Lessons from Angelo: Learning to Fly

Lessons from Angelo

Angelo lived in a tree house. Not the kind that you had to climb a ladder into with sheets as  windows and you camp out with your friends on warm summer nights that are filled with buzzing fire flies. Not the kind with the safety of going inside if you get too scared, but a real tree house. The kitchen and bathroom were built around the trunk and up the stairs off a deck and built into the branches was a bedroom. Small and simple, but a well loved and unique hide away.

In the gazebo that was nestled below the hanging branches and over a pond, the embers glowed from the grill that would cook our dinner of clams and Thai BBQ. Amidst the friendly hula hoop contests, clanging bottles of beer Chang and Sangsum, the live classic rock strum from guitars of relaxed boys in hammocks. Someone would then start the singing of Radio Head and The Eagles and this is how it went until the early morning hours.

This is what I think of when I think of Thailand. Music. Whether it’s on the beach with the pink dolphins as an audience and the waves keeping tempo, to a simple western style living room. This is what defined us. And it fit Angelo, as did his tree house.

Angelo was a tree. His trunk planted firmly in the ground in the knowledge of his identity, his life, his loves and his beliefs. In the word “REVOLUTION” that was permanently inked diagonally across his entire torso. In his firm stubborn affirmation that the Bears would ALWAYS beat the Vikings…always.

His arms had the wingspan of an eagle, like branches they stretched out to the world. Showing love and acceptance to all he encountered. At times it seemed Angelo had hundreds of arms, as a tree has branches. The sun was his life source and I often picture Angelo, arms spread wide to the sky, eyes closed to the heavens, smiling as the sun beams its warmth into his body and fills him to the brim.

Angelo encompasses the concept of “risk” perfectly. There is a saying that if you fail to take risks, your life will deteriorate. This can be seen in the athletic world. If an athlete fails to take risks, to step to the next level, his body will deteriorate. If a student fails to take risks of challenging themselves academically to the next level, their brain will deteriorate. My grandmother, even into her 90’s, never watched TV, she only did crosswords and read books because she was always pushing herself, taking the risk of the next level mentally. She had her mind complete when her health failed her.

This can be seen of Angelo as well. Angelo would always pick play fights and make bets. Angelo would challenge authority with a respectful tact. Angelo would never hesitate to ask questions of every single person he came into contact with, just so he could learn more.

I remember when I was finishing my lunch in the cafeteria and talking to a couple colleagues, Angelo came and sat right across from me and with a chicken BBQ lined mouth interrupted with a, “so human trafficking, huh?” It was something he didn’t know much about, but he knew I did. So to challenge himself and take a risk, he asked to learn more.

There are other more complex aspects of risks and challenges that we can learn from the life of Angelo. That is the risk to live without fear. So often in life we have grand ideas, big plans for adventure. Yet somewhere along the way, someone reminds us of this little thing called “safety.” In the western world, this is something that consumes us. Bike helmets, rounded playgrounds,side airbags, the list goes on and on.

We forget then the risk that we were so excited about, the one that made us come alive, and in turn we go back to our complacent life. But a complacent life without risk leads to stagnancy and deterioration, not growth. How will you ever know if you can fly, unless you take the risk and try. We will never know our full potential, what we are capable of, or the type of impact we can have on the world, unless we try. I’m sure mother Theresa has thought about the safety issues that concern the work she did in the red light districts, the orphanages, and the leper colonies, but she took that risk, and changed the world simply by being present where others wouldn’t. Where others told her it was “unsafe.”

In my time in Thailand, everyone took risks. It was a risk to simply walk to school and hope to not get hit by a motorcycle. It was a risk to cross a rickety old bridge made of uneven twigs elevated on nothing but large jagged rocks. It was a risk to eat. It was a risk for me to go into nightclubs and form relationships with the bar girls, and it was a risk to play with the street kids while they were supposed to be selling flowers to support their parents alcohol addiction at 2am. Yet these were all risks that everyone was willing to take in order to push themselves, to search for something bigger, to see if they could fly.

The childlike risk that the street children took in order to be a kid and have the freedom to play was embodied daily by Angelo.  Angelo was taking a risk the day he climbed the steep jungle path to make it to the top tier of the waterfall. I can picture his reaction as he slipped and plummeted down the rocky waterfall was not that of fear, but that of adventure. And I know for a fact that Angelo would not have regretted the risk he took that day. For in that risk, he learned to fly. Canon T3i 18.0MP Digital SLR Camera with 18-55mm IS Lens - Digital (Google Affiliate Ad)

It's time we all embraced risk and learned to fly.

Human Trafficking Awareness Month

This past month has been declared by Obama to be Human Trafficking Awareness Month. This raises the question of how aware we really are. I am a firm believer that the first step to change in any situation, is to become aware that it is a problem, and that there is a logical and plausible solution. While some people take this knowledge and create radical change in the world, others simply shove it to the back of the files in their brain as if it doesn’t affect them. Out of sight, out of mind.

Human trafficking is a $32 billion dollar industry, the fasted growing criminal enterprise in the world, and the only reason it exists is because there is a demand for it. Not only abroad in those third world developing nations that are ravaged by war, famine and corruption, but here in the United States, here in my hometown, here at my job.

What exactly is Human Trafficking? It is slavery, Plain and simple, People doing work that is forced, undesirable, for little or no pay. It’s often glamorized by Hollywood as being an industry that is run by mob bosses who want to get rich quick, and while this is true, it is not the most realistic scenario. While some people are tricked or kidnapped into the industry, others go willingly, thinking they will easily be able to pay the debt, and their family, who knows exactly where their child is going for the sake of immediate economic gain, sells some. This one being sold is referred to as, “the sacrificial lamb.” Often times the victim knows their fate, but knowingly accepts it for a variety of reasons, depending on the region of the world and religion. And traffickers aren’t always mob bosses.

The truth is, anyone could be a trafficker. The boy who sits next to you in Algebra, the mother next door, the mayor, your boyfriend who seems like he’s the “sweetest guy in the world.” Along with anyone being a trafficker, anyone could be trafficked. Unlike slavery of the past, this modern form does not discriminate on race, gender, age, or socio-economic standing. And it doesn’t only include forced prostitution, which by the way, the overwhelming majority of prostituted individuals and strippers did not start out doing that “career” willingly. Trafficking can be anything from prostitution, stripping, bonded labor, the people who mine your diamonds, the people who catch your shrimp, the people who harvest your cocoa, the materials in your laptop, phone, or iPad, child soldiers, sometimes even wives, the list goes on and on. Slavery is everywhere in everyone’s lives.

Being a teacher, I come across various victims of trafficking quite often. Students tell me stories about their past, their family, or things that have happened to them here in the United States, and it shocks me that people don’t care more about this issue, as it does in fact “affect you.” These people who are trafficked are somebody’s daughters, somebody’s sons, somebody’s sisters or brother, somebody’s cousin, or like me, somebody’s students.

I could spit out a bunch of facts and numbers that are appalling and disturbing, I could tell you stories of first hand accounts, and stories that have been passed through organizations of those victims who were lucky enough to be rescued, but instead I will leave you with a poem that was written by a student of mine, right here in Minnesota.

The assignment was to write about the most significant thing that happened in your life

And before he even thought about it, he furiously slammed his pencil to paper, writing so fast that smoke emitted from where the lead pushed on the crisp lines

His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth in concentration and the pencil flew

And in his broken English he wrote:

These hands show the scars of many lives

Lives taken and one given back

For you see these burns like gloves

And I see my life in flashback

A village burned, a family mourned,

A blunt force, and broken dreams

A boy cries, a girl dies,

A woman in the distance screams

I see these rings around my wrist and remember being captured

These men that burned my village,

Also tortured,

Murdered,

Battered

I see a pinch from an AK47 that in 30 minutes I learned to master at the age of eight,

For it was be killed,

Or go faster

And then one day I ran,

That’s where the story changes

For now these hands, these burns, these scars don’t mean regret, but second chances

Of a life long past but not forgotten,

 Of redemption earned,

Of freedom gotten

For the first time in my life, I get to go to school,

I eat I laugh I play.

I don’t worry if someone will kill me,

 I have a home at the end of the day.

for more information on Human Trafficking, the signs, or how you can help, here is a list of websites that can help you:

http://www.notforsalecampaign.org

http://www.state.gov/j/tip/rls/tiprpt/

http://Love146.org 

http://www.polarisproject.org

http://www.ijm.org

 

Burma

 After a few month hiatus of the blog, I finally found some time to transfer. (I have a more “permanent” job and I work about 72 hours a week so it’s hard to find the time to post when I would rather be sleeping). Anyway, on to Burma.

Burma (Myanmar, but I shall call it Burma because I refuse to recognize the illegal military regime) a land full of tears, a tourism industry with a dark twist, built on the backs of slaves, defectives who decided to use the internet, took video of the oppressive regimes cruelty, or merely used the freedom of speech that we take for granted, to voice an opinion for his starving neighbors.

Although I could only stay a short time near the border, as the constant turmoil made this area unsafe, and the borders closed frequently, I decided to take my chances and go into no mans land. I caught the city bus and my knees hit the seat in front of me as I sardined my 5’6” frame into seat next to a man who could desperately use a shower. The hour ride was beautiful, with standing room only. Catching another form of transportation, a sonteaw, we made our way to the border. My stomach did a flip as the men in uniform drilled me with questions about my purpose, how much money I had, if I was bringing luggage, and took my photo. They also confiscated my passport, assuring me that it would be returned upon departure. My friend and I made our way through the ally’s of pickpockets, hagglers trying to sell cigarettes, and dirty kids selling Fendi purses.

We were warned not to take any taxi, or go visit any temples that locals tried to advertise as they were most likely fraudulent and we would end up in a heap of trouble. Sure enough, trouble came, I had only turned my head for a minute when my friend was offered a baby to purchase. I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone. I quickly told them that we were not interested and gave a few choice words that caused them to “lose face” when a group of monks approached. These were the guys we were looking for. These monks patrol the border, searching for signs of kids being trafficked.  Monks have a revered history in Burma, in the 1980’s, the monks of Burma marched in peaceful protest, refusing to collect alms until the government fed the starving people. It was met with hostility, Many monks were murdered, their temples ransacked, elders arrested, never to be seen again. Because of this display for the people, and the torture that ensued, monks have an even higher place of respect in society than they did before. When a monk gets in your way to making money by selling a kidnapped child, or sneaking a drugged girl across the border, you give up.

These monks introduced themselves, and we went on our way. With my broken Thai, and their broken English, we were somehow able to communicate. Within a half hour we came across a shifty looking man with a scared looking boy of about 9. The monks asked the man for alms, which made him nervous. They started to talk to the boy, and quickly determined that this boy was not related to the man, and until recently, had no idea who the man was. His uncle told him to go with the man and find work. The monks called the border official over, and the man was placed under custody. The boy was free to go in the care of the monks. We found out later that the official was merely trying to save face in from of the foreigners and the monks; that the trafficker would give some money to the officials, and be on his way. The monks had seen him before, but never was he arrested. I guess my friend and I accomplished something? We got the boy some food and hung around and laughed and joked and played until the monks took him back to their monastery.

The situation in Burma makes it nearly impossible to patrol all the border crossing for defectors and the disenfranchised, merely seeking to feed their family by any means necessary, even if it means sacrificing a few children, or a teenage daughter, the devils fate.

For more on Burma's Monk Uprising, current and past, visit http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/30/weekinreview/30mydans.html

What Your Shoes Say About You

Recently a friend posted a blog about what your clothes, shoes, or car says about the owner. A sort of statement of comfort, reliability, employment, or circumstance. While I, as most girls, live in a variety of shoes, I have to say the one's that mean the most to me, are my Adidas. My mom bought these white shoes, with blue stripes for me before I moved to NYC. She said I needed good walking shoes. This was before I realized the supply line shame in the majority of the name brands such as Nike, Reebok and the lot. Anyways, these shoes remind me of the comfort, support and stability, as well as fashion that my friends and family have provided me with throughout my nomadic journey.

These shoes have provided exactly what I needed in the most important aspects of my life. They have gotten me up mountains to hill-tribe villages in Burma. Steep terrain and rice terraces to ancient hidden temples, kept me from spraining an ankle jumping off an elephant, and protected me from hookworms when I had to wade through a flooded town in order to get to my laundry lady (I never made it to her, the water came to mid thigh and I decided to turn back and hand wash what I had left instead of risk an infection). These shoes have also seen sorrow. They adorned my feet while I woke early and rode in a silent car and motorbike parade to hike the slippery slopes of 5 leveled waterfall in search of a missing friend.

Aside from those adventures, they also served the purpose of fun. Running on the track and playing soccer with the locals in my town in Thailand, keeping toilet water from my feet in a third world train, and relaxing walks with my Sophie at the dog park. These shoes have seen the world.

These shoes have been to over 7 countries, and they have the wear to prove it. These white classy shoes are now brown and torn from all of their adventures. These shoes have been comfortable, cute, and resourceful, and although these "slave made" shoes are tainted with blood, tears and lost childhoods, they also served the purpose to restore some hope in those of similar lot.

I guess what my shoes say about me is that I am adventurous and live life to the fullest. I don't place high value on material things and am very caring, as even though my shoes are dirty and torn, they are 4 years old. And so, with my dad's work account, and a nagging friend who says, I "can't be a gypsy forever and need to settle down," I retired my battered, beaten and torn Adidas for some $130 New Balance black and trainers. I never liked this brand before, but they are Fair Trade, free for me, and cute, so we shall try them out and say "farewell" to the old faithful blues.

For more information on Supply Line's of your favorite products and Fair Trade, check out: http://www.free2work.org

Saddle Up Cowboy

Soi Cowboy, a street known for two things; prostitution and tourists.  The streets are filled with old white men holding hands with their young Thai, “girlfriends” who they have more than likely purchased for the night, if they have not purchased them that night, they have purchased them many nights ago, and these “lucky” girls have struck it big by keeping a Farang man. While these men are in the street, on the sidelines are scantily dressed women, grabbing at everything in sight, trying to get you into their bar.

My guide took me behind the curtain of what he says is one of the high-class joints. Girls who come to the city from the poor regions and hill tribes to work in hotels or at restaurants usually end up working on these streets in these clubs; the "lucky" one's at least, the majority end up being sold to a brothel and sent locked up like a prisoner, servicing up to 40 clients a night before being tossed out like disposable good. Once they have been seasoned and have paid off their debt, they are able to negotiate their own prices, and move up to more profitable and safer establishments, such as this. This is the same establishment glamorized in the movie, "The Hangover 2." The movie did a horrible job at displaying the accuracy of the club. In here, the girls have clothing (barely, though they are covered) and numbers. They dance in groups on the center island until an audience member pays the mamasan the 600 baht bar fee (this is a more expensive fee) and calls their number. The girls then are free to do as they please, and negotiate their own prices, with the man who paid the bar fee. Sometimes they will stay and flirt with the men other times, they will leave and go to another bar with the man, other times, its straight to the hotel and then back in time to try to dance their way into another man’s heart.

My guide called the mamasan over to our table, and we chatted with her for a bit. She used to be a bar girl herself, and now serves as the enforcer of her own club. She had some motherly tendencies, braiding my friends hair, giving affectionate hand massages and joking with us.  A girl came to try to talk to my guide, he said that I was his girlfriend, which was met with a pout. It didn’t stop her from trying to dance for his attention. When she didn’t get any, she decided to just talk with us instead. Her name is Apple. She is 25 years old. She is worried that even though she is “the most beautiful” girl at the club, she won’t be able to work much longer, the men like younger girls.

A Day in Bang

We set in for a day of tourism before working tonight. Staying on Khao San road can be very noisy, but at the same time, very local. It’s in the older part of the city, within walking distance to most historical attractions, and also many street vendors selling food and souvenirs right outside the hotels. The down side, at night it gets rowdy with the local lady boys trying to seduce backpackers and locals advertising for ping pong shows. Walking to the Grand Palace, which is home to the king of Thailand, and also a temple complex that looks as if my ten-year-old niece held it hostage with her Bedazzler. It also houses the Emerald Buddha. Luckily my skirt was long enough, where I didn’t have to pay a 200 baht deposit on some neon orange flowing pants for “modesty.”

We then walked to Wat Po. Which was under construction. Last time I tried to find this temple with a friend, we ended up lost in a mall for three hours waiting for the rain to subside and ended up back in a hotel eating pizza and watching a movie. So I was happy when the people we asked for directions actually knew where it was, and didn’t lead us to the other side of the city. This is home to the largest reclining Buddha in the world. Made of gold with mother of pearl feet. It’s hard for me to look at all these idols and not think the money would be better off somewhere else. If I melted this one Buddha, how many people could I feed? How many schools built? How many homes? Instead the gold is used for a palace-sized replica of Siddhartha, who was actually just a great teacher, who didn’t want to be worshiped or bowed to. In his lifetime, he actually sent away students who started to worship and bow to him as a god. It seems that every “religion” when left to man’s devices, turns into something is was not meant to be. Siddhartha, a teacher, is now a god, guarded by bedazzled demons.

We got our stuff together out of hotel storage and proceeded to the opposite end of the city to meet our host for the night. A jewelry designer/rugby player who has lived in Bangkok for the past 6 years, and is centrally located. Walking distance from my observations for the night.

Angkor Wat

We met some med students on the bus to Siem Riep, who had an extra bed in the room, and conveniently, we didn’t have a place to stay yet. Staying with them reduces the price to $6 USD a person per night. Score. Angkor Wat was definitely a sight to behold. Feeling as if you are stepping into a movie, and rightfully so, as many movies were filmed here. We stopped to laugh at some monkeys, as they rolled a few ancient relics off a rock, breaking them, and then running away like a teenage boy who just egged his crush’s house. Around every corner you can see the poverty in this nation in the people. The dirty kids who are selling trinkets for their parents, who are keeping a watchful eye from afar. Two boys were stick fighting on the ledge of an ancient temple and we struck up a conversation. Even the kids in this area can rattle off phrases and hold a conversation in languages such as English, Spanish, Thai, French, and Korean.  The boys of course asked for candy, we only had bread, which they gladly sat on the ledge of the temple and shared, while dropping their gum wrappers on the grass. As you walk into nearly every temple complex, there is a band of land mine victims with a sign saying they want to live in dignity, please make a donation, or buy a CD. They were actually pretty great musicians, regardless of if they had no hands, one arm, or were blind. Aside from the beggar kids who harass you for hours trying to sell postcards and bracelets (I asked them each time why they were not in school, where their mother was, always getting a response of, “I go school in morning” when I reminded them it was morning, they got a little flustered and one girl even said she didn’t like me) there was one boy who caught our eye. He had his school bag, and was wearing shoes, which was not typical for this area. I said hi and we passed which led him to follow us from behind. “I know a good photo,” he said timidly. His eyes lit up when we asked him where, he quickly took us to various placed in the temple and told us a little history. A hidden headless Buddha. “Khmer rouge take the head,” he told us as he got behind the Buddha, putting his head where the Buddha’s was supposed to be. He showed us hidden elephants, and many great photo spots. He was 11 years old, and when I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he said, “Tour guide.” Usually the kids, who show you around or want a photo taken, will ask for money. This boy settled for English conversation, saying it helped him for his future. If you ever go to Cambodia, it is better to play a card game such as Uno, give food or candy, and make conversation with the peddlers, than to buy their good. The majority of the time, the money doesn’t go to feel or clothe them, it goes straight to their mothers and fathers drug and alcohol addiction.  If you really want to help, get them some food, or play a game, kids are kid no matter what their circumstance, and that little game you play, or the short attention you give them by conversing will last them a lot longer than the money you pay for a cheap bracelet. These kids are working, and are not free to play. So if you can give them a little bit of that freedom to be a kid, and play, or joke, it will benefit them.

The ride back to Phnom Penh was torturous, a woman crouching on the floor puking from the bumpy ride and constant horn honking did not help as we traveled to the city to go back to Bangkok on a 5-hour, one lane, primitive road. My friend got sick....really sick. I kept telling her not to eat the street food but she was trying to be "cultural" and "adventurous." The next day her meals would consist of 711 peanut M&M's and a cheese toasty.