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Hot Chocolate … a worldly and all season treat!

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Cocoa beans drying in the sun in Grenada. This remains the preferred method of drying there.

With roots across the globe and across centuries, this bitter seed has been enjoyed as both a sweet treat and a medicinal remedy probably since before Christ walked the planet. It has truly stood the test of time and if my taste buds and recent travels serve, it’s not going anywhere any time soon!

As I mentioned in a previous post, my husband and I recently had a 12 day adventure in the Southern Caribbean. And on that trip, one of our favorite islands was Grenada. It is a poor country but their good spirits, focus on health and resourcefulness was incredibly inspiring. They are a people who truly ‘live off the land’, using every resource in its entirety, without waste. They preserve the land that sustains them and they use their plants as medicine.

Of the six islands we visited, Grenada was the only island that we took a bonafide tour in. It was a spice tour. Our tour guide rode through the Grenadian countryside pointing out innumerable plants and citing their countless uses from pain relief to a cure for IBS, treatment for insomnia and natural Viagra. We learned how they use the spices not only for cooking but also for medicine. Every part of the plant and nut is utilized. Even the shells are used as fuel, like charcoal.

Amongst the many plants and spices covered, cacao was one that was focused on. While Grenada has long been dubbed the “The Spice Isle”. It is also quickly gaining popularity as “The Caribbean Capital of Chocolate.” In fact, our tour guide informed us that both Belgium and Sweden are sending chocolatiers to Grenada to talk business. This is likely due to that fact that the fertile soil and simple but dedicated farming techniques yield a high quality cacao (or “cocoa” as they say in Grenada) which is then used to produce a high quality, organic and potent chocolate. The flavors of the neighboring plants, like nutmeg, banana and clove are also said to effect the flavors of the cocoa beans. “We don’t water our chocolate down with milk” our tour guide explained. “We give you only chocolate. And because it doesn’t have milk, it doesn’t melt in your hand. And the antioxidants it carries, promote good health.” Chocolate is known for lowering blood pressure and cholesterol. Thus, promoting good heart health as well as reducing stress hormones and eliminating free radicals in the blood. Chocolate as medicine? Now that’s something I can get down with!

Jouvay is one company that we learned supports both Grenada and the U.S.. American chocolate maker L.A. Burdick created a unique partnership with Grenadian cocoa farmers, making the farmers the majority owners of the company. The cocoa growers are also the manufacturers. They ensure the product is sustainable sourced. By keeping both the farming and the production in the country, the production is more environmentally conscious, economical and creates more jobs for the poorest country of the Caribbean. Because the famers are being paid U.S prices and have U.S marketing on their side, the farmers are compensated appropriately, the product reaches a wider consumer population, and thus, yields, higher success. Thus benefitting Grenada economically. The U.S benefits by gaining access to some of the world’s finest chocolate and its profits. You can buy Jouvay online and on Amazon and learn more about Jouvay here:  https://www.jouvaychocolate.com/partnership

While we were in Grenada, we purchased some of their wonderful spices, cocoa and of course, some Jouvay bars. The cocoa balls we bought were produced specifically for making hot chocolate, we were told. And the Jouvay bars, a mild 60% and 75% cocoa are amongst the strongest chocolate I’ve tasted … but delicious! I’ve always loved dark chocolate. As a kid I always picked the gold wrapped “Special Dark”s out of the Hershey miniature bag. I feel so worldly now! LOL

So on this snowy day in the U.S. Yes, it’s snowing here in March … I decided to put those cocoa balls to good use. I won’t bore you with the process as this form of cocoa is not readily available here. I will however give you some non-alcoholic and libation ideas for your own hot chocolate. And for those who are experiencing proper spring weather, not to worry … frozen hot chocolate is here too!

Suggested Non-Alcoholic additives for your Hot Chocolate

 

  • Peppermint – either a few drops of extract or a hard candy. As a kid I loved to stir my hot chocolate with a candy cane.
  • Chocolate – either milk or dark … stir until it melts. It makes the drink that much richer!
  • Raspberry or Orange extracts- a few drops. These fruits pair beautifully with chocolate.
  • Coconut milk-for the non-dairy consumers or simply the coconut lovers. Give it a little zip in the blender and it gets all frothy and decadent without being overly heavy.

 

Suggested Alcohol additives for your Hot Chocolate

 

  • Peppermint schnapps
  • Whipped Cream vodka
  • Frangelico
  • Kahlua
  • Bailey’s
  • Vanilla vodka
  • Caramel vodka
  • Godiva liquor

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Frozen Hot Chocolate

Prepare any one of these or your favorite hot chocolate recipes and then allow it to cool. Add to a blender with either a scoop of ice cream or just ice and blend til smooth. It’s like a chocolate milkshake of sorts!

 

Because it’s always the right season for Chocolate … Enjoy!

 

 

 

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Worth living for…. My gratitude list and a response to the play “Every Brilliant Thing,” an essential conversation on suicide awareness and mental health

writing-1317009-640x480I recently attended a performance of the play, “Every Brilliant Thing,” written by Duncan MacMillan and Johnny Donahoe and performed by Alexander Strain. The play is and further yields a worthy conversation on suicide awareness and the importance of an individual’s mental health. And in the play, the conversation is held in the form of a one man cast who begins as a 7-year-old boy who is trying to understand and navigate the suicide attempt of his mother. The primary way he does this and the ongoing theme of the play is a gratitude list, or as he so britishly calls it, a “A list of Every Brilliant Thing”. And he leaves it on the pillow of his mother when she returns home as a reminder of all the things worth living for.

The list grows and unfolds over a lifetime and using light-hearted humor and audience participation, it reminds us of the many good things in life. It also brings to light, the fact that when our lives are going well and we have much to live for, the list grows quickly and easily. But on our difficult days, on the days when life has handed you a royally shitty hand, it can be a painful and nearly impossible task to think of things to be grateful for … or even to look at the list at all, for that matter.

Through this presentation, as a model for life itself, we are given the therapeutic task of replacing sorrow with gratitude, a worthy and effective exercise. And yet the play makes it clear, that this isn’t a cure for mental illness. Gratitude lists help us to establish a more positive outlook on life. They create a healthier, more uplifting viewpoint on the everyday, which improves our quality of life and self-satisfaction; but they don’t usually save lives and they certainly don’t cure chemical imbalances. It explains how grief and our attempts to process it, change as we age. And it makes the feelings that suicide survivors have, relatable. The guilt, the frustration and the fear of inheriting the same illness are all very real feelings for those affected by suicide; and it is self-affirming when someone else echoes the things you speak of only in your mind.

But the most important aspect of the play entirely, in my opinion, is the conversation that the play both is and creates. The conversation that mental illness is real and serious and that it deserves immediate and respectful attention. And yet in order to be effective, we must create some sense of normalcy and a comfortable place for people to come. In order to treat the illness, we must first end the stigma. Suicide is the 10th leading cause of death in the U.S and 1:5 Americans and Canadians suffer from some form of mental illness. The majority, not the minority, of people have been affected by suicide and the cascade of mental illness. And yet, we sabotage our own needs by labeling people, distancing ourselves, avoiding the topic or becoming uncomfortably solemn and unrelatable when we talk to those who are experiencing symptoms. It’s almost like we’re afraid of getting their “cooties.” Or perhaps we’re afraid of getting hurt or feeling responsible if things go awry. And yet, the name calling, ostracization and lack of relatability is exactly what perpetuates bad outcomes.

While there is still much work to do, and my experience is biased by living in a progressive part of the country, I do believe that we have made great strides in ending the hurtful exclusion and name calling of homosexuals and mentally retarded individuals. My children have grown to accept these people as they are and are blessed to have never heard the word “Fag” or “Retard” from their peers. And yet they know very well the term “Psycho.” And even worse, they know that quiet and cold feeling that comes when someone “has problems.”

As a medical professional and an advocate for mental health services, I can assure you of the suffocating nature that that stigma carries. Rarely to my face … but most often in small conversation, when the people talking don’t know my story, that’s when I hear it. That’s when, like my children, I feel it. The tone gets quiet and serious and suddenly, everyone involved in the gossip is “better” than the subject they are referring to.

And I do believe that the root of this reaction is out of self-preservation and not of mal intent. It is however, just as damaging. When people don’t have full regulatory control over their emotions or psyche, it makes people feel uncomfortable and afraid. And those people usually respond in 1 of 3 ways.

  1. They isolate that person. They stop hanging out with them, stop answering their texts and avoid them. They might be afraid of being manipulated by them or maybe they are just uncomfortable around them now. Maybe they don’t know what to say. It’s an immature response, but a common one. When one is afraid, they often run away. Still the affected person is left alone and learns by default not to confide in others. And because of this rejection, by default, the isolated person is labeled as an “outsider” or “different”.
  2. An even more immature response to feeling uncomfortable is to laugh and poke fun. This is not rooted in self-preservation. It is simply mean-spirited. And it happens all the time. The homeless guy that’s mumbling nonsense, the kid that comes to school dressed bizarrely or the jokes about voices in your head … all seem like viable subjects of seemingly innocent banter and yet to the victim and their families, it’s another assault. And even more so, to the bystander, whom you think is perfectly “normal”, those jokes are another rejection, another statement that “if you tell your secret, we won’t accept you”.
  3. And lastly, when they don’t ostracize or bully and tease, they judge. They judge them for “not really having a chemical imbalance,” without having any knowledge of that person’s medical records. They accuse them of “doing it for attention,” without ever wondering why. They judge them for “putting chemicals into their bodies”, for not being strong enough to handle life, for being dramatic, for always being “so negative”, for being “too lazy to get out of bed” or “too ____” … whatever.

So this week’s post is both a hand extended and a plea to all of those who have ended relationships because of a diagnosis … Who have refused to acknowledge or talk about the mental health of a person to their face and instead gossiped behind their back … To those who have labeled someone as “crazy,” a “head-case”, or a “nut job,” knowing full-well there was an underlying condition responsible for that person’s actions … For those who believe that simply “picking yourself up by your bootstraps” is an effective treatment … and for those who publicly demean mental health services in the form of therapy or medication … You are killing us!

Please educated yourself. Please try to understand someone else’s perspective. Please be compassionate and kind and patient. Please be a safe place. And if you can’t, at least shut up and give them a number to call. The worst place to be, is alone. And people who suffer from mental illness or have loved ones who are suffering, always feel alone. Please help me to change that!

Mental illness is so frustrating. And those affected can be incredibly draining and manipulative. And confronting mental illness most certainly can induce a grief response. But just the way we have changed the way we talk about mental retardation and homosexuality, a change in the way we respond to mental illness is also greatly warranted. It is not a new problem. It’s not a rich or a poor problem. It’s not an educated versus non-educated problem. It’s not a race problem. It’s not a strong versus weak problem. It is everyone’s problem. And people’s lives literally depend on it.

I am the mother, sister, daughter, granddaughter and niece of those affected by mental illness and there is not a single documented diagnosis in my family. Stigma and self-righteousness prevented diagnosis and treatment in our past. It led to many tortured lives and two untimely deaths in my beautiful, “normal”, middle-class, white, educated, god-loving, family.

That shit is changing with me.

So in the spirit of the play, I’ll end with my own “Brilliant List” and I’ll encourage you all to do the same, to seek out goodness and positivity. The National Alliance for Mental Illness reports that when you actively seek out ‘reasons to be thankful’ for 21 days, you will start to involuntarily think more positively. We could all use that. And then I’ll remind you that sometimes that list won’t be enough. And there are people and services that can help. Please let them help.

My favorite line in the play is :

“Life may not ever become Brilliant but it does get better. It always gets better.”

Amanda’s Brilliant List

  1. Hearing my children say, “Good job Mommy”
  2. Letting my husband love me in all his glorious ways
  3. Dancing in the kitchen
  4. Belting out Disney tunes with my 2-year-old niece
  5. Dark chocolate and red wine paired together, in the evening, when the house is quiet
  6. Finishing a photo book and reminiscing on that trip
  7. Planning a new road trip and anticipating the discovery of a new place
  8. The first unseasonably warm day of the year
  9. Talk therapy with my best friend, just the two of us … and wine
  10. Being assigned the patient that no one else wanted, and then connecting with her
  11. Having an opportunity to sleep in and actually being able to sleep
  12. Cooking delicious food with my siblings – we are like top chefs…well one is anyway!
  13. Going to a rock concert with my Dad and never sitting down
  14. Getting rid of old things and making space in the house without feeling wasteful
  15. Using up all the odds and ends in the fridge and creating something delicious with them
  16. Pedicures, with a really good leg massage
  17. A blog post that blows up, in a good way 🙂
  18. The smell and feel of a fresh haircut and highlights, good-bye grays and split ends
  19. Long conversation with deep thinkers over good wine
  20. Knowing that I’ve helped someone
  21. People who understand
  22. Extra time when I need it
  23. Thematic parties
  24. Outdoor summer family parties that start with food, lead to dancing and end with quiet conversation and star-gazing late into the night
  25. Feeling like despite all my failures and heartache, somewhere, somehow, I’m doing something right and maybe I’ll leave this world just a little better than I found it.

 

For those who need a phone number for help: 1-800-273-TALK, 1-800-SUICIDE, or text NAMI or TALK to 741-741

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Words are like Flowers and Writing is my Vessel

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“Writing is the painting of the voice.”-Voltaire

Writing is the vessel in which I sail my inner workings across the ocean of life. It is the  carrier of my thoughts and ideas, stories and lessons. It is the way I am heard, the way I share.

Deep within the matrix of our minds, thoughts and ideas are formed. Like trapped birds, they are released as the spoken word. Despite their beauty and complexity, each sound, each word, lasts only seconds before it’s gone, flittering into empty space. Though the message may linger, the words themselves are fleeting and seem to dissipate into thin air. The spoken word is easily forgotten or mistaken.

But ink that leaves a pen remains, permanently inscribing the words its master dictates. Thoughts put into readable form, the written word is a record. It’s a document. It is not the mumblings of a drunk or the talking in ones sleep. It is intentional. And it never lies or forgets.

When I talk, often I feel like a bumbling fool … awkward, disorganized and redundant. Words pour out of my mouth like children off a school bus … clambering and loud and clumsy. And my thoughts and ideas are often misconstrued and misunderstood.

But when I write, I am like a well choreographed dance. Every move rehearsed, every step cautiously placed, every word carefully chosen. And the words flow together like movements, creating a beautiful piece designed specifically to carry my message.

Words are like flowers. When I write, I walk through the most bountiful garden, hand selecting each blossom with careful and purposeful intent. Arranging the words into a bouquet, each arrangement is unlike the one I made before it. Each flower holds a unique purpose and aroma to the ear. There are no bad flowers, no bad words. And I yearn every day to discover a new variety, to uncover a new specimen to place in my piece.

Like every artist, my art, my bouquet, is not always appreciated. At times it is overlooked and ignored. Not unlike the painter along the sidewalk, the musician in the subway, the dancer dancing in an empty theater. But if only one person enters that theater, the heart of that dancer becomes full and she is no longer just a dancer, but a performer. When art is recognized, the artist gains the greatest fulfillment.

And yet, even without an audience, without a buyer, without coins in an otherwise empty case on the floor – those strokes, those notes, those movements, those words, are therapy for the artist. They soothe his soul and at the same time, they make him come alive. They are his heart and he cannot walk away from them. They are a part of him.

The highest honor is knowing that my words have touched another soul, hearing that my message has spoken to another heart. Feeling as though I have made a difference, I am fulfilled in my work. Like the chosen carrier of precious cargo, I feel worthy. I am grateful for my talent.

But even without recognition, without payment, when I put my pen to paper, it is therapy for my soul. Kneading through my angst and sorrow, the darkest part of my life, like clay, I create a sculpture of my life that is beautiful. And looking at that sculpture, I see how I have turned misery into joy and pain into lessons and I am proud of who I am and from where I came.

Life is a journey and each of us, an artist. We are handed a canvas and asked to fill the world with beauty. Be that canvas, a pot in which you cook, an instrument from which you play, earth in which you plant, wood from which you build, hearts of which you nurture … use your canvas to create beauty. My canvas is paper. And my paint, is words. Thank you for receiving my words. Thank you for taking the time to smell the flowers, to hear the notes that my heart sings, to feel the energy that my soul releases.

 

 

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Steel and snow…the angst of adolescence

snow heartI still remember the night we lost her like it was yesterday.

It was always the four of us. Two boys. Two girls. Just friends and nothing more. Every weekend we knew the best clubs. We’d close the bars down. And we were always the ‘last man standing’…dancing actually, at a party.

I was away on vacation when she got in the accident. And I wasn’t home long before her fight was over. I never made it up to the hospital to see her. Though the boys told me it was better that way.

They got the phone call first and they came to the house to tell me. I thought we were going to hang out … to try to get our minds off the worry. But distraction turned to mourning when they told me “Our girl didn’t make it.” We left my house and went to a small shrine to pray. Something we didn’t do much of in those days.

And then we gathered to tell the rest and to wash our sorrows away with the bottle.

I came home late that night. Just as my Dad was getting in the door from his middle-of-the-night shift. He tells the story that I came in behind him and stopped short in the foyer. “Dad…” I was still standing there, just in front of the door, steel-framed and expressionless, when he turned around. I told him in a deadpan voice, “Jenny died tonight.” He crossed the living room in silence; and when he embraced me, my steel-framed stance broke and melting into my father’s arms, I wailed like a child.

Her funeral was only two days apart from an old classmate’s who had committed suicide. It was unseasonably cold and there was frost on the ground and in my heart. And my knees shook as I stood graveside in my thin dress and no proper coat. And I thought I was “grown.”

While my brother’s death rocked my world in a way from which I will never fully recover, I always knew, deep down, that my brother wasn’t well. And there was some small sense of expectancy amongst his terribly tragic death. But Jenny’s death, and the old classmate too for that matter … nobody saw those coming. I hate unpleasant surprises.

I was 18 and practically on my own and I didn’t even have something appropriate to wear to the funerals, much less coping skills or the ability to properly process. I was just a teenager, hanging on by a thread … a hardened ball of snow, constantly getting too close to the flames. A warrior in the making, but so unbelievably broken in the meantime.

Trying to navigate, trying to understand, trying to grow up, trying to live … I still remember it all, like it was yesterday…

And just like that…

I am the mother of a teenager. And the subtle signs of the recklessness of adolescence are beginning to surface. And it is a far scarier view from this seat than the seat I took twenty years ago.

Last week, my daughter received her letter of acceptance into her high school of choice. Along with that letter came a sigh of relief, a surge of pride, tears of happiness and legitimate excitement for the journey that she is about to embark on. There are so many “firsts” just around the corner for her. And she deserves all of the goodness that is to come. She has worked hard to get here.

That letter left me reflecting on my own teenage journey and the complexities that plagued it: Jenny’s death, several suicides, my car accident, reckless choices, stupid boyfriends, the partying and the pain. The peer pressure was suffocating and yet I yearned for adult independence. My support at home was minimal but what I had, I often pushed away in anger. Grappling to make adult decisions with a brain that still had one foot in childhood, I stumbled more than I walked. My friends held the highest significance in my life and consumed my time and yet somehow, I always felt alone. The empty promises, the wrong calls, the blatant mistakes, the imbalance of knowledge and ability …. the angst of adolescence, that sits like a thin line of snow on a steel rail. Precariously perched, under the warm rays of sun, it will melt. With the untimely swipe of a hand, it will crumble. And with colder conditions, it will harden and freeze. Rarely is it allowed to just be.

While our lives are very different and our struggles are not the same, it seems that whoever you are, adolescence always seems to come with hard lessons, high emotions and inevitably, some tragedy. While it was in my teens that I learned all too well, the smell of death; it was also where I learned the taste of love. While I took unwise risks and made some poor choices, I also came out of my shell and began to make a name for myself. While I rebelled and was unkind at times, it’s where I separated my self from the things and the people who were holding me back and began living my life as my own. While I suffered, I grew.

I am acutely aware of my insatiable desire to protect my children, both in the physical and emotional realm. And the journey that lies ahead of us, is a frightening one. I want so desperately to save her from heartache. And I want to keep her safe. I want her to have the strength that I have, without the pain. I want her to have the wisdom, without the consequences. I want her to soar without ever falling. I want her story to be a good one, with a happy ending, like mine, but without the tragedy.

But I also know that it isn’t my story to write … and that there’s no such thing as achievement without struggle. Nor are there ever any guarantees.

I hope that the ‘growing up fast’ that I had to do, pays off as I mother this teen. I’ll continue to teach her the lessons I learned hard and share with her my pearls of wisdom. I hope that the smiles are many and the tears are few. And when the day comes that I have to hold her like my father did me, I hope that I have the strength to be her steel when she isn’t. For her heartache will certainly shatter mine.

I hope that we survive adolescence.

And when we do, I hope that she looks back and through my strength, she sees my fragility and she thanks me for building another warrior – with a frame made of steel and a heart that melts like snow.

 

 

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“Painkilling” remedies from the Caribbean

In my most recent post, “An unexpected love affair,” I alluded to my experiences whilst on vacation, most particularly with the people we came to meet in various islands of the Southern Caribbean. While I admitted in that post that Puerto Rico was our most loved island of the trip, I also admitted that Grenada and Barbados left a very sweet impression on my soul. The joy, the energy and the creative spirits of the people in Grenada and Barbados made us feel welcomed and I was inspired by their lifestyle and simple nature to succeed in life and to find contentment, oftentimes despite a lack of resources and wealth.

I was particularly impressed by the Grenadian people’s ability to “live off the land” and export much of the world’s spices, despite their poverty. During our visit there, we attended a tour of a spice plantation and a nutmeg factory. We were struck by their very simple, yet effective, means of hand-collecting, sorting and packing spices … particularly nutmeg. There were no motors or machinery, just wooden sorting boxes and human hands. And yet they export a large portion of the world’s top spices around the globe.

We learned through our tour guide, that much like the natives in the US, the people of Grenada have learned to make use of every part of a plant and do not waste. In addition to the actual nutmeg seed that we use here in the states, in Grenada, the outer shell of the nutmeg seed is used for coal to build a fire. The red, fibrous wrap around the seed, called “mace” is removed, dried and used for cooking (thus deriving two spices from the same tree). And oil extracted from the leaves and bark is used for homeopathic remedies. The same is done for every plant on the island. What they harvest, they use in its entirety.

Grenadians literally have a plant-cure for everything. In the case of nutmeg, it is used to treat insomnia, promote digestion, relieve pain, and its antibacterial components are said to promote good oral health as well as detoxify the body. ( A quick internet search will explain the chemistry behind each of these uses.) In many Grenadian stands and store fronts, they sell the whole and the ground varieties of spices as well as the oil extracts. They believe very much in their benefits and pride themselves in their overall health as a nation. “We don’t use medicine”, they will tell you, “we don’t have to…” “this is natural, and it works.”

And because they believe in the natural properties of these plants and spices, they include them in many more foods them we traditionally would, here in the states. For instance, I found “Banana ketchup, flavored with nutmeg” and semi-sweet chocolate bars “60% cocoa, flavored with nutmeg”. I bought them both and they’re delicious – not over-powering or awkward tasting…just good!

But my favorite food by which to add nutmeg is a tropical cocktail called,

“The Painkiller”®

We were first introduced to “The Painkiller” in St.Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands and I was struck by its unusual, yet amazingly delicious pairing with coconut and other tropical juices. It is fuller and more complex than the over-used rum runner, lighter than the piña colada and if made correctly, still packs a good punch with that Caribbean-West Indie rum.

Upon returning home, I rushed to look up the recipe.

A google search has taught me that this now infamous cocktail of the Caribbean was first created by the owner of a tiny, waterfront bar in the British Virgin Islands, and then modified and trademarked by the founder of Pusser rum. Therefore legally I have to list Pusser rum as the rum used in this recipe. However, as I am not selling this drink or making money off this blog, I can tell you that I swapped out the rum for the dark rum I bought in Puerto Rico, as you could any dark rum you have in the house and it was just as delicious.

The Painkiller®

  • 4 parts pineapple juice
  • 1 part fresh orange juice
  • 1 part cream of coconut
  • 2 parts Pusser’s dark rum*

Shake and serve over ice with a pineapple wedge. Sprinkle nutmeg over the top (even better if it’s freshly grated).

Perhaps its the nutmeg’s natural pain-relieving qualities or perhaps it’s the rum that gives this drink its signature name. Whatever is paining you, be it physical or spiritual, I suggest you try this tropical cocktail. If the spice and the alcohol don’t take your woes away, the flavor will certainly transport you to a tropical island. Close your eyes, hear the waves, feel the breeze, and bury your worries away.

With a land so full of trees bearing these sweet fruits and powerful spices, century-old rum making techniques and the tenacity to “make-do”,  it’s no wonder the people on these islands are happy 🙂

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An unexpected love affair

My husband and I recently celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary with a cruise to the Southern Caribbean. Being avid road-trippers, this was a first for us and we selected a route and itinerary that took us to as many places as possible in seven days. Our goal was to use the cruise ship more as our mode of transportation than the highlight of our trip. By booking a cruise that departed from Puerto Rico instead of the States, we managed to get six islands into those seven days, including PR. And I was so excited to get to know each and every one of these islands. I researched each one and planned activities for each. Culture is important to me and I wanted to know the people and their food as much as I did their landscape.

Being that it’s February and winters here can be rough, we arranged to fly into Puerto Rico a few days early so as to avoid any conflicts with the cruise departure from potential flight delays due to weather. We also booked our flight-out the day after the ship returned so as to have one last honeymoon night after the cruise. For three nights before the cruise, we stayed in a beautiful boutique hotel in Old San Juan on Calle de la Fortaleza, right in the middle of everything. Then we cruised the Southern Caribbean and visited five more islands. Upon returning to PR, we spent our last night in a bohemian-style bed and breakfast in the Condado/Isla Verde area, more out-of-the-way, in an up-and-coming art district and close to the beach.

Of the six islands we visited, we discovered that more than food and landscape, language or income level, it was the people that gave each island its true character and spirit. Beautiful beaches meant very little when the people were not welcoming. And with that, Grenada and Barbados were true gems! Whilst poor islands, the people there were so friendly and joyful, that we felt instantly welcomed. We loved both of these islands tremendously and would love to go back.

And yet, it was with Puerto Rico that we had a very unexpected love affair.

One could argue that because we spent the most time there, our opinions of PR might be skewed from our opinions of the other islands. But the truth is, we were enraptured within our first hour there. Despite all the beauties that the other islands had to offer, it was Puerto Rico who really captured our hearts.

In Old San Juan, the air and the architecture were infused with a calming energy I can’t describe. Like Valparaiso Chile, the brightly-colored stacked homes have an unexplainable way of stealing the hearts of many, including myself. And I always find Cuban architecture to be my most favored. The narrow cobblestone streets spoke to my soul the way they do in Savannah and Saint Augustine and I could feel the presence of hundreds of years of culture saturated in their uneven stones. The views from Castillo de San Cristobal, spanning over city and sea, literally took my breath away. And the sound of the deep blue water sending waves crashing into the black boulders surrounding the old city walls smoothed away any sense of tension in my body. It is a beautiful city and instantly it communed with my soul and welcomed me.

Cute Mom and Pop restaurants flanked every street corner and wonderful food was everywhere we turned. From white tablecloth to small diners, they had it all. But our favorite was to sit at the street-side tables where locals screamed out the happy hour specials to passers-by. There, we’d sip our mojitos, (by-far the best we’ve ever had) and soak in the city.

The history of the city/country fascinated us too. We walked the length of the old city walls and visited the original gates and forts that once protected the island from outside intruders. A city fountain, full of statuesque symbols that represent the country, included two goddesses that are said to both protect the island and welcome visitors by sea (a welcome surprise for this heathen in an otherwise very Catholic country). The family is  the center of the culture. And when I discovered that a frog, of all things, was a national symbol, it was a match made in heaven. I love frogs!

But despite all of that … the symbols, the food, the architecture and the landscape … again it was the people who really touched our hearts. Every person that we encountered in a store front, restaurant/bar, walking down the street or selling their goods out of a basket, was kind. They went out of their way to communicate, to explain, to accommodate us, and to welcome us as visitors to their island.

It’s been almost six months since Hurricane Maria ravaged their country. Despite the fact that we knew several of the attractions we had planned on visiting were still closed, it was with purposeful intent that my husband and I maintained our vacation plans. Lights, water and safety were all that we needed to give us the green light to not only visit but to support them through our tourism; and we sought out worthy, small businesses to patronize. We didn’t want to be part of the masses who pulled out and left the country hurting even more than they already were. So we went with the intention of enjoying ourselves and helping out the little man at the same time. We did this for all the islands we visited on that trip.

We weren’t expecting any kudos for that. It only seemed common decency to us. We aren’t wealthy and we weren’t going as missionaries. We merely went there as vacationers, spending the modest amount of money we had on food, drinks and a few souvenirs.

And then the craziest thing started happening. Complete strangers would approach us in the streets to thank us for coming to Puerto Rico and to assure us that they will continue to rebuild. We were instantly humbled.

They told us their stories. One woman we passed in the street, was walking three dogs. And when we stopped to greet them, she explained that they were all rescue dogs that she pulled off the streets after the storms. Three wagging tails that she did her part to save and now calls her “children”. Other people told us stories of people with private planes that air-lifted sick kids out to the United States to get treatment. And they expressed their gratitude to the U.S. companies for coming to help. They spoke of the months without water and without power, how the community came together to clean-up, and they described the sound of the storm when it passed over their houses. A true nightmare, to be trapped on an island, with no way off, when mother nature surges through in historic fury. Their stories were both heart wrenching and terrifying.

They described what it was like to survive a category five hurricane.

What they never did though … was complain.

And more than even that, despite their tragic stories, they remained joyful. As a people who had lost so much, they were still happy! And they were working so hard to continue to clean-up. Nearly six months- and the trucks were still picking up loads of rubble and debris, the electric companies were still repairing downed lines, and some businesses and natural landmarks will be forever changed by the damage; but they merely said “We’re going to be okay! We’re going to rebuild. Thank you for coming here!” And they’d laugh and they’d shake your hand and they’d ask where you were coming from and they’d welcome you like a long-lost friend.

I remember watching some news footage, days after the storm, and how the people of PR came out into the streets to dance. With no lights, no water and some with no homes, they banged on steel drums and shook homemade instruments and they danced. A true example of learning to dance in the rain. I experienced that mirth while I was there. Music always seemed to fill the streets, no mater the time or day. Smiles found themselves on every face you came to meet and laughter and a love for humanity seemed to surround us .

On our last day, after returning from the ship, we were excited to experience another part of the island – along the beach of Condado and Isla Verde. We were impressed to discover that the neighborhood we were staying in, had always been a poor one but had recently been developing into an up-and-coming art district; and small businesses and restaurants were filling in where old dilapidated structures once stood. The Cuban architecture and cobblestone was replaced by wider streets and graffiti art; but the people were just the same. Still coming up to us and thanking us for coming, still sharing their stories and finding reasons to laugh.

There, we again walked the streets and enjoyed the food, but we also experienced the beach. It wasn’t the most visually striking beach we’d seen in our twelve days of adventuring, but again it was the people who brought the beauty. It was a Sunday afternoon and all the locals were down on the sand with picnic baskets and beer – men playing a ball game, lovers snuggling on their blankets, young people enjoying one another’s company … not because it was a holiday. It wasn’t even summer, but just because.

And that night … away from the city center, amidst the tropical foliage outside our room, the most magical sound came when the Coqui frogs began to sing. And with that, I knew … this was a love affair that would have to continue. A love affair with a tropical climate, delicious food, rum and coffee, beautiful architecture, history and above all, beautiful, happy, people.

Like the poor man who will search the beach after the storm, for wood to rebuild his home, I too, will search the world for places that rebuild my soul. I am glad I found Puerto Rico.

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“Judgment” …. a once Christian’s perspective

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According to Webster's dictionary, judgment is the "process of forming an opinion or evaluation by discerning and comparing” or “a proposition stating something believed or asserted”.

In my words, judgment is an analysis of a situation or the comparison of one thing to another which leads to the conclusion that one thing is preferable or superior to the other. We make judgments on the movies we watch, the places we go and the food we eat. We compare travel spots, restaurants and activities. We think about and then rethink the moves we’ve made and try to reach some kind of conclusion as to whether or not these moves were the best ones. When we judge a place or a material object, we create a sort of mental ranking for the future. We do this to ensure that the next time we are faced with a similar choice, we stand better odds at choosing the more favorable option.

People are not objects. Our nature is far more complex than taste and texture and visual appearance. And just as a person should not be defined by their outwardly appearance, they should not be defined by a single action or circumstance either. It is important that we understand favorable and unfavorable actions, lest we have a society of ambiguity and absolute relativism. One might also refer to this as, "right versus wrong." And unfavorable actions need not be condoned. But when we judge another person, when we categorize them based on an action or a thought, we are allowing our minds to formulate an opinion of another person’s worth.  The consequences of a lack of worth are far more devastating than identifying a dangerous habit or an undesirable characteristic. And that judgment is as toxic to the one who is placing it, as it is to the one being judged. The way I see it, judging another person is like watering a feeling that is planted in the innermost place of one’s core that tells one that they are better than someone else. People who continue to judge others are feeding the spoil within themselves and that spoil spreads to others.

While the act of casting judgment on others is toxic, in order to help identify and combat it, I find it helpful to understand why certain people have an affinity for it. And in my observation of people, I find that the practice of judging other people is often perpetuated by an inability to see another’s perspective or to understand another’s place or point of view. It is usually egotistical. And sometimes, it even lacks logic or reason. In other words, some people judge others because they simply don't understand them. Due to their life circumstance or position, they just don't have the experience or the context to begin to understand how someone could do something or end-up where they are. And so, having no understanding of what that person's life was like, they cast a judgment on that person for not being strong enough or smart enough to escape their fate. It's a sad situation that happens every day when certain people pass by the homeless or the prostitutes, the drunks or the drug addicts. Most people shake their head … few people wonder how they got there.

One of my favorite Bible stories is here in John 8:
1 but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. 2 At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered around him, and he sat down to teach them. 3 The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group 4 and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. 5 In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6 They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him. But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. 7 When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” 8 Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.

While some people find it impossible to understand certain circumstances or life choices; others, I've found, lean towards judgment because they're too close to those experiences and those experiences have led to hurt. Many times, when a person has had a negative experience with a certain individual, they will make a blanket statement or carry an exaggerated response to all persons who display the same character flaw or who fall within the category that this person has created . For instance, a child of an abusive alcoholic may develop a hatred for all alcoholics or a person who has been cheated on by a partner may refuse to have any dealings with other persons who too have committed infidelity, and thereby they judge them and cast them into a category of people who hold little worth. Sadly, when we are hurting, we are often so consumed in our grief that we fail to see our own faults much less the worth of the person who hurt us.

Mathew 7:1-5
1 “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. 2 For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. 3 “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? 4 How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? 5 You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye

While PTSD is a real thing and psychological cause and effect are valid happenings, there are treatments for these things. Holding on to these biases based on trauma are not healthy coping mechanisms. Categorizing people is a basic behavior that has evolved as we have. The same way a gazelle has evolved to identify the slow movements of a lion in the high grasses of Africa, humans too have evolved to identify undesirable human characteristics and to remove ourselves from them; particularly, after the actions of those characteristics have hurt us. This is a life saving technique and I in no-way suggest that you should seek-out or a-line yourself with people who display dangerous behaviors and characteristics. But I caution you to place a sense of worth on them. Because when we do, the collective opinion of others in society leads to the ostracization of certain members. We are a high level species. The highest in fact, that we know of. We are no longer striving for basic animal instinct … instead we are seeking a higher level of human thought and interaction. No one benefits from out-casting and labeling. The world isn't black and white. People don't belong in this category or that. We are humans and we are fluid. There is goodness and there is darkness in all of us.

To be able to see both the darkness and the light, we must learn to separate a person's actions from their "self". We must learn to see past their blaringly obvious flaw and look for the quiet goodness that they too possess. You can protect yourself from the dangerous behaviors of a person and still acknowledge that person's goodness and worth. You can distance yourself from your abuser and still recall their redemptive qualities.

Real life example:

Using reason, logical cause and effect and personal observation, one could reasonably conclude that extra marital affairs are detrimental to monogamous relationships as well as to society as a whole. If we as a society, could not place trust in our promises to one another, the structure of our society would suffer. The family unit is a huge part of the foundation that builds our communities. Affairs hold the potential to cause emotional pain as well as hold physical, financial and psychological implications. We can all agree that infidelity is an unfavorable action.

But we can separate the action from the person and conclude that while the affair itself is a dangerous and unwise choice, the person who is having the affair still holds purpose and worth. In other words, instead of categorizing them as a “cheater” or a “whore” and dismissing them as no longer having worth, that person can still be your friend. Their actions need not be condoned. You should in no way "cover" for them or encourage their behavior. But friends who make risky and unwise choices need counseling and good examples set, they don't need to be ostracized. What does hatred and isolation teach anyone?

Another subject of judgment that I find particularly popular is drug abuse. There is a nation-wide epidemic happening right now and the use of Narcan to revive addicts who overdose is a controversal discussion. Drug abuse is habitual and carries known risks of damage to the body. It is statistically shown to be affiliated with behaviors that cause the breakdown of family units as well the breakdown of one’s body. You’d be hard pressed to find any evidence to suggest that anything other than marijuana (and possibly MDMA) for certain health conditions has any benefit to the average person. We can make a judgment that drug use and abuse without a medical indication, is a risky, unwise choice.

And yet, by understanding the power of addiction, sympathizing that most teenagers experiment and it's those who carry the gene for addiction that find it so hard to stop, and knowing that no one dreams of becoming the monster of addiction, we can still find love for the addict. That person is not their addiction. Their addiction might change the way they behave and those behaviors might affect our relationship with them; but we don’t have to make a judgment about who they are. And we don't get to determine their worth. Nor should we join them or enable them. Instead we should use that energy to try to understand their struggle, help them if we can, and then thank the universe that we didn't inherit those genes or that we didn't go to that party the night the experimentation began. We must look at the faces of addiction and see them as the babes they once were. We must remember to love like a mother.

 "If you judge people you have no time to love them."-Mother Theresa 

"Love is the absence of Judgment."-Dalai Lama

Some of the most wonderful people I know have stepped out of their marriages, have excessive spending habits, display hoarding behaviors, struggle to control their fears and anger and suffer from substance abuse. Most of the population doesn't even know that these people have made these errors or struggle with these tendencies. They are good parents. They are good employees. And they are good people. They are flawed and they have made mistakes. And they don't need to be crucified for them. Nor do they need excuses to be made for them. They need help. I won't allow these people to bring me down with them. I won't get caught up in their poor choices or enable their behavior. But I will be their friend.

"I only look to the good qualities of men. Not being faultless myself, I won't presume to probe into the faults of others."-Ghandi

I am mouthy and at times, obtrusive. I am a fervent defender of the under-dog and fight for causes sometimes to my own detriment. I struggle with anxiety and that often manifests in control issues. My experiences with poverty, dysfunction and abuse as a child have led to my ability to empathize with these conditions; but I battle my own biases against those who live privileged and entitled lives. Organized religion is a struggle for me. And some of the people who have hurt me are a real hurdle that I need to overcome. But I am working to amend those. I make it a daily effort not to place judgment on any individual; but if you ask anyone close to me who they dread bringing someone home to – I'm usually the hardest to sell. Sometimes I look to myself and wonder how I've been so lucky in my marriage and friends and family. Sure, I'm a hard worker and for the most part, kind and funny; but I am flawed. My friends and family love me anyway. So it is my pilgrimage to love others too, no matter how flawed they are. And I encourage you to do the same. The world is too crowded and complicated to spend our time walking around pointing our fingers. If we did that, we'd all end up with a broken digits and swollen eyes. With splinted hands and blurred vision, how could we possibly work to make the world a better place?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Cola de Mono … the tastes of Chile to warm you on frigid days

The thing that I love the most about living in a progressive part of the US is the wide exposure to world cultures. The US is in fact, “The Melting Pot” and the beautiful collection of people and cultures here is certainly one to celebrate. Due to the diversity of immigrants that built this great country, we are exposed to different religions, languages, customs, dress, and food. Along with that exposure, comes dialogue (at least it should). And the favorable side effect of dialogue is increased education and tolerance. Those persons who have lived in these culturally diverse areas, I think, often times take for granted the wide varieties of food and cultural exposure and the benefits that these offer. And those who don’t, don’t know what they’re missing. It’s not until after you visit other parts of the world, or even this country that you realize not every neighborhood has six or seven different types of cuisine at their fingertips. And it’s not until you see the way other groups of people function, that you realize there’s more than one way of doing things.

Where previous generations may have viewed certain foods, practices or languages as “weird”, newer generations are growing up and seeing them as “normal.” In my youth, Mexican, Italian and Chinese were the extent of ethnic cuisine available. My children are so blessed to be exposed to not only these but Indian, Pakistani, Afghani, Japanese, Vietnamese, Tai, Korean, African, El Salvadoran, Peruvian, Brazilian, French, Cuban … and of course… Chilean cuisine. And there’s still more for them to explore! They will grow up not only with a more expanded pallet, but with a greater knowledge of the way other people live and cook and view the world.

Food, I believe, is the greatest uniter, and sometimes just walking into a new restaurant opens the door for tolerance and acceptance. And what better time to try new restaurants and eat new food than in the cold, lonely days of winter? When frigid winds are whipping around you and the days are still short, warm havens of worldly foods are waiting to offer you refuge from the cold. If you’re afraid that you won’t like it, go for lunch, it’s usually cheaper. Talk to coworkers and classmates who come from countries that are different from yours and ask them where they go to eat and for suggestions on what to order. Nine times out of ten, I think you’ll enjoy it … and if you don’t, well even your Mom made things you didn’t like and at least you can still applaud yourself for “trying something new”.

 

So, in the spirit of a new, ethnic food/drink experience that is easy to enjoy and pairs perfectly with the winter months, I share with you “Cola de Mono”… a Chilean beverage that’s name translates to “Monkey Tail”. And I assure you, you won’t be disappointed by trying this one!

Although Cola de Mono is traditionally a holiday drink in Chile, I find it a wonderful option for any winter evening. Made with milk, it is heavy enough to be best appreciated alone or after dinner as a replacement for dessert. Spiked with potent alcohol, it’s not a drink for light-weights, and yet, the sugars and spices that are infused in it make it easy to drink and full of delicious, wintery flavor.

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Cola de Mono
Ingredients for one batch:

  • 1 whole nutmeg
  • 7 whole cloves
  • 3 whole cinnamon sticks
  • 1 gallon of milk
  • 4 TBS instant coffee
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 12 oz of alcohol (ideally Pisco- a Chilean alcohol but because it can be hard to find in the US, you could also substitute vodka, white rum or … if you’re brave, like our family … Everclear works just fine too! 😉 … whatever suites your fancy!

In a small saucepan, bring 1 1/2 cups of water with whole spices to a boil. Reduce heat and let simmer about 15-20 minutes until water has reduced to about 1 cup. Meanwhile, in a large pot, heat the gallon of milk, sugar and coffee in one-fourth segments-adding 1/4 gallon of milk, 1 TBS instant coffee and 1/4 cup sugar at a time, stirring in between each segment. Do not allow the milk mixture to boil! Once all the milk, sugar and coffee has been heated and combined, add the spiced water mixture and simmer an additional 5-10 minutes. Remove from heat. When the warm milk mixture stops steaming, add approximately 12 ounces of alcohol and a few drops of vanilla extract. Stir and chill. Serve cold (no ice). I like to leave the whole spices in the bottom of the chilled mixture for further spice infusion.

 

Like every cultural staple, every house, every person, tweaks the recipe just a bit to suit their tastes. You’ll be hard pressed to find any two recipes of Cola de Mono listed exactly the same. So feel free to add more coffee, less alcohol, more spices, less sugar … whatever makes the recipe work for you. But the one feature that you’ll consistently find, is that the recipe will never be listed as “one serving”. The “must” with Cola de Mono is that it be made in large batches to be shared and enjoyed with loved ones, sipped slow with good conversation.

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A day in the Life of a Rape Victim

trigger warning

tear-drop pic black and white

Embarrassed, horrified and afraid, she feels around in the dark for her clothes. Dressing herself and gathering her things, she is aware of her nakedness in this strange room and her confusion is met by horrifying reality. “What just happened?” “Why did I come here?” “I gotta get out.” “I need to go home.” “Somebody help me!” “What just happened?”

Stunned, she can’t believe it happened to her. Every other night she was soo careful. “Dumb, dumb, dumb … how could I be so dumb?” “He seemed so cool.” “I can’t believe this happened to me.” The place she went to for fun, suddenly became a horror-house she found herself running from. She wants to go home.

At home, she wants to shower but she knows that she can’t. Alone she cries on her pillow. And she falls asleep in exhaustion.

Morning light strikes and for a moment, it’s just a regular morning … and then … she sees her clothes on the floor, and the whole horrifying night comes flashing back. She’s got some phone calls to make. Today is going to be a very long day.

She stumbles out to the living room where her father walks-in with his coffee and paper, “What time did you get in last night? And what did I tell you about….”

“Dad, sit down.”

She can’t find the words. She knows this is going to destroy him. Still she knows what he taught her. She knows what she has to do. But her mouth can’t form the sentence and her mind can’t believe that this is happening.

So he starts guessing … It only took him two guesses. He’s the father of two girls and he’s known the statistics for too long.  “Were you assaulted?”

All she can do is nod her head and cry.

The girl who was “grown”, the girl who “had it all together”, the girl who had “done so well”, held her father and sobbed.

And when she stopped, he said, “You know what we have to do, right? You know we have to report this.” “I know”, she said. She was already exhausted and yet the day hadn’t even begun.

After a phone call and a knock at the door, two uniformed officers step inside. And in her living room, in front of her father she is questioned and divulges the horrifying details of the night before. They ask for her clothes-and not just her under-garments … her favorite pair of jeans, heels and the top she used her hard-earned money to buy- all to be destroyed in the process of collecting evidence. It looks like her body wasn’t the only thing he stole from her last night. Her favorite outfit, her father’s heart, her trust in men, her soul, were all on the list of casualties.

With the evidence in a bag and the officers beside her, she left her home in a police cruiser, wondering if the neighbors were watching.

The cruiser pulled up in front of the police station and the officers invite her inside a building she never thought she’d be in, “For further questioning and to provide a written statement”. In an empty room, she’s given a pad of paper and asked to record not just the details of her assault but every detail of the night … what she did, what she said, who was there … what she was drinking and how much … Did she flirt with him in any way?… Did she do anything at all that could be interpreted as an invitation? At a cold table, in a strange room, alone, she recalls and puts into words, every last detail of her assault, again.

“I’m done”, she said, as she lays down her pen, hoping she covered it all – hoping she didn’t leave anything out – hoping she didn’t mess it up -hoping she didn’t screw-up her own case.

And then the officers start explaining that if any part of the report is found to be un-true, she could be charged with “false reporting” or “obstruction of justice” punishable by up to a year in prison. Confused, she thought they were on her side. Afraid, she thinks again about the words she wrote,”Did I get it all right?” Stunned, she asks herself, “Is this really happening?” She signs on the line, testifying to her truth, wishing it were all a lie.

One of the officers explains that they will be taking her to the rape center so that they can collect the evidence they need for the case. She nods and follows him out to another police car.

During the ride, alone in the back seat, the cop begins to comment on what she didn’t do right. – “You really shouldn’t go to someone’s house that you only just met.” ” You’re too young to be dating that guy.” “Why were you the only girl at the party?” “What were you thinking?” Silently she rides, staring out the window, fighting the tears that are begging to escape from her eyes, wanting to disappear.

He stops at a strange hospital, walks her inside, talks to the staff and leaves. Again she is alone.

A nurse with a kind voice and an easy demeanor is the most welcome sight of the day. With miraculous efficiency, she records the girl’s version of the story without question and simultaneously gathers evidence. Again, the girl finds herself naked, but this time she knows someone is helping her, not hurting her. But still she feels like her body is hardly her own – pictures are taken, DNA collected, a full body exam is performed- swabs, combs and a speculum. A stranger records every last detail of her most private parts and she lies there wishing she had never gone there last night.

When she leaves, they hand her a teddy bear and a packet, with a prescription for antibiotics and the morning after pill, just in case. And she waits on the curb for her ride to come.

The diarrhea and the bleeding will soon come, a side-effect of her medications and she can’t wait to finally take a shower.

That is nearly the end of her first day as a rape victim. She only has the rest of her life to go.

Next will come the phone calls from friends. The questions from her boss as to why she wasn’t at work. The explanation to more family members. She still has to tell her Mom. Then the meetings with lawyers and the role-playing she’ll be asked to do to prepare for the attack the defense team is going to launch against her character.

More appointments. More days off work. More questions. More explanations.

Some people who were there that night will refuse to get involved and “friends” will avoid her now in the name of male loyalty and supposed “he said, she said”.

People will talk. People will wonder. People will judge.

The “pretty” and “fun” girl is now stained. And just like she felt, sitting at the police station table, riding in the police cruiser, standing in the rape center, lying on the exam table, she will feel alone. Her body will feel like a filthy contaminate and she will want to separate it from herself. Pulling on her hips, she’ll wish she could throw-away that part of her that he took. She’ll wish that this nightmare would end. She’ll hope for justice but expect nothing-because that’s what her lawyers advised her to expect. “It’s his first offense”, “Because of how much you had to drink”, “Because the guy you were dating…”

 

If you’re wondering where this story came from, I’m not going to tell you, it doesn’t matter. I assure you I didn’t make it up and that it is fairly representative of a typical sexual assault report. If you’re questioning if every rape story looks like this, you’re missing the point. If you’re pining for more details, you’re sick.

According to statistics, fewer than 10% of sexual assaults in the U.S are reported. Of those reported, between 14% and 18% of all sexual assaults and 37% of rape cases are actually prosecuted. Of the rape cases prosecuted, only 18% result in a conviction. That means an estimated 3.4% of all rape cases lead to a conviction.

Despite the recent movement to address and stop the apparent cultural norm of violence against women, it seems that some, still have a hard time accepting the truth. There are websites and even female spokespeople who make it a point to attempt to “de-bunk” studies on sexual assault, claiming that they aren’t valid because the participants in the study were anonymous and therefore the cases were not confirmed. You can’t confirm what’s reported with anonymity. And I challenge you to find me one sexual assault victim, much less a thousand, who want their name attached to a study. The stigma that is attached to a sexual assault victim is a heavy one – “She has baggage”, “She’s a whore”, “She just wants attention.”

I believe the best way to tackle any stigma is through education and a shared perspective. So, if you can’t understand why someone wouldn’t report, if you have difficulty believing a victim’s story or wonder why they dropped the charges … before you write them off as “making it up”, consider for a minute what they had to go through just to file a report. For many victims, the act of reporting, alone, is a huge act of bravery and risk – as many are threatened with their safety, job and reputation. And the repercussions effect not only them but their family and friends as well. Consider the very real possibility that she’s telling the truth and that with her assault and the process of reporting comes a whole slew of repeated trauma.

Don’t contribute to her trauma. Help her. Believe her.

This is only one of the “me too”s that popped up on your Facebook feed. There are thousands more. As a female, a college instructor and a nurse in the field of obstetrics, I assure you, the 1:4 statistics are accurate. And no, it’s not all women getting pulled into back-alleys. It’s girls at parties who drunkenly mumble “No, stop!” while he pulls off her pants anyway. It’s a strange hand up her skirt in a crowded club. It’s a date that she didn’t want to “put-out” on and he thinks she gave him mixed signals. It’s rationalizing that because she was dancing provocatively or kissing multiple people or wearing a certain outfit that “she wanted it”, despite her saying “No.” It’s one guy thinking she’s too drunk to remember in the morning and his friends turning their back and pretending not to notice.

We, along with many other cultures in the world have bred a society in which violence against women is tolerated and shaming those women is common-day practice. It must stop. Fear, stigma, judgment, social ostracization and the heartache and trauma that goes along with sexual assault and prosecuting against it is poisoning our culture.

We are better than that.

Teach your boys respect and self-control. Teach your girls to have a voice.

Change begins with you.

 

The girl in this story was a statistical minority in that she reported quickly and followed through. Thanks to her bravery, she gained a conviction and removed one more offender from society.

 

For more info on reporting sexual assault and the reference for the stats I sited here, go to: https://opsvaw.as.uky.edu/sites/default/files/07_Rape_Prosecution.pdf

 

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“I didn’t want it to be me.”

crying angel

“I didn’t want it to be me.”

Sitting on the bottom step … cold, hard cement under her torn jeans and a busy world around her that seemed to be standing still … she held her head in her hands.

The pretty girl with the perfect spirals of hair that fell delicately in front of her deep brown eyes … almost hiding them and the tears that they have poured over her beautiful face. Her perfect smile, chased away. Her musical laughter, muted like a busted music box. The plans for her perfect life, shattered, like a fist through a mirror. Her beautiful heart bleeding.

Her perfectly pink lips trembled and she whispered, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

A small school girl, she would hop and squirm in her seat. Her small hand waving frantically in the air, she’d beg, “Oh oh oh….pick me! Pick me!” So anxious and eager she was back then, earnest for a chance to give the answer, for a chance to try…

Not today … not this time.

This time she would’ve put her hand down. She would’ve hidden under her desk, slunk to the back of the room. She would’ve run … out of the classroom, out of the building … out of the world to escape this. She would’ve paid any money, rubbed any stone, whispered any spell, prayed any prayer … not to be picked this time.

She knows these things happen. She knows no one deserves it. She knows she couldn’t have stopped it. And yet here she sits, with her head in hands and cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

Delicately perched on the step, an empty eggshell ready to crack- like a fractured fairytale, only there’s no happy ending. Breathing is her greatest task. And as she cries and breathes … the tears become fewer and the breathing, deeper.

The empty egg-shell is not so empty after all. Inside, it holds the steel frame of a woman who doesn’t know her strength. But as she breathes, slowly, she begins to notice the supports within her.

Still she cries, “I didn’t want it to be me.”

The longer she sits, the more she becomes aware of the steel bars that compose her core, her inner strength. And she tries to stand.

Her knees shaking, her body trembling, she takes a step … and then another … and then another.

And then for the first time, she lifts her gaze to the street in front of her- full of people, full of obstacles, full danger and judgement…

The journey ahead is frightening and overwhelming, but she knows that she can do this. She can walk this walk and fight this fight. Inside of her she can feel the strength of the many warriors, women who came before her … and she knows that she isn’t just a survivor, she’s a conqueror.

Shadows begin to move and let way to slivers of light. Though she knows some shadows will always remain.

Her legs, once too weak to stand, get stronger with every step. Her head, once fallen, raises higher with each stride. Her eyes, once too filled with tears to see are now filled with focus and direction. And her heart … as strong as it beats and as full as it is … her heart still bleeds …

because she whispers, “I really, really, didn’t want it to be me.”

Still she takes another step.