopes of spreading the desire to think outside of the box, I am choosing to be honest from this day forward: I haven't belonged to a church in five years.

I say this even as I intend to absolutely plug myself into church community in Chiang Mai next year, because I will need those individuals. But I'm going to do it differently this time. I will not ever worship the institution again (and I fear my former loyalty to my old church bordered on such at times), and I will recognize Church everywhere it occurs: in conversations, relationships, meals, and service. In fact, as this Sunday comes to an end, while I cannot say that I would wish for the events of the past to have occurred, I can say that I am grateful for the gap away from church, forcing me to face my own religious/evangelical upbringing, personal arrogance, and narrow vision of God. This is a road that I must continue down. Yet, I know I am not alone in this experience, and it is my prayer that each of us on this journey gains the courage to be more open and together to think through new (and old) ways of expressing the Body of Christ to each other and the rest of the world. On that note, have a happy Sunday!

I've just spent the last week hosting two dear friends from college: one my roommate my senior year and the other her sister. As they drove off a few minutes ago, I realized how different goodbyes are now than usual. Fact: I'm leaving the country. I am so grateful for how relatively easy visits have been for the last two years. It's so much harder knowing how very difficult and expensive any future visits will be. In reality, most of the people that I know and love I will not likely see for many years.

These are the moments when I have to steel myself for what I am choosing to do. These are the days when I imagine the other life I could make for myself: the comfortable one. I could teach or go to grad school somewhere near where so many of my other friends have settled, like DC. I could be in an urban setting, able to attend a place of worship that I really understand and get. I could have lots of young, like-minded individuals around me, as well as the ones who consistently challenge me. I could go hiking with others, without worrying about land mines. I could have the life of a young, single 20-something.

Sometimes, though, we have to act in a big way on the things we care most about. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering why I did nothing. I am willing to give that life up for the simple reason that I get to choose it. I suppose I believe there is a beauty to be found in joining someone else in the middle of their suffering and taking on challenges that are not our own. In the end, I do not believe I am missing out, but I am aware of the experiences that are part of most young people's collective memory that I will never fully understand. I am okay with that.

Here is are a few words I have spent a lot of time dwelling on lately:

⁶ “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?
⁷ Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe them,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
⁸ Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness^[a] will go before you,
and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.
⁹ Then you will call, and the LORD will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.

“If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
¹⁰ and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
¹¹ The LORD will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
¹² Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

-Isaiah 58