diaspora, dispersion, displacement, expatriation, expulsion, extradition, migration, relegation.

You cannot shake hands with a clenched fist. -Indira Ghandi

I've been lucky to lock eyes lately, which has made me wonder why it is all so rare. On the other side of the spectrum, I've had one of those conversations that is really just two people talking to themselves, while wishing the other would hear.

Maybe it's just me thinking crazy, but there are often moments in my life when I feel like words are nothing close to enough to reach across even the most common ground. I mean, how many times in my life have I caught myself saying "that's not what I meant..." or "I think you may have misunderstood me." If I can count my missed, nearly missed and crashed communications on two hands, there must be hundreds more. Maybe thousands.

And human language puts boundaries on us as it is. Our words accrue meaning as we live, and very few of us find the same meanings anymore. It's bad enough that we can't speak each others' languages. I mean, how am I supposed to understand your concepts, if we don't even share a lexicon? I think that's why I tend to gravitate towards those of you who speak several languages. Just by default, your understanding of the world is exponentially expanded by a multiplicity of experiences and nuanced emotions. If you can't explain shadenfreude in English, maybe you can explain it to me in a mixture of French and Arabic...

What I think is most tragic, though, is that the limits of human language are further compounded by our own disjunction from each other. We have become so self-protective (and sometimes also self-destructive), that we can't take the risk to look for ourselves in each other. Instead, we are too busy thinking of what we're going to say while the other person speaks. What results is verbal volleying, and the only people we engage are ourselves.

And don't get me wrong - I am not preaching about nations and cultures and groups. Today I am not even going there. I am talking about the very real diaspora that occurs between us as individuals: Daily.

Sometimes we're too consumed by life to bother with anything more than what's already climbing on our backs. We drink each other away, we work each other away, and finally, we drive each other away with thoughtlessness. We are simply completely involved in our own perspectives, and we just can't bring ourselves to reach across those barriers. Besides, we have all these protocols, these daily behaviors, these structural MOs that keep us from productive interaction. We never apologize; we never explain. And in today's world, I just don't think we have the luxury of isolating ourselves to such a degree. The world already puts up plenty of boundaries on its own.

Seriously. It disheartens me.

...BUT then, by some Divine intervention or twist of fortuity, we meet. We meet and we see, despite our differences, and then we wonder how we've survived alone for so long. I'm not just talking about love here, I'm talking about friendship too. We see a stranger across a bar, and we are able to somehow see through that tempered green glass that distorts our vision on all the other days. We bump into each other on the street, on the bus, on a plane or on the page. But the important thing, what really matters, is that we lift our eyes and meet each other. It means that you stop looking ahead numbly, and somehow find the courage to turn and face me. And it means that I do the same for you.

Somehow this person that we see for the first time is able to assess us with a clarity that even our best friends can't. It happens. Not very often, but it happens. And you know it when it happens, because you feel like you're talking to yourself. You feel like you are looking at someone who was cut from the very same bolt of cloth, before your respective soul was put in this body, and his was put in that one, way over there. You know, it is similar to the feeling you had, even by yourself, before life got in the way. Do you remember it?

And then I wonder, is it actually rare, this type of instant connection? Or, could it sadly just be the product of us both finally opening our eyes at the same time?

Sometimes I can feel that too, you know? Like we just barely miss something meaningful. Both of our eyes open at just the tragically wrong time, like an arrhythmic heartbeat or two doors slamming. For an instant a flash of likeness passes between us, and then it's gone. Suddenly what we saw is again shrouded by your sadness and my fear, or your ego and mine too. And again, we allow our differences to divide us. And we allow our glances to be transient.

Keep talking to me. Say anything. Just try not to look away.

MPH Blues: I'm Fighting the Apathy...

Oh postsecret, you say it best every Sunday! If I'd written this, it would say "I don't think I'll ever finish my Masters degree...I'm too smart for busywork and bureaucracy."

...But that's just me.

My birthday is in May, and so is graduation...But there isn't much to look forward to in November. Not even really good TV. No wonder I'm restless.

Chivalry - Only Resting

...Or on life support.

Case in point:

The couple at the table next to mine last night, fighting about who paid last. "I paid for beer last night, it's your turn." And then, again, fighting about who was going to leave the very generous, 7% tip: "Yours cost more. You leave it!"

Sadly for us, them, and their waitress, they weren't joking.

But, as the above title explains, I still have hope. I'm just praying there's no "DNR" sticker on Romance's file.

That's all I got.

(...and...publish.)

A Dose of Humility, and Then a Soft Place to Fall

Tonight I fell asleep on my cousin Jaron's shoulder, after a long and confusing several days. I rarely see my family, but they mean the world to me, especially my younger cousins.

Yesterday I said that tonight I would write about why I am thankful for the things that make me humble, but also, especially right now, I am thankful for those people and places that provide a soft place for me to fall.

Generally I have a healthy ego, I think. Which is why I take great masochistic pleasure in those experiences that challenge me, make me nervous, geek me out, deflate me and make me think. Over the past year, those things have been numerous. From inconspicuous miscommunications to massive setbacks, I suppose I can say that I am thankful, even for the tough lessons.

I am thankful for those of you whom I cannot understand and never will (because you keep me wondering about humanity). I am thankful for those of you who aren't afraid to tell me that I have no idea what the heck I am talking about, especially if I don't (because most of the time, I'd rather have someone open my eyes than agree with me). I am also very thankful for the perspective and wisdom of the women I work for. Because, despite the letters I may carry after my name (and the subsequent credibility that higher education might bring) they never forget to remind me that lived experience is way more important than big words and academics (I couldn't agree more). I am thankful for the arguments I've had (and lost), and for the random experiences that transpire daily that make me feel insecure, aimless or even uneasy. These are the things that keep my feet on the ground.

...But even more than that, I am thankful for those of you who are stable and calm and present and reasonable and reassuring, not just when I'm shining, but when I am flailing too.

You see, there are some of you who renew my faith in humanity, as syrupy as that may sound.

My 17 year old cousin, Jaron, for instance. When I overhear him talking to his girlfriend on the telephone, he asks her, "Is this the prettiest girl in the world?" (bashfully, almost). His voice is quiet, sincere and certain. He is not yet above the cheesy cliches of puppy love, and every part of me hopes he will never be hardened by heartbreak. But for now, I am thankful that he can enjoy it. Their six month anniversary is Saturday, and although he can't get her much, he's taken apart six bags of Jolly Ranchers so that he can make her a full bag of only blue ones, because those, he tells me, are her favorites. I am thankful for those little things people still do to amaze me.

And then, after those long days that yield very little to be positive about, there are many of you who provide me with a soft place to fall.

Some of you simply have loved me long enough to look at me just right. Some of you know exactly what to say. Some of you sit next to me, comfort me, by saying nothing at all. Some of you look at me in a way that zaps the loneliness. Some of you pull me up and put me back together. Some of you just bring back the laughter.

Life offers each of us plenty to be humble about. Because of this, I am thankful for those of you who remind me of the innocence that still exists quietly in the world, and I am thankful also for those of you who cushion my crash landings.

I act like I have faith; I really just have friends

I have been reminded recently that fairy tales don't exist. But even if they did, I'd inevitably get bored, hop over to the next bookshelf and choose my own adventure. Prince Charming would show up at my castle wall, yell for me to throw down my hair...But I'd already be gone. You see, I'd probably already be hidden away somewhere else.

A search party would be mounted, and the reader would find me tangled, instead, with the court jester, riding bareback around the countryside with a rogue knight or going to the public baths with a particularly lovely courtesan.

In real life, I prefer laughter to stability. But that's just me. Like Kerouac said, the "people for me are the mad ones," and Prince Charming is just too vanilla. Holden Caulfield is more my speed.

That said, I'd like to be clear. I know my fate. My love for adventure is eventually going to break my heart. I'd like to think that I am brave, but I really just have friends.

I'll show you what I mean:

Dear Kate:

Please find enclosed a 21st century iteration of an immortal classic: the mix tape.

• Because it's what friends do.
• Because, hopefully, these songs will make you, alternately: laugh, ponder, dream, and sing along. You're lovely doing all of these things.
• Because music is for lovers.

...I wish I had the perfect thing to say, in some cinematic moment of profound articulation of everything you need and deserve to hear. What I do have is a heart with equal mileage, an ear and shoulder whenever you need them, and a tenacious belief that the love you've always said was all that matters does truly exist simply because people like you do. What you have, is a resilient spirit, soulful intelligence, bitchin' shoes and my friendship. Always.

I love you obnoxiously,

Alissa XOX

So thank you. To all of my friends. Somehow in this chaotic, crazy, wonderful adventure of a life, you make it all make sense. Some of you I've known always, some of you come along fortuitously, at precisely the moment I need to know you. Some of you stay, some of you go, and some of you I'll never meet. But to all of you, thank you. When I choose my own adventure, no matter how horrific the ending seems to be at the time, you allow me the luxury of living happily ever after.

To all of you who don't know me yet: Welcome to my story.

Why Can't We Just Be Better To Each Other?

November 17, 2006

I look around myself at my life, and I see so much luck - how is it that my combination of DNA was born, was brought into the world with such privilege and promise? I have a lot. An education, a home, and several pairs of jeans with pricetags equivalent to half a month's rent. I admit it. Sometimes I don't put my money where my mouth is.

Not only that, but I have a family who would die for me, and friends all over the world who believe in me. I have seen the best of life. For that, I am grateful.

Many of you know that I am working on a project aimed at bringing services to women who have not been so lucky. They are criminalized and stigmatized, and mostly their 'crimes' have stemmed from not being born lucky. Raped by uncles and pimped by their fathers and brothers, these women live in desolate, hungry, tired conditions. They get called crackheads and whores.

Isn't it so often that we disrespect that which we don't understand?

Their homes (if they have them) should be condemned. Their slumlords do not fix things, even if they pay their rent, and their children often go to bed in the winter to wake up with ice on their blankets. Welcome to Section 8.

This isn't the third world people. This is Minneapolis - we just hide our poverty better.

No heating, no telephone, no hope. The women I work for trade the only commodities at their disposal, and then get fined for it. When this becomes too much, they hit the crack pipe to forget. Their problems worsen. And then we call them irresponsible. This is very hard for me to watch. Our country is ridden by systemic apartheid. My very suburban, very white home, is located only a few miles away from the 'projects.'

How is it then, that most of my friends have never even been to North Minneapolis? Really - it's as if highway 94 were an ocean and West Broadway was a desert. It takes me ten minutes to get to work. In rush hour traffic.

Wait? You've lived here all your life? You don't even know where it is?? Are you kidding me??

The contrast is jarring. I cannot go from one place to the other without anger welling up inside of me, without feeling shame, like my life's work will never be enough to pay these people back. I know without a doubt that a great deal of my privilege was wrought on the backs of others. And I try to steady myself, knowing that I will never be able to live in a way that will make things right. And I try to breathe, knowing that I cannot go off the deep end. I can't even help. All I can do is listen.

The arrogant and ignorant are the ones who have the power these days. They are the ones who don't bother to listen.

The point of my writing, though, happened today.

I was talking to a well-educated, seemingly conscious male friend of mine about a documentary that I watched recently, The Lost Boys of Sudan. He didn't know much about Darfur, or South Sudan, so I thought of it as a chance to get him to open his eyes, if only just a little. I told him about how refugees often witness horific acts, are victims of violence, torture, rape and hunger. I started tearing up when I was talking about it - about how unfair it was the way we (the USA) bring refugee youth to America with promises of education, only for them to end up with nothing over here - not even a community that understands them. We put youth to work in factories and menial jobs, hide them in tenement housing, invite more violence, poverty and hunger upon them, and expect them to succeed. We remove them from what family they have and provide no real support to show that we are "doing something."

The worst atrocities occur on the shoulders of individuals so that our country can keep up appearances.

I wasn't proselytizing. He asked.

I know I can get a bit passionate. I know that what I believe in isn't what you might believe in. I know the way you live might be just fine for you, and you might be doing the best you can with what you have.

But this guy's response was, "That sucks." No emphasis, no feeling. Ok buddy. Don't engage with world issues. Don't even bother to disagree with me. After all, it's perfectly acceptable to stand on the sidelines when people are dying.

That sucks?!?! Fuck you!

So many privileged people have never learned compassion.

Maybe if we actually looked around, we'd realize that it doesn't take all that much to be better to each other. All we have to do is really listen.

A Walk With a Monk Up a Mountain

Originally written June 20, 2006

Today is a day I will remember forever. In my life, this is saying something, because I have been blessed with so many memorable moments. However, I am not sure I've ever experienced anything like this.

I am in Salt Lake City, staying in a room above the valley, looking down at the basin filled with sparkling city lights. This city is built around a mormon temple; the architecture, the city's feeling, the city's people reflect this fact. Hiking on the mountain, sitting quietly on campus, or eating down in the valley, I have felt an overwhelming sense of peace here.

I am visiting Utah for a conference on alcoholism and other drug dependencies--the conference subject matter alone has been heavy and eye-opening and real and salient. I've witnessed interventions, absorbed the most fascinating and relevant lectures of my life; I've watched my new friends cry, admitting things to themselves they never realized before. I have been a participant and an observer. I am learning. But I will never forget tonight.

Tonight I went to an al-anon meeting. What went on there is a long, personal and convoluted story, so I'll move on. Afterwards, I was approached by a man who acted as if he had known me all his life. Did I know him? In a way.

He looked like a student, had a name badge like everyone else, but he was wearing long black robes and had a shaved head. He called me by name, and wrapped me in a long, strong hug. Who is this man? I'd seen him earlier and wondered what the hell he was doing wearing such warm clothing on such a hot mountain day. I must admit, a string of judgements had gone through my head. Just another lesson in why I shouldn't judge so quickly.

We talked about our lives outside the conference hall for several minutes, until my new friends came to find me. As we stood outside, the man asked me if I'd like to go for a walk up the mountain. Much to my surprise out of my mouth shot a 'yes.' So, instead of heading to the rental car with my girlfriends, I took a walk up the mountain with a monk.

Why in the world, I wondered, would a monk I had just met ask me to walk with him? He could have spoken to any of the 150 people in the room, but he found me. What would I learn from this man?

He was in his late thirties but looked 21. There was no small talk.

What is love? He asked me.
What is God? I asked him.
What is God? He asked me.
What is love? I asked him.

And to my surprise, the monk listened to me. A man so devoted and yet so human wanted to hear what was in my head. And even more surprisingly, I listened to the monk. Unlike other experiences I have had with organized religion or people in general, I knew from the onset that this man was not there to convert me. Nor was he there to pity me, to prey on me, to proposition me, or to court me. He had no ulterior motive but to connect, to have a conversation, human to human. This man was real. His humanity and struggles and tenderness unnerved me, unscrewed me, enlightened me.

How could I be so ignorant to think that a monk was somehow different, somehow above the struggles of the first step? How could I be so shocked when he said the word damn and spoke candidly about conjugal love? How could a monk, who had experienced life in the presence of popes and churches and monasteries, call his own head a 'bad neighborhood?'

"Oh my God!" I said (oops...maybe not a good idea to say that in front of a monk), " you are just like me!"

Tonight I walked up a mountainside with a Roman Catholic monk in a city populated by over 91,000 mormons. I learned more in that hour about life, about other people, about myself, than I can quantify. And also, I made a new lifelong friend, I think.

Tonight I understand with incredible clarity what a friend of mine always says: Namaste. (I recognize that within each of us there is a place where Divinity dwells, and when we are in that place, we are One. The Spirit in me meets the same Spirit in you). To me, this is love.