My [New York City] Love Affair

He plays the beat on white plastic buckets turned upside down on the corner of W. 4^th and 6^th Avenue. And it’s the sweetest beat I’ve ever heard so I take the headphones out from both ears and sit for awhile. I think about how far the universe can actually go. I write a couple verses in my notebook and then continue on my way. On the next block I walk by a man surrounded by bags and old blankets, and as my keys jingle in my hand he looks at them and then at me, our eyes meet and his pierce mine like he doesn’t have a door to unlock tonight. And I stop for a second but I don’t know what to do so I keep walking. It’s getting colder and the wind circles down around my neck so I dig out the navy blue and white striped scarf I shoved down to the bottom of my bag this morning. I wrap it tightly around my head a few times and think about moving to San Diego. What is with these places that are sunny and warm all the time? ...forget about it. I walk a few more blocks and up the three flights to my apartment. Last night one of the infamous neighbors who shares my alleyway yelled at me, "Shut the fuck up!" ...I was a little caught off guard since I was in the middle of an animated conversation. But it was after midnight and I realized at that moment that to him, I'm the one who has become the annoying neighbor keeping him up at night with my phone calls. 

It's been a full year since my return to the city and it couldn't have been better if I'd written it myself.  I guess I sort of did. The holidays are back again and with them come the expected spiced rum and hot apple cider, ice skating and tree lighting ceremony, office parties. But everything seems different when I'm in the middle of a love story that makes me want to don a paper crown and drink my soup straight from the bowl while wearing superhero pajamas. You could say It's a Wonderful Life.

A few weeks ago I helped put on the 2^nd Annual Toy drive for SOMWA. The SOMWA Foundation is an acronym for “Survivors of Mothers with AIDS," and was founded by Shacazia Brown, who lost her own mother to AIDS at the age of 23, overnight becoming the legal guardian to all of her siblings.   http://www.thesomwafoundation.com/home.html

I first met Shacazia a year ago and she told me, “I want to go to Africa, can you help make that happen?” Ten months later she was on her way and staying with my sister Neema's parents. When Shacazia returned from her visit, she shared with me that with the help of SOMWA, and with a newly formulated plan, she'll be able to build a new desperately needed primary school in the village of Kajiado, where she stayed. And just like the fairy dust that makes you fly when you think happy thoughts, next October I will be traveling with her and a group back to Kenya to start construction of the new school. Bangerang.  

I’m on a holiday high, 'tis the season...

The Night Chronicles...and other tales of Insomnia

In New York, there are many great reasons not to sleep. The bars don't close down until 6am, fitting in a late night workout at the gym, anxiety over keeping your 20-hour-work-day job, 5am Black Friday sales, secret underground Kanye West concerts, the endless construction right outside your window…

But my reasons, lately, remind me why I love my city so, so very much.

Standing in line outside of Santos Party House in the Lower East Side on a Sunday night, I had no idea what I was in for. I thought in my hand I held tickets that would grant me access to a relaxing and inspiring evening of Spoken Word, a poetry event I anticipated to suit me perfectly. To me words and their patterns of placement, intonation, color are so sexy, vibrant, elite. This art is my wanderlust. After waiting in line for what seemed like an eternity, I walked through the doors and took in the scene. I quickly realized this was not just any ordinary event. This...was Poetry Erotica. I knew then that I had walked right into my next story. There was Hennessey, there was corn bread, and there were the Dollhouse Lesbians occupying an entire side of the room. Walking around were naked men and women, painted and handing out chocolates on platters. The lights were low, the music moved us, and if there was ever a moment when the City failed to amaze me, this made up for it. It was then that I decided I was in dire need of ordering my first drink of the evening, and this called for a Long Island. I then witnessed lines I never thought I’d hear, acts I never thought I’d see, and some very, very talented artists. I woke up the next morning with a headache, a missing scarf, and a subtle hesitation to whether or not my memory of the evening served me correctly.

And then there are the other reasons I’m not sleeping.

I have recently had the pleasure read: misfortune of meeting two of my neighbors at a slightly more intimate level than I had ever hoped. In this overpopulated island, one must expect that when buildings are pressed so tightly together, windows sharing alleyways are bound to also share other, less desirable commonalities. Since the weather has cooled down and the drone of my air conditioner dissipated, there are two assurances I have come to expect throughout the week. It all started about two months ago while taking a nap one Saturday afternoon....

[Enter neighbor number one]

I first thought it was her TV set, and then I surely thought it must be an X-rated movie scene on repeat. But then...then I came to realize this was actual, legitimate Sex Olympics occurring just three windows away from my very own room. I am in awe of this couple, each and every time I realize it's on again. Not only because of the high rate of occurrence, but also because of the sheer extremity of the situation. I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or jealous. Throughout the months, it's so intense she’s actually woken me up from sound sleep in the middle of the night. I supposed one could view this as talent, but I believe I'm in for a long winter.

[Enter neighbor number two]


I am in a bad, nightmarish, Mexican music video that just will not stop. Each Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, until precisely 2am, I hear authentic Mexican fiesta musica, on repeat, at excessive volume. Closing my window doesn't help, there is no use. I try to fall asleep with all six of my pillows piled on top of my head, but still I am haunted by memories of my Tiajuana road trips in college, praying I make it back across the border...

I guess these things come with the territory. Half a bottle of red is perched patiently on my vanity, next to my makeup brushes and a map of Kenya. The map is nailed on my wall next to another photo of graffiti: in bold black marker, inside of a heart it reads, “You Cannot Stop New York City.” I read it every morning when I wake up partly because it’s the first thing I see but mostly because it gives me a sense of motivation, empowerment and understanding. And plus, every time I tell someone new how long I’ve lived here they always respond with, “Oh, well you’re a real New Yorker now.” And I’m going to be honest when I say that even though this means I get far less sleep that I would if I lived anywhere else...I really, really like it.

Lions on 5th Avenue

When I was eleven I went camping with my parents and their group of friends. This is the group of friends that hunt together. My dad hunts. We'd have campfires at night and the men would drink whiskey and tell stories. The kids would explore the woods during the day. I love exploring woods. I remember one morning finding a creek that was so beautiful it was as if I had written it into my exploration. I remember finding hills from which to sing Toby Keith's, "Should Have Been a Cowboy" at the top of our lungs. One day we took our bikes out to the main road and started pedaling uphill. There were about six of us; the boys took off ahead and the younger kids were a little behind me. I can't remember how long I was riding before I turned a corner then looked back, and realized I was the only one around. The hill seemed to be getting steeper. I rode faster, but I couldn't see anyone. It didn't matter how quickly I pedaled, I still couldn't find anyone. I even rode back down the hill a little. So I started yelling. I yelled everyone's name as loud as I could so many times. But no one yelled back and I got so scared I started crying. I remember thinking how it would be unfortunate to come across a mountain lion at that very moment. I was lost, on my own, and alone. I was terrified.

But I eventually found my way, on my own, back to the small path that served as the entry into camp, and found the parents around the tents and trailers. I wiped my eyes and pretended nothing had happened. Taking in a quick breath I realized that no one ever had to know how scared I was.

Sometimes in New York we have bad days, and mostly, we're on our own. Some of us are lucky to have the people we can trust with our overreactions and who will listen to the trivial details that make or break our spirits for the day. But I've learned that if I can get through it on my own and the moment passes, after I wipe my eyes it doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore. And the next day as I'm facing 5th Avenue, it will never even have to know the difference.

Unlocked.

I'll try to explain although, I can't promise you'll understand. It’s kind of like riding a fire-breathing tiger down a river in the rain. Somewhere between a tattoo, and carving confessions in wet cement for someone to find walking home at 7pm on Sullivan Street.

Sometimes it hits me when I’m on the train heading uptown, ten minutes late to an appointment, coffee spilling on my knees as I cross them to fit between two investment bankers in ties on their Blackberry smart phones checking yesterday's sports stats. People are yawning. Wondering why they wake up at the same time every morning to shower and surrender to the American dream. I wake up later and work smarter. But my dream is a little different; a little more International. It’s kind of like a hidden rocky beach near Ensenada where the water is turquoise blue. The coffee is always black. The wine is always red. And lightening storms are watched wrapped in a blanket from the fire escape. I catch my reflection in the window near 23rd street and notice that I’m smiling. I used to think happiness was boring. But it makes me want to discuss lantern festivals and secret restaurants on W. 69th between Amsterdam and Columbus. It makes me want to trade favorite music and love notes and drink pulp free orange juice with breakfast cooked in a pan that hasn't been washed in a few days. It’s sharing dreams about enchanted cottages in the woods and understanding references to Thoreau. It's getting the joke.

I smile because I can't help it. Imagine all the things we’d miss if patience didn’t exist. Maybe we'd never get over fears of ferris wheels. And maybe, we'd never learn that two bottles pair much better with the view at the very, very top of the mountain.

The Battle

When I think I’ve won, I’ve lost again
It’s cold and dark in this world of sin
And full of regret
And I bet...you would never believe me
If I told you this secret I protect so freely
How many times can I lose the same battle
How many times can my thoughts shake and rattle
Just get back on the saddle
And try again
I wish this were fiction, this painful addiction
This drug all consuming, subconscious looming
Hypnotized from early on, toxic yet still going strong
Hostage locked up, key swallowed door stuck
Just my luck
Shivering cold, indecent, exposed, trying my best to keep composed
I scream from inside and I vow that next time
There will be no next time
So I wait and I promise and I think to myself
That I’ll stick to the plan that I've hidden so stealth
I’ll attempt to trick the captor quick
Steal away in a secondhand tick
Before I can try to cease my defenses
Or convince my thoughts there are consequences
So I wait for the right time...and commit my crime
I run so fast I pull away
But the shackles on my wrists they say,
Not so fast
You like it here remember? I’ve become your sweet surrender
Don’t forget what I do for you, how can you deny my love for you
And...
I hear the voice as she whispers softly,
Please come back I remember you fondly
Like a Siren she sings as I steer off course
Reminding me how gratified I am by her force
We’ll make it together I’ll get you through
When times get tough I know what to do
...for you
To make you happy, to make you strong
Her deceit was always my favorite song
And she sings it for me, when I need it the most
When no one else is there, she reveals my ghost
No one understands you like I do, no one loves you like I love you
I listen and...
I take her hand once again
I walk into the darkness, barely breathing in
Didn't you know that the road to hell
Is paved with good intentions...so I bid you farewell
Ashamed I can’t look anywhere but down
Walking the plank, no more solid ground
I step to the edge, with little caution
Fresh out of breath, from the exhaustion
The fall is long, the death of me
But this scare is my methamphetamine
And she holds me under as I begin to drown
Maybe I’ll do better the next time around

Lyrical Lessons From a Sibling

I had to postpone ‘til it was full grown but I’m in the zone now so watch it:

Hey Bro where you at I've got something to say
You shouted my way, shared your life (an array) and
To my own dismay I iced you out, Faberge
And I apologize
So here's what you deserve
A little love mixed with some swagger and swerve...

I don’t really know when you stole the show
Someday hiking Machu Picchu and exploring lands below
With a glimpse of adventure all signs turned to go
Then a little bro bro traded a little pro quo
And all of a sudden you were so hard core
Keeping up with the sis as we cleared the dance floor
Whether Garth or Doc Dre...Em too, we're Not Afraid
Got game to play, here to stay, crowd gets jealous Kid Cudi Make 'Em Say
OH, oh oh oh...
Head to toe: meticulous--your flow: ridiculous
Never been prouder, we connect like a router, the signal between us
Couldn't be any louder
No one’s been through, how me and you, do what we do, in our fam crew
We Stars--All...Little League and basketball
Diggin’ Charles Barkley-seven years old, from Suns to Rockets—hot to cold
Fighting since the days I wore my Barbie shirt
No matter what happened you always got hurt
I still don’t get it, don’t think I ever will
But mom he started it, I’m still the one you want to kill
Mom I swear, Jenny’s lying...next thing you know, Andy’s crying
Fighting over channels and over closed doors
Fighting over mom and dad wrestling on the floor
The time you turned and socked me when I was chasing you
We froze so quick it shocked us, didn’t know what to do
“Mom come quick I got her!” and then it hit the fan
I was seeing bright red that wasn’t in the plan

Competitors for life and still we're teammates too
Boggle, Sorry, Mille Borne, Uno, and Taboo
Ninja turtles, Splinter, the Little Mermaid dish
Power rangers, Duck Tales, Missy and the fish
Boxes of new cereal, hot cocoa and toast
Campfires, Santa Cruz, marshmallows we’d roast
The day I thought I taught you to read your first word
But you just had it memorized, please that's absurd
Sword fights, acrobats, forts in the living room
Never cleaning up it’s mom’s job we’d assume
My mind keeps flashing blue carpet bedroom
Nibbles, Rascal, Luigi-- pets in every room
Wish I spent my whole life standing up for you
It’s my only one regret, kid you know it’s true
By the time I realized that it seemed we switched roles
But it’s never too late, however this unfolds
So bubs through it all, you’re my favorite star
You always feel close evens though it’s too far
All that you are, all that you'll become
Can't you see the competition is useless for some
Not even fair they're compared to you in my my heart
They’ll never quite live up, but hey they can start...

Bro bro!!

On the Block

I stare at the rain fall from behind floor-to-ceiling windows, the first cold day we’ve had in awhile. It’s 11am. I sit on a high stool at a wooden table and hold the coffee cup close to my mouth and blow. Bach and Mozart fill the half empty shop as I squint to scan the hundreds of books filling the shelves on the wall. It reminds me to put on my glasses. At the very top of the exposed brick there are lined bottles of old wine and a giant mirror reflecting the perfect overcast day outside and I think, no better time to write.

I've been on numerous dates lately; I'm taking a less conventional approach and it's resembled something more like a To Do list than anything else. But the stories are pretty good. I've met the good, the bad, the strange and the insane, and maybe actually someone pretty special. The thing is, I’m a sucker for good dancers and running of the mouth. My mom likes to say I have a bad picker...but the thing is, my mom says a lot of things. Like the time she left a long, dramatic voice mail still saved on my phone that declared in her slow tone, “Jenny, you almost lost your mother last night,” explaining how she had to take more than her one aspirin maximum for a headache. Or the time she explained she most certainly had given herself a concussion after a bowl fell from the top kitchen shelf onto her head, and then went about her daily business as usual. Or the time she told me she’d given up on me in her quest for grandkids, she’ll just have to wait for my brother. Thanks moms.

After I finished the two cups of coffee and the rain ended, I decided to head back up the three flights of stairs to my prewar apartment next door. As I approached the entry it was already open, and out charged my two neighbors, Jesse and Rose(sisters), under five feet tall and well into their late 80s. Jesse and Rose live on the third floor, which means every time they leave, they have to make it down and up two full flights of stairs. Very slowly. “Jesse! Jesse where are you going? It’s the other way!” Says Rose in her frail, cracking high pitched voice. I knew I had to wait this out. Jesse seems to ignore her and keeps going into the next shop. Rose looks at me for a moment, “Oh,” she remembers, “I forgot she had to drop off her shoes to be fixed.” In a shoulder shrug of surrender, Rose waddles on by me, ready to take on another day.

I've been limping in and out my apartment for the past two weeks. Injured tibia, bad Saturday night, involved a rooftop. New York night views are amazing from rooftops until screaming tenants come out to catch you and remind you it's not yours. Some say I'm getting too old for these things. And before I agree with them for too long, I think about Jesse and Rose, and my dad's bedtime stories I looked forward to every night, and I realize one day when I'm unable to live this way anymore I'm going to want a lot of really great stories to remember it by. Wouldn't you?

Love Will Save the Day

Last Sunday a college friend of mine, Gus, invited me to some live jazz in the east village. Gus is doing some "clean living" and has renounced all drugs and alcohol, turned vegetarian...and he makes it all look gangster. Gus is clearly one of my favorite people. When I arrived the expected ten minutes late (in true Jen form), Gus was sitting on the neighboring steps holding a giant bottle of water. When we headed inside the maitre d’ asked us if we had reservations amidst a blatantly packed venue. It was a good start to the night when as we responded “No sir,” he still managed to seat us at the only empty table right in the front row. After the show Gus walked me home. As we crossed the street at St. Marks Place, a beggar was playing the guitar and singing into a microphone on the corner. He was singing Des’ree- Love Will Save the Day, and it stopped us in our tracks. In fact, it stopped everyone in their tracks. It was breathtaking. Sort of like that one sound you can feel all the way into your stomach. A crowd started to gather as we let the moment take us all captive, put us into a trance. About midway through the song a homeless man in a wheelchair rolled by, and struggled through the gathering people. He rolled up to the musician, leaned over, and cautiously peered into the money jar sitting on the concrete sidewalk. At first I thought he may try to grab some of the coins, but instead what I saw will remain engrained in my memories of New York forever. He took his own paper cup with his left hand, reached in with two fingers, pulled out a dollar bill and dropped it into the singer’s pouch. He then continued to wheel on his way, north on Second Avenue. My arms chilled and my mouth dropped open. Gus caught my eye as tears filled them and said, “That’s real love right there.” We smiled at each other and took a patient pause to just let that sink in for a bit. Feel it. Learn from it. We should all learn from it. Maybe you will today too...

Jen Goes to Amsterdam

3:30am Saturday morning and I’m in a car with two strangers making the 45 minute drive back to Amsterdam. It seems poetic that this is how my last night is spent. The sun is coming up in the distance since during this season Holland stays dark for only five hours as a joke on me. My flight is in less than 12 hours and I can’t help but smile as I recount the series of events that brought me to this very moment. To me, only the most bizarre of events equal success. In this case I think it’s best to start at the beginning...

My first few days were spent getting lost between the canals and districts of Amsterdam, locating coffee shops, taking photos, and learning mushroom culture as I watched the cyclists almost run me over. Anne Frank’s Annex and the Van Gogh Museum were as climactic as I'd hoped, and after a day I finally allowed introspection to swallow me whole. The Dutch are calm and happy, and very tall-- which resulted in me barely being able to see myself in the bathroom mirrors.



By the time I was midway into my third night, I found myself surrounded by six Aussies, in a team meeting in the middle of the red light district. After helpfully suggesting (as per request) which prostitute one of my new friends should pursue I slowly crept out of the trip I’d been riding since we ate the mushrooms hours earlier. I’m holding someone's hand, partially just for stability. They invited me to a "show" (of an adult wish-I-hadn't-seen-it nature) when I met them at lunch earlier and since there were two girls going with them I figured why shouldn't I...we’re in Amsterdam are we not? Before I knew it I was in their room preparing for said adventure with Sauvignon Blanc flip cup, quarters, and splitting boxes of mushrooms. Had I not met these new friends 10 minutes earlier, I’d have thought this was just another night. Minus the mushrooms.


The backpacker hostel I stayed in was called, "The Flying Pig" and had a reputation that preceded itself. I wonder to myself when I'll be too old to feel comfortable at backpackers, as I smell consistent waves of pot coming through the windows. The mushrooms were a new feeling: stationary objects were moving unmistakably and I saw faces in curtains, but other than that things were pretty conservative. I did see masks of elders in the tree leaves and had 15 hands, but it really seemed normal at the time. It made cruising the Red Light District bar-hopping and playing games in the side streets at 4am a little more interesting.

It's not just the legal drug usage, I'm enamored with this city. I'm surprised at how easily my absolute loyalty to New York has been diminished. My last night the plan was to watch Neema perform her closing show, spend the night in cast bungalows hours away, and then catch her tour bus back to Amsterdam the next day and hit the airport. At 3 in the morning in the midst of an epic goodbye party, we realize the bus is not actually leaving the bungalows until an hour before my flight. And that, my friends, is how I met Caspar and Oscar. And how it came to pass that I am in their backseat on this highway smiling as the sun comes up, driving back to one of the greatest cities I've ever visited.

Venture Still

Where are you now.

I could say I'm in boxer shorts and a light pink sorority t-shirt, throwing every outfit that reminds me of a late 60's hippie into an over-sized suitcase. A suitcase I'll be dragging down the street tomorrow evening two-handedly towards the uptown local E train. And outfits that will be perfectly suited for my week-long trip to Amsterdam to visit my Kenyan sister, Neema Ntalel. I'll get to the train entrance and figure out how to haul the bag (that will most certainly cost me an extra $50 and be marked with a big red tag that reads: "HEAVY") down three flights of stairs and through a turnstile during end-of-day prime commute hours.

I enjoy riding the train to the airport. It's therapeutic as I shove my ipod speakers into my ears and mentally prepare. Anticipate. Feel the beginning of the venture.

It's midnight. Typing at my computer and looking out my first windowed room that faces a brick wall, I try to summon the state of emotion I was in the last time I packed my bags for JFK and another life. But I can't. It's easy to speak vividly of change when you need it. It's easy to dig down, so deep into the belly of belief systems and philosophies when you question your own; when life goes dark and history turns pitch black and we fumble blindly through the journey just to grab onto anything we can in order to survive (BREATHE). But right now...right now I feel pretty fucking great.

But just because I don't need it, I still want it. I want the extremity and novelty of a new experience and a new world and a reminder of all things raw. Another update of my mental state and reality check with perspective. Sometimes we need a little magic in our lives. And if you don't believe in magic...you'll just have to make some of your own.

Dagoretti Corner Tour

I can't stop reminiscing lately! Austin takes us on a tour of one of our many homes while living in Kenya...

Mothers and Their Daughters

There’s a photo of my mom and I...I was about two or three years old. We’re in Little Grass Valley camping for the week; I was dressed in overalls. I’m sitting on her lap with my hands wrapped around her neck and she’s swinging me back to make me smile. In the photo both our mouths are open and we are mid laugh. My dad is in the picture too, he’s cooking breakfast for us all. I think this is one of my favorite photos of all time. Whenever I think about how much I love my mom, I picture this photo. It’s perfect; it explains everything that my mom means to me. Then I picture all the times I wake up in my parent’s house to find my mom in the kitchen or living room, and before I’m awake enough to speak any words, she comes over and just hugs me, and rubs my back. How can one person have the ability to just know everything, and be everything you need?

To be loved by my mom is the best feeling there is. I will never stop needing her. She knows when something is wrong or right before I even dial her number from across the country. The one faith I will always have, there is no substitution for her. None.

Nothing takes the place of a mother-daughter relationship. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I've heard it's not easy, but hands down my mom wins. The amount of love I have for her is completely intangible, owed only to someone who taught me that kind of love herself. To all the mothers out there teaching real love, thank you...for making this world a better place.


Happy Mother’s Day Mommy. Thank you. I love you <3

On the Streets of West 12th

It was four in the morning and they were dancing in the streets. I was confused at first, and watched from my window as she performed some sort of celebratory jig. I couldn’t help but feel a little envious of the fearlessly rogue street crossing that ensued, or how two people were having that much fun walking it out. They probably had really awesome Italian grandparents. Either way, La Esquina still wouldn’t let them go downstairs...so that happened.

It was as if they had been drinking gin and sodas all night, after three wrong orders of gin and tonic...even if it was the best gin behind the bar. They might have even had a dance-off on the d-floor...because when is a dance-off ever bad? He owed her a pedestal, even after he put her on one, and perhaps even a dinner that didn't involve a sports bar...but it didn’t suck. I think it should have been a good sign after the great white shark appeared at Spring Lounge, but apparently the Maritime Hotel has three dance floors, really bad cell phone reception, and mysterious wine-cork curtains. It also has a great meeting spot at the bathrooms, given you’re talking about the same bathrooms. Ariel views wouldn’t have even helped. But all in all, it was worth leaving the bottle he just bought for the night.

It’s as if he had to use a GPS tracker to find her, or maybe even a game of Marco-Polo, but when he did it was like finding an ipod-filled Easter egg in the middle of a fiercely competitive elbow-throwing hunt. This sort of thing would never happen above 14th Street. I kept thinking what type of rubble-rousers would pretend they were at an 8th grade dance formal, but then again who would think to wear a windbreaker jacket to Southside? It was the sort of thing that could even intimidate a girl with a Swiss army knife in her purse. But he had no chance. He should have known from the beginning; the irony of the pet shop next door might have said it all...

Metro Moments

There's something I never could quite understand about airplanes. An enormous piece of machinery, flying thousands of miles up in the air. It just doesn't seem to make any sense to me. But then again, neither does the remake of "We Are the World" with Lil' Wayne signing Bob Dylan's verse...but I still dug it.

The other day I had a love connection on the subway. I was riding the local 6 train downtown from the upper east side. I had just shown the Goodfellas actor, Paul Sorvino, a few $3M properties uptown and was heading back to the office. This stranger was incredibly handsome and after exchanging a few smiles I was certain he was to someday be my husband. As I stood up to leave the train he handed me a page he tore out of the book he was reading, with his name and number hastily scribbled on the corner. I wish I could say the story ends here. Only after we met for coffee did I find out he was only 20 years old, a student at NYU, younger than my little brother. I swore off "love at first sight" immediately in that sobering moment.

At least once per week I see the +254 Kenya country code show up on my cell phone. When I pick it up it's one of my kids asking me to Please Miss Jennifa call for me back! I think of the time some my students walked me 45 minutes home after school, up a dirt road on one of the hottest days of the year. Now I've traded t-shirts for blazers and flip flops for boots, dirt roads for a concrete jungle, but it's still where dreams are made of. And if I close my eyes I can still see my kids there when I look down. It tends to keep me in perspective...I'd have to say.

Happy Anniversary Kenya

 

Haiti

Please
I want to talk about real things
Even when it stings
And your eyes water until they get sore because you want to do more but can’t do more but you could do more if you tried to do more...You ask what for and I say explore like never before I won’t keep score but I will implore you not to ignore to think of the shore where homes hit the floor in a sudden downpour, bodies faced war and a little bit more than spirits were tore, just get down to the core and DO MORE
Please



These things
Are happening a few hundred dollars away make a difference today...
If you can
And solve real live questions to real life problems
Some of us just talk about it while others are out there doing it
Be the verb not the adjective
Someone told me that once
I think he got it from someone else...
But that’s not really the point.