Depues Clase de Ingles

I did two days of community service helping the children in the poorer parts of the country learn English. One of the girls taught me how to step:




I've decided that I could seriously move to another country and teach children English after I graduate. It would be a joy.

He Will Cover You With His Wings

Within the last two weeks I’ve been robbed, spent a fabulous weekend at an all inclusive resort in Punta Cana, got attacked by mosquitoes (I counted over 50 bites on one leg), went kayaking in the Caribbean Sea, performed poetry for the U.S. embassy, taught kids in the mountains English, went white water rafting, and best of all, I’ve eaten French toast! Yes, I do believe that these past two months have been some of the best two months of my life, although if you would have asked me two weeks ago what I thought about living here I probably would have told you quite the opposite. It’s only as my study abroad experience is reaching its end that I’m beginning to appreciate everything for the blessings that they are.

Now, let me tell you what happened to my class ring. A couple Saturdays ago, just two blocks from my host family’s house in Santo Domingo, me and my close friend Arcena were waiting outside of Greg’s apartment to go on an exploration of the city. We were planning on just hopping on the train and just going somewhere for adventure’s sake. These plans were rudely interrupted when a young guy about my age approach me on the street at two in the afternoon. At first I thought he was trying to talk to me like most men on the streets in Santo Domingo try to do, but this time it felt a little different. He was too close to me. I backed up and spoke in nothing but English. My defenses were up.

“What are you doing? Get away from me!” I yelled at him while retreating. His eyes were worrisome. His eyebrows squinted down to give off the look of anger, wrath, seriousness and strength. But his dark brown eyes weren’t steady. He continued to mumble to me in Spanish when I heard a word that I recognized. Anillo.

“Your ring,” he was saying in Spanish, continuing to step closer to me. “Give me your ring.”
“No,” I yelled. Pretending like I didn’t understand I kept backing up telling him to get away. Why not my purse? Why nothing else? I looked quickly at his hands to see if he had a gun or a knife. His companion waited for him on a motorcycle in front of the street, there was no where for me to run. Suddenly, he grabbed my hand and yanked my ring from my finger. Pulled it straight off. And my gold class ring was gone.

Class of 2008, Raiders, Alyssa, number 6 inside of a volleyball, high school badge, and a cross. I hope he stared long and hard at that cross engraved on the ring that he stole.

My body trembled. My eyes watered. No tears fell. I felt like the ground after an earth quake. 2 o clock, broad daylight on a Saturday afternoon, I was mugged. And my ring was gone. The strangest part was that he didn’t want my purse or anything, just my ring. Later, we were to conclude that he had to have been watching me, which made the situation scarier. For the next couple of days I was distraught. I kept having flashbacks to the guy, I was scared when I walked in the streets, and I kept having “what-if” wars. You know after something major happens (or doesn’t happen) and your brain won’t stop replaying the situation, asking yourself “What if I would have done this” “or what if I would have done that”. It’s a very unhealthy practice. I hated the Dominican Republic. I wanted to go home.

But I kept praying, and soon God healed me. I realized that I was blessed, nothing bad that bad happened. I wasn’t hurt, I could be dead, and it was only a ring. I made a thank you list, giving Him gratitude for everything good in my life. The experience was a test of my faith, and I believe that everything is everything. All is good. It could have been much, much worse.

-The Girl With the Monkey Mind

"But if we have food and clothing..."

"But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that." 1 Timothy 6:8

I was afraid his bones were going to bust through his skin. His dark body looked like an X-ray sheet, with skin so thin that all his bones were visible. He lay on the ground naked. Bare and barren he stared up into the sky as if asking “why” with full, opened eyes pleading in perplexed agony for an answer to his one question as if he was in a conversation with his creator above. I’ve never seen anyone so skinny.

I was out with my reporter that I shadow at my internship, Julio Caraballo, when we saw this homeless man without clothes starving on the street. Our original story was intended to be at the hospital but we stopped when we saw this man. Julio approached the man cautiously as a crowd began to form and stare at this homeless man in all his nudity. A white sheet lay to his right side and he weakly pulled it over him to cover himself. He looked embarrassed and ashamed to have all these strangers staring, but he was too frail and weak to lift himself.

“What’s your name? Where are you from?” Julio asked the man gently. The man didn’t respond. Now that we were closer I saw a plate of food to his left side probably given to him by someone out of kindness. Flies buzzed over the food and over his body but he was too weak or maybe he just didn’t care enough to swat them away, maybe he knew they would eventually return again. Looking at this man I was in awe. How did he get like this? What happened to him? Was he going to be okay? I wanted to help but what could I do? I reached in my purse to give the man some pesos but the camera man, Christian, told me to put my money away. It was pointless to give him money because he didn’t have clothes or shoes. No one would allow him to enter their store in order to buy things. Laying money next to him, someone walking by would probably just take it.

“Do you have any family?” Julio asked, still trying to get this man’s story. The man turned his head away from the mic as my heart turned in my chest. He seemed disarrayed couldn’t help but think, yes we are trying to cover his story, but how are we helping him? We have a camera filming him and everyone is staring but what are we actually doing for him to possibly save his life? The man still wouldn’t speak. His dark wide vacant eyes just continued to look up, and then we left.

That same day we left the city and traveled to the outskirts of Santo Domingo to cover a story about this community police force in the community. We passed children walking home from school on the dirt roads and passed shacks that were their houses. Men sat outside playing Dominoes and sitting on their porches in conversations as more children ran by. The unemployment rate in the Dominican Republic is 15.1% (2009 estimate) and driving round in the streets you see a lot of people doing nothing. The houses aren’t air conditioned so it’s cooler to be outside during the day, so they just appear to be sitting around, doing nothing. Looking at their community from the window in the truck I was riding in, I wondered if they were happy. For some reason, America, in all its vast idealization of materialism as idols of self-worth, has brainwashed us into believing that the items we own determine our happiness. But Americans have more wealth and materials than a “third world country” (I hate that term) like the Dominican Republic, and we still have people with all the items in the world that are depressed and unhappy.

According to the World Health Organization from 2008, the United States had 11.1 suicides per 100,000 people compared to the Dominican Republic which had 1.6 suicides per 100,000 people. In fact, Central and South Latin America have the lowest suicide rates overall in the world and these are the countries that most of the world powers countries look down upon because their lack of “modern developments”. Is it really THAT big of a deal that people are living in places without hot water or air conditioning? If you never knew of something “better” that existed, you would be perfectly content because that is the only thing you knew. Henry David Thoreau says it best:
As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.

So I wonder who’s really better off. Us or them?


Our affluent society contains those of talent and insight who are driven to prefer poverty, to choose it, rather than submit to the desolation of an empty abundance. ~Michael Harrington


Here's a Video of what I saw:

Welcome to Paradise

When we arrived at the island, butterflies greeted us. They swarmed around us like snow in a winter blizzard, so vast in numbers that they looked more like fallen leaves then butterflies. But the only trees around us were palm trees and we were far away from any winter storm. When I tell you that we went to paradise, I am not exaggerating.

My day started at 5:00 that Saturday morning as I woke up and began my day with my newly acquired routine Bible study. Every morning I have been waking up earlier to begin my day with prayer, and then I open my Bible and read and ask God to help me take away the message that He wants me to understand. That day I was reading the book of 1 John (which is one of my favorites because it is all about how God is love) and the verse 1 John 3:18 really stood out to me:

“… let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth.”

I immediately began to think of my friend, James*. He recently told me that he discovered his parents are separated and are considering a divorce. James is a student in the DR program with me, and he feels lost. He never would have imagined in a million years that his parents would divorce and here he is in the DR, helpless to do anything about the situation. “All I want to do is go home,” he told me with a voice that sounded like a sigh full of a heavy longing for comfort as his eyes slid past mine, drifting away into his own thoughts. With this memory in my mind, I flipped the page in my notebook, picked up my pen, and began to write James a letter. Today we were all going on an excursion to Isla Saona and I wanted him to enjoy himself and not worry about situations that were out of his control. So I did the one thing that I do best. I wrote.

I arrived to campus around 7 am and quickly claimed my seat on the bus for the 2 hour ride to the island. I slipped James the letter that I wrote which included Bible verses about the love God has for him, how things will all work out for the best, and how if he ever needed to talk I was here for him. A couple minutes later I was captured into his warm embrace and he thanked me sincerely saying how at the exact moment I gave him the letter, he was beginning to feel sad and was thinking about his parents. God is good.

Two hours later, we were taking a motor boat out to the island. With our bright orange life jackets on, we screamed and laughed in excitement while riding over the clearest ocean water I have ever seen. It was light blue and turquoise, sparkling under the sun like a sea of gems. We couldn’t have picked a more beautiful day. The clouds in the sky were white, fluffy and shapely, placed specifically to decorate the sky like jewelry adorns the body. The motor boat stopped halfway to the island where the water was shallow and we were told to jump out of the boat and take a moment to swim. So we did. We took off our life jackets, striped down to our bathing suits, and jumped into the Caribbean Sea. It was amazing! The water was as clear as a sanitized swimming pool and was only about 4 and a half feet high, so it stopped at my chest. The salt in the ocean burned our eyes, but we were so ecstatic that we didn’t mind. I felt like I was in a dream, the beauty of this place was surreal. And just to add the Dominican feel to this moment, I have to mention that one of the boat drivers brought out a bottle of Rum and was pouring plastic glasses full so half of the students on my trip were sipping rum in the middle of the Caribbean at 11 am. Like I said, surreal.

We got back on the motor boat and about 15 minutes later we arrived to Isla Saona (Saona Island) which is a tiny, remote island off the Dominican Republic’s coast and that is sometimes used to film movies that need a “deserted island” setting. It looked like an advertisement for heaven. Soft, white sand, crystal clear water, palm trees surrounded by butterflies; I felt like I was in a postcard. The beauty of Isla Saona was unbelievable. The only thing on the island that we saw other than its own nature were beach chairs, a volleyball net, and two picnic covering areas. Under one covering people were dancing salsa, bachata, and merrengue, and under the other was food. There weren’t any hotels, no roads, no pollution, just pure beauty. There weren’t even that many tourists. There were about 100 people that we saw on the island in total but we had our own strip of the beach to ourselves including an open bar with as much rum and beer as you want. I spent the day in the water soaking up a golden tan while delighting in God’s majesty. I could have stayed there forever, just me, the sun, the beach, and the butterflies.

While my friend, Arcena, and I were playing in the water, a man joined us. He had brown hair with blue swimming trunks and shades on his face and started a conversation with us in Spanish. We found out he was an Argentinean on vacation. We then proceeded to have a full conversation in Spanish! The conversation flowed so naturally that I forgot I was speaking Spanish. A couple other tourists from Brazil joined our conversation except they spoke Portuguese. I spoke to them in Spanish since it is similar and they were amazed when I later told them that I was actually an American and my primary language is English. So here I was, in the Caribbean ocean off the coast of the Dominican Republic having a conversation in Spanish with a man from Argentina and a Brazilian who spoke Portuguese. I still can’t believe it.

As the day progressed, the other students in my program quickly became drunker and drunker from the free rum and soon became very entertaining to watch. A couple of them were sprawled out on the shore, passed out from too many shots of the cheap rum. One girl was crying on her beach chair and speaking nonstop slurred Spanish while proclaiming how beautiful the island was, it was quite sad and yet hilarious at the same time. I didn’t want to leave, but soon it was time to get on the boat to go back to our foreign homes. So I waved goodbye to my isla de paraiso from the sail boat we were taking back to the bus. I discovered on this sail boat (my first time ever on a sail boat) that I am susceptible to seasickness and that I prefer to swim in water rather than ride on top of it for too long.

The excursion to Isla Saona made me happy to be doing this program again. My homesickness was an inevitable phase, but now I’m ready and excited to continue my studies and finish off my program strongly. That one day made everything I’ve experienced thus far worth it. I’m learning to do everything that I wanted; to love others, to grow closer to God, and to speak Spanish. Isla Saona helped show me that I am maturing into the person I’m supposed to be. It was a little piece of heaven that God left here on earth, and there, on that beautiful, glorious Saturday, the butterflies carried a glimpse of the blessings that await me on their wings.

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind

Al Menos mi Espanol es Mejor

My Spanish is improving. With class 3 hours a day and then my internship for about 6 hours after class, my nights typically end with my brain spinning faster than Dorothy’s house in the twister from the Wizard of Oz. Some days I even catch myself thinking in Spanish. Well, it’s more like Spanglish, Spanish with some English thrown in, but it’s not intentional my brain is just becoming accustomed to thinking in that way. My English spelling is horrific. I’m glad I’m typing this so I can spell check otherwise anyone reading this would seriously believe that I suffer from dyslexia (and ironically I spelled this word correctly without the little squiggly red line appearing!). But I am able to hold conversations and understand when people talk slowly and are speaking directly to me. However when Dominicans speak to each other in Spanish I feel like I never learned Spanish at all because I still won’t understand a word they are saying.

I’ll be at my internship talking to my reporter Julio in Spanish, and we will be talking so naturally and without me thinking too hard that if he goes somewhere and then comes back, I’ll start talking to him in English because I forget that we were speaking in Spanish because I understood him. The educated Dominicans (also normally the ones with more money) speak much clearer Spanish that is easier to understand, just like in the US. The ones, who come from a lower-income neighborhood slur their words together, talk fast, don’t annunciate, and use slang words that are impossible to translate. They could be speaking Chinese for all I know. They say that Dominican Republic Spanish is the hardest Spanish to understand because it is like Ebonics in the US, also derived from their African roots. But if I can learn Spanish here, then every other type of Spanish should be a piece of chocolate cake.

Speaking of chocolate cake, I miss US cake. And ice cream. And cereal! Down here they eat Corn Flakes and call every brand of cereal corn flakes and I miss my sugary, cavity giving Captain Crunch Berries and Fruit Loops, Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Apple Jacks. All of us here are getting homesick. I haven’t had a hot shower in almost a month. I’ve lost at least 8 pounds since I’ve been down here. My host family has started to become more diverse with food, but I’m still just missing our American tasting milk, and hamburgers, and pizza, and spaghetti!

In class the other day my teacher brought in pictures of food for us to learn new vocabulary words. Then, he gave us Chinese food menus for us to pretend like we were ordering food at a restaurant. I am craving Chinese food. General Tzu chicken with broccoli and white rice, Shrimp Lo-Mein, my mouth is watering at the thought. But in class, I began to notice how much weight I lost. I gripped my hands around my thigh and was able to connect my fingers. I lost it. I stormed out the classroom as if someone insulted my mother. I went to the bathroom to breathe. I took a deep breath to calm myself down and realized that it wasn’t that serious. You’re just being dramatic, Alyssa.

I took another deep breath, walked back to my class and told the teacher, “Lo siento. Yo tuve un momento.”

I’m sorry. I had a moment.

"I am Strong, I am Invinicible-"

Do you remember in middle school when you were trying to pass a note to your friend in class but she wasn’t looking in your direction so you “pssssst” at your friend to get their attention? Walking the streets of Santo Domingo, that “pssssssst”-ing follows you wherever you go. You know how Mexicans whistle? Well Dominicans “pssssst”. It’s the most annoying thing ever. Because our ears are trained to automatically turn and look in the direction of the “psssssst” in expectation of an urgent request for your immediate attention only to find a dirty, perverted stare of a Dominican man whispering words in Spanish that I’m happy I can’t understand.

In my Spanish class, we had a discussion about these men and the way they treat women. Some people in my class think that Dominican men are only expressing their beauty and can’t contain themselves when they see a pretty woman and want to share their feelings. I disagree. The men here will “pssst” at anything with legs. Fat, ugly, no hair, no teeth, shoot she could be blind and only have one leg and they would still “pssst” at her like she was Halle Berry. The one Haitian girl in my class, Natalie, said, “You’re a woman.” Like because I was a woman what did I expect? Like the treatment I was receiving from men ogling me like I was walking pornography came with me being a woman was as natural as having a monthly period.

“And? I don’t care if I am a woman. God created Adam and Eve equally. I am not just some sex toy, I am a human being with a mind and deserve to be treated with respect!” I blurted this out in Spanish before I had time to realize how furiously I had reacted. I forgot that there are people in this world who TRULY view women as nothing more than sex, as nothing more than a pretty face and nice legs. I can’t imagine being raised in a country where these ideals and standards were prominent. I know the US isn’t perfect, and that there is still injustice and that some people still share these same beliefs about women, but at least in the US, I can file a lawsuit if I feel I’m being discriminated because of my sex.

I’ve never been proud to be an American before coming here, but now I’m starting to realize all of the simple freedoms we take for granted, especially the rights we've acquired as women. I miss you, United States.

- The Girl with the Monkey Mind

Sundays are for webcam

Me and my two year old cutie pie brother, Hosea.. I tried to give him some lessons about American dance culture

His first encounters with webcam

Isn't he adorable?

<<<------- Me and Darjennie

And You Think The Subway is Packed

My legs haven’t looked this ugly since I was five years old. They are covered in more scabs than a young Tony Hawk practicing for a skateboard competition. No, I’m not skating down here in the DR; however I am getting viciously attacked by the mosquitoes like I just performed an act of terrorism against their home. They are worse than the lotuses from the Egyptian plague. They are EVERYWHERE! In the house, outside the house, at school, in the movie theater they are even in my shower. Getting bit isn’t even the worse part; it’s the aftermath when the itching occurs. It’s gotten so bad that instead of scratching with my nails I use my scalp brush to ease the itches. So if you ever decide to visit Santo Domingo, bug repellent is a necessity.

Now that I’ve gotten that out, I realize that I haven’t been discussing the CULTURE as much as I should. So that’s our topic today. Be prepared for randomness because my brain has a tendency to jump (I told you I have a monkey mind), but here we go.

PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION: To get to and from school each morning, Arcena and I, as well as other students here, take a public car. The public car is a combination of a taxi and a bus. They ride up and down the streets and pick you up so if I need to go 10 blocks up the street it will take me and I just tell the driver when I want to get off. The thing about public cars is that you aren’t the only passenger. The drivers try to cram as many people in the car as possible, normally 4 in the back and two in the front passengers seat into a tiny old boxed 1990’s Honda. These cars are the definition of “to’re up”. The doors are literally hanging by their hinges and the insides are sometimes missing cushion. So you’re crammed into these little cars that could possibly break down at any moment with six strangers who only speak Spanish in 88 degree weather. Pretty awesome, right? I have officially been packed like a Mexican. I actually wish we had them in the US because they are extremely convenient. They are only 20 pesos which is less than a dollar and they run frequently so you don’t have to wait 20 minutes for a bus or pay $20 dollars for a cab back in the US. I just wonder what would happen if the driver got into a wreck and you got hurt, who would you sue? I think that’s why they are illegal in the States.

There are over 1 million Dominicans living in New York City. I now understand why they live there because it must remind them of home. Dominicans drive like lunatics! If there are two lanes, they create four. They run lights, I’ve never seen anyone use a turning signal, and motorcycles regularly drive the wrong way on a one way street. It’s chaos. But ironically, I have yet to witness an accident. Organized chaos is what my friend calls it.

The Dominican Republic is a third world country so I was expecting our money ,to be worth WAY more down here, however I was mistaken. The things down here are just as expensive as they are in the US if not more expensive down here. Especially the food and beauty supplies. I went to the farmacia (pharmacy) to buy some sun block and it was 750 pesos. That is over $20 US dollars. I think it’s so expensive because it is imported and since the US produces almost everything, it’s more expensive out here. For some reason I thought all countries were like us and that they had their own brands. They do have some like Rica, which produces their milk and juices, but they don’t ---> [public car driver] make nearly as much of their own materials as we do which is probably why they have more poverty and higher unemployment. If they had the funds to develop better technology to create and export their own materials they would be able to stimulate their economy however they rely on the US and other countries for most of their supplies. Gas here is about $6 per gallon... so next time it rises in the US, I will not complain!

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind

Soledad- I'm taking your job!

I am one blessed girl.

So I came to the Dominican Republic with absolutely no expectations, no hopes or wishes or grand plans; I just came because I wanted to study abroad. I signed up to take a Spanish class and a Community Service class so I thought I would be spending time helping the community at an orphanage with little skinny naked children like the ones on the infomercials or volunteering at a homeless shelter. I had no idea that this gigantic opportunity was coming.


When I found out that I was going to be interning at a Dominican Republic TV News Station, my heart dig a backflip. I was more excited than a die hard Californian will be if the Laker's win the NBA Playoffs. Everyday I will be going out into the city with a reporter and then in the evenings I write my own tv news script about the stories we covered during the day. Oh, and by the way, this is all happening in Spanish! No one at this company speaks English fluently (atleast no one that I have met) and my reporter knows only a few random words like "Let's go" and "Hello, my name is". Now if you don't understand my excitement, let me reitterate that being a reporter is my dream job so this internship not only looks fantastic on my resume, but is teaching me valuable information and allowing me to do more things than I would ever be able to do at a network TV news station in the States. I figure if I can master the art of journalism in Spanish, then just IMAGINE how insanely amazing I will be in English, my native tongue!

The craziest part about all of this, is that it's so random. I didn't expect to be doing anything like this while I was down here. It's like I was just strolling along the street and a winning lottery ticket fell on my head. I told my friend Greg how I felt about all of this. I told him how great God is because I didn't do anything to receive these blessings. This incredible internship and the imergence of such perfect friendships are things that just happened without me lifting a finger.

"Delight yourself in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart." Psalms 37:4

I'm just so thankful and gracious to Him. I'm overwhelmed with contentment right now. Even though things may be rocky sometimes, I've never felt so whole and had my mind be so at peace. Maybe God is finally helping that monkey in my mind rest for awhile.


-The Girl With the Monkey Mind

My Very Own Miley Cyrus in the DR

Check out me and my host sister being goofy-------

Or listen to her sing!!!

Yo Quiero Taco Bell

I cried two times since I’ve been here. The first was for God, the second out of self-pity. I decided to go with my family to their Dominican Christian Evangelist church and I loved it. There church was no different than a small Christian church you may find in the U.S. except the sermon was in Spanish. The church was filled with the Holy Spirit’s warmth and energy. It started with praise and worship songs, followed by a break out session, then more songs, then the Pastor spoke and then there was more singing.

I couldn’t stop smiling at this little girl who was standing up front with the band. She was the band leader’s daughter and couldn’t have been any older than four. She was dressed in an all pink outfit that read “daddy’s girl” across the chest and had two long braided pigtails draped over her shoulders. She stood with the other singers holding a microphone in her hand and was singing her little heart out to lyrics she barely knew, just moving her little mouth in the formations that produced similar sounds as the rest. The main thing about this little girl that kept calling my attention was her right eye. It was red and swollen and hung lazily on her face. I don’t know if she had pink eye or if that is just how it is naturally and I also couldn’t tell if she might be slower in the head than other kids her age. But the one thing that shone as bright and evident as the sun was the glowing love that she possessed. My eyes were glued to the passion she exuded as she sang from her big soul that fit snuggly inside her tiny frame. She grasped her microphone with more dedication to the word’s being sung to God than I have ever seen from anyone three times her size.

Another young girl that caught my eye was the friend of mi hermana named Bianca. Bianca is in high school and is very pretty. She was dressed in tight jeans and heels, typical Latina style, and carried an air of confidence like she would a purse. Complete with braces, a little acne, and lack of experience with makeup, she seemed like any other girl her age but yet she had an energy that everyone seemed to notice. She was one of those girls that lit up the room when she walked in. She seemed carefree and lovely. The type of girl you want to hang around and be friends with because everything just seems to go her way. And when she danced, it was ethereal. Her body moved with the fluidity of water. She was one of two girls dancing but it seemed the room was only watching Bianca. How her long arms encircled her head as she danced like long grass swaying in the wind, smiling the whole time with her braces beaming.

I watched her thinking in my head how much I wanted to be that carefree, beautiful, magnetic type of girl like the one twirling on stage before me. My heart sat heavy with sadness when abruptly, a voice in my mind said back to me powerfully, “You are. You are that girl, Alyssa.” And I just started crying. In the middle of their dance as the two girls came together in the center of the stage, tears began to flow as I realized that to God I was and have always been that girl that I so desperately want to be. That I am loved. That He has saved me and blessed me unbelievably and that truth, that powerful beautiful splendid truth overwhelmed me.

So you would assume that after having such a great connection with God earlier that day that I would have transcended into a place of self contentment, but ironically it didn’t. Instead later that same night my family tried to feed me arroz y pollo (rice and chicken) with beans for the fifth consecutive tonight, I bursted into tears once again. Half of the reason my digestive track was having a nervous breakdown was because of the adjustment to eating their food. I literally did the Charlotte from the first Sex in the City movie. My body could not handle eating any more rice, chicken and beans! I explained to my host mom my dilemma and she replied with a nonchalant “oh well” because that was what they ate every night because they can’t afford to switch up their food. So I called my REAL mother back home in the States and I felt better.
This experience is really showing me how grateful I am to be an American if not for any other beautiful reason than the simple satisfaction that I receive from our deliciously diverse food.

Theraflu to the Rescue!

I thought I was going to die. For two days my body ached, my head hurt, and my stomach was doing all types of disgusting things in conjunction to my digestive system that I’d rather not discuss. I had caught the Dominican gripe.

At first hearing this word I thought I was infected with the some sort of Dominican version of swine flu and that I was soon doomed, however I pulled out my handy dandy dictionary and discovered that gripe is the Spanish word for the flu. Although this illness wasn’t life threatening, it still was horrible. I sent my abuela to buy me my favorite medicine for this type of sickness, Theraflu lemon flavored and just tried to get my rest and sleep it off. My abuela apparently had alternate plans because she wouldn’t stop yelling at me. My cute little sweet tweety bird granny with pouty lips and a pouchy stomach, who pinches my cheeks, gives me tight hugs and whom I normally love turns into a Nazi straight from Hitler’s own personal army. Her finger waved in front of my face with her voice at full pitch speaking in a language I can barely understand all while I am feverish is not a good combination. Trying to translate a language while you’re sick is like a trip to the dentist, unnecessarily painful. All I honestly wanted her to do was shut up, my brain couldn’t handle it. On the verge of having an angry outbreak, I was saved by mis amigos, Greg and Arcena.

I was so happy to hear English I nearly cried in relief. They came to bring me my homework from class that I missed and make sure I was feeling okay. It was while hanging in my room on this sickly day that we proclaimed ourselves a trio like on the Lizzie McGuire Show. Do yall remember that show? With Lizzy, Gordo, and Miranda? Arcena declared herself Miranda since she says she has always been the weird friend therefore I became Lizzie and Greg became Gordo. Again, my picture perfect friends and for once I’m the main character. Greg started showing us card tricks and soon we had a game of cards going when my Nazi abuela came back and I was informed that I wasn’t allowed to have a boy in my room despite the fact that I was sickly, Arcena was also in the room, and it was 5 o clock in the evening. Oh and I was also informed that if I needed something out of the fridge, to ask my abuela and not get it myself.

Now I don’t know if it was because I was sick or what but I was quick to anger that day and these new rules made me even more upset. What harm is having a boy in my room at 5 in the afternoon with another girl in there. We clearly aren’t doing anything but playing cards. And I can’t go in the fridge if I need something? But when I first got here they told me to make myself at home. I felt my emotions running ramped and decided to calm down. This is their house and they are being gracious enough to have a complete stranger live with them for 2 months so I can at least respect their rules regardless of how stupid I think they are. What I think doesn’t matter sometimes; sometimes a rule is a rule. Now, the refrigerator thing really bothered me (how do you trust a stranger to live with you but not use your fridge?) But I decided maybe I didn’t understand clearly because of the language barrier and asked again. Clarity came. They weren’t telling me NOT to open the fridge ever, they were saying if I needed something particular to ask.

This small encounter seems simple, but it taught me a good lesson. Sometimes we tend to always think the worst and assume things because we don’t completely understand. We take what we know and distort it into what we believe to be true, instead of clarifying and properly communicating to find the actual truth. I think our pride gets in the way and it’s difficult for us to humble ourselves, and in result we ruin relationships by our own preconsumptions.

But anyways I feel MUCH better now. They next day I went back to school and that night felt so energized and happy to be healthy I spent a good thirty minutes listening to Beyonce and while dancing and lip sinking in front of my mirror pretending I was shooting a music video. It’s crazy how I was able to have so much fun that night, just dancing in my room with God in my heart and my headphones in my ears.

Hasta luego (and I PROMISE more culturally stuff coming soon!)

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind

I Should Write a Letter to the Author

Before I left for the Dominican Republic I went to Barnes & Noble’s to find a Spanish English Dictionary. But as soon as I entered the store, books beckoned me like they were prostitutes in Amsterdam. Each cover carried its own seductive presence that my curious, book loving self couldn’t resist. I spent over an hour strolling along the shelves full of literature. I flipped through the pages of any book that caught my eye’s attention with more excitement than when you are at an ice cream parlor sampling each flavor on a miniature spoon. The words spoon fed my mind.

I decided that I needed a good book to read over the summer. A “summer read” as most book lovers call those type of books that take you on someone else’s adventure as you lazily partake in from the comfort of your own chair while reading on your porch (or in my case, an apartment balcony). After some more browsing, my eyes rested upon a book with three words on the cover, Eat Pray Love. I was sure I had seen the cover before however I proceeded to turn the book over to read the description and discovered that the book was about a woman’s search for self during her travels to Italy, India, and Indonesia. Perfect! Something told me to buy it, so I did and I’ve been reading it since my arrival to Santo Domingo. I’m trying to rush through the book because I feel guilty reading this much English since I’m trying to become fluent in Spanish, but it’s just so good! But anyway, when I stumbled across this line placed halfway in the book, I couldn’t help but laugh aloud:

"Like most humanoids, I am burdened with what the Buddhist call the “monkey mind”- "

Stop right there. Until Mr. Miller said I had a monkey mind I had never heard that expression before in my life (and this is also after I chose this blog name) and yet, here it is, in black ink. Page 132, second paragraph, second line, first word: monkey mind. Some may call this ironic, others coincidence, but I call it God. He’s just at work as usual.

Mr. Miller told me before I left that I need to learn to focus in order to enhance my life. He assigned me with the task to figure out my goals and to focus on doing things one at a time. Now to me this just sounds crazy. How on earth am I supposed to just pick ONE thing to focus on and dedicate my time to when I have so many passions and interests? Then he asked me to do the unthinkable; to make a decision.

My teeth clench at this concept that is more foreign to me than when my host family gave me hot milk to drink with dinner. Learning to speak Spanish in two months sounds more feasible to me than learning how to be decisive. It takes me 20 minutes just to decide what I want to eat at a restaurant and that’s after I’ve already asked every waiter that passes by my table what their favorite dish is.

But nonetheless, this is my personal assignment for my study abroad, to focus on a single issue. My thesis statement still remains unknown. I feel like with a little more time and exploration of myself in this new country may allow my focus point to show itself to me unexpectedly, like what happens to the main character in my book. I know I’ve been giving you all a lot of personal information and you’re probably more interested in the culture, but I promise all out that will be divulged as well. It's just crazy how this opportunity is teaching me so much more than I would have ever imagined spiritually, socially, and intellectually. I’ve been so busy trying to get settled that I haven’t been doing too much exploring, but we still have 7 weeks to go. Until then I guess I will just eat, pray, and love.

Bonisimo!

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind

A Piece of Peace

If I could’ve hand created my friends from a workshop like Build-A-Bear except it was called Build-A-Friend and I could personally hand stuff them with my sense of humor, hobbies, and passions, give them names and even insert individual voice sayings complimenting my personality; my friends here would still be better than my own Build-A-Friend version. And that my friend, is something only a divine type of guy who I call God can create. I have experienced a day of pure contentment and happiness with these Build-A-Friends. This day was like Gandhi on drugs in its perfect simplicity.

Greg called me while Arcena and I were chatting away in her room and told me, “Grab your poetry, tell Arcena to grab her guitar and meet me outside in ten minutes.”

We followed his instructions and soon we were strolling Malecon, the ocean front strip that leads to a pier on the Caribbean Sea, with our music and poetry. We sat on an empty bench facing the Sea and Arcena pulled out her guitar and started singing her own songs. We watched the blue wave’s crash against the rocks as we vibed to the guitar strings being plucked to create harmonic vibrations that blended perfectly with the sound of the sea. Arcena’s voice carried God’s words like the wings of angels, her voice floated gracefully with lessons that life had taught her about her Creator and her faith that was inspiring and beautiful. Greg sat on the sidewalk in front of us with his legs crossed and arms folded; bouncing his LA cap fitted head and started spitting poetry. His words were rocks dropped in a pond hitting your ear drums with a splash and then leaving ripples in your mind. Arcena would then sing the chorus and then I would share my words. And that was the rotation of our art. We were sharing bits of our past that still thrived in our souls in our own creative forms, getting to know each other on a whole new level.

Afterwards, we walked up the pier and grabbed some food to eat. DOMINICAN CULTURE INSIGHT: Dominicans don’t like Americans. Almost every time me and my friends do something where we have to pay, they try and jip us. That day when I went to the pier and bought a pizza, the pizza combo was 80 pesos. I gave them 100 pesos and the guy didn’t give me my change. I had to ask for it after patiently waiting and he replied with an “oh!” This has not only happened this one time. When we are riding in public cars, they try and keep the change. And if you ask “Cuento cuesta?” to something that has a known Dominican price, they may tell you more than what they would tell a Dominican. This bothers me. I would never try and take advantage of someone from a different country in the States. That’s not loving your neighbor like you would love yourself at all.

But regardless of that little incident, I got my change so all was good. We ate outside under an umbrella so relaxed and at ease. Back home I use to dream about doing these simple things: hanging with friends by the ocean, reading and writing poetry, talking and laughing about nothing. All of us just on the same page. I sent a pray up to God in thanks for the opportunity to experience complete satisfaction and content in this moment of simplicity with my friends. I’ve never had people who just fit me so perfectly. How random is it for me to discover these people on an island in the Caribbean by complete acts of faith without me even searching or expecting to meet such amazing friends.

This thought was further explored when Arcena and I had Bible study in her room later that night. The topic was forgiveness but we ended up roaming to other biblical ideas including surrender. We discussed how when you give your life to God and give up worldly obsessions, God will give you better blessings than you could have ever imagined. My entire life I have prayed for friends like Arcena and Greg. Friends that understood me, respected me, loved me, and liked to do the same fun, crazy, simple, lovely things that I liked to do. And after I stopped chasing that dream, and redirected my focus to chasing God and His splendor, that is the moment my biggest wish was granted. God is good.

I believe that the key to happiness is contentment. We Americans are always striving for more. We’re constantly working and waiting until we’re older or until we have more money or until we lose 10 pounds, etc. Most of us (and I know there are some exceptions to this generalization) don’t live in the NOW. We are constantly dwelling on the past or planning our future instead of just enjoying the moment. Every day here thus far I have been making a deliberate effort to be in the present, to be happy, to be content, and to love me in my current state no matter what it is because this moment will never return again. It’s like what Brad Pitt said in Troy,

“The gods envy us. They envy us because we're mortal. Because any moment might be our last. Everything's more beautiful because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind


[edit: I forgot to add in the last post that Greg also steps, skates, dances, and is an LA biker]

"Christopher Columbus Sailed the Ocean Blue-"

Every girl wants to dance. To be swept off her feet by a man that leads, as she follows the pulls that turn into twists and the twists that turn into turns that result in blissful laughter and safety: or at least the safety found in laughter. Dancing, to a woman, is freedom. Life’s hardships and turmoil pushed out of her head and replaced with more concerning issues like, which foot do I step with? And, are my hips moving with the beat? I think it’s interesting how despite your culture, some desires (like a girl dancing with a handsome charming man) remain the same. We all want to be desired, we all want to love, we all want to be free, we all want to dance.

I noticed this the night myself and some other students from the study abroad program decided to all go out one night after our all day excursion. We spent the day exploring the historic side of Santo Domingo, the oldest modern city in the Western hemisphere. A tour bus took the other 15 students and me in the program around to various sites while an older Dominican tour guide broke down the historic significance.

The first place we visited was a museum that foretold the story of the Dominican culture through three statues placed outside its doors. The first statue was of an Arwak Native American warrior with a noble face and a tall spear gripped firmly in his right hand. The second, a Spaniard Catholic clothed in robes while thrusting a cross forward and clutching the Bible in his other hand. And the last statue, a strong beautiful half naked African slave with his arms outreached over his head to God with chains on his wrists and nothing but his own fists in his hands. The Dominican Republic today is the product of the combination of these three symbols of unique cultures that have blended over the centuries.

Since I myself am “mixed” (my mother is Dutch-American and my father is African-American), I find this a good fact to know because to me skin color is only important as we chose to make it. A Labrador retriever is still a Labrador retriever despite its fur being white, gold, brown or black. Humans aren’t less or greater because of a color. Color is simply the reflection of light. In darkness our hearts all beat to the same rhythm.

<-- (President's office)

During our excursion we also visited the place where the first recognized speech about human rights was given by this pastor who was giving a speech to the Spaniards to discourage using Native Americans as slaves. He argued that Native Americans human beings just like them. It still boggles my mind that we as people could look into another person’s eyes and say that because we spoke different languages, wore different clothes, and didn’t look exactly the same that we weren’t of the same species. Didn’t we both walk on two legs? But anyway, I won’t bore you with the other history we learned that day because if that was your interest I’m sure Google could do a much better job at explaining Hispaniola, Christopher Columbus,, and the constant dispute between the Dominican Republic and Haiti than I can. Plus, my friends and I were more concerned about taking pictures of each other than listening to the tour guide talk about the year Juan Pablo Duarte died so I honestly don’t remember much of what was said.


But any-who, let me introduce you to two of my closest friends down in the DR so far. First there’s Arcena also known as mi prima. Arcena lives right next door to me, so we have developed that old fashioned kind of friendship. That God pre-destined and if heaven forbid we lived in a world where cell phones didn’t exist nor was there a Facebook, we would still be friends because we don’t communicate that way. We meet up, go to school together, walk around, talk, and explore via foot! I’ll use my host mom’s word and describe Arcena as “sweet”. Arcena is my same age and is a God Girl. She always puts God first. Even with her boyfriend, Michael, she says that she told him from the beginning, “You can be my boo on the side, but Jesus is already and will always be my first boyfriend.” Arcena is dark and slender with a flower permanently attached to her head aside her natural curly hair. She’s a singer with a unique voice that is hard to even find artists to compare her with. Try and imagine a Chrisette Michelle, Janelle Monae, but with more spirituality. And to my envy, she also plays the guitar. She has morals and values that she holds to high regards with a smile on her face and a laugh preparing to escape her lips at any moment (and if something is funny enough, maybe a snort too). She’s beautiful, natural, with bright eyes and a bright soul. What I love about Arcena and me is that we didn’t force our friendship. It just sort of happened.

And that’s sort of what happened to our other primo, Gregorio. Greg also lives in our vicinity and Greg, (I smile while trying to find a way to describe Greg). Greg is like an iPhone in a world full of Nokias. He’s a completely different breed. Greg is that one person you know who can do everything. He speaks amazing Spanish, writes speeches, travels with the Mayor, acts, cooks, does spoken word poetry, performs magic card tricks and on top of all that, he told us that miming is his “spiritual gift.” Greg is a character to say the least. Like me he wants to become and International Correspondent so that automatically makes me ready to befriend him. Some people find these over the top and overly boisterous people annoying, but I can see the light of his good heart and spirit shining brighter than any of his other qualities.

So Alyssa, Arcena, and Greg, that’s the trio. My quest for whatever just came with two companions. Each here for their own divine purposes as well. Good to know I’m not in this solo, and if I ever need a break from Spanish I have people to keep me company in a comfortable language. Columbus had three ships, I have two friends.

And I don’t think I mentioned this, but I’m trying to film a documentary while I’m down here. Still haven’t found a topic. Hopefully I’ll find some inspiration soon! If you have any ideas please let me know. What do you think would be interesting to film in the DR or what type of issues intrigue you? Also check out more picturess from my Santo Domingo outing on FB.

Adios!

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind

Cold Showers, Mangoo, and a Ceiling Fan

So what’s it like living down here?

Well, looking out the window while landing in the plane you see beautiful palm trees swaying, the blue ocean shimmering and you think you’ve just arrived to paradise. However as soon as you step out of the airport and into the humidity, your hair may tell you otherwise as it begins to frizz. It’s hot. And I don’t mean regular hot because normally I love the heat. I mean it is so hot that you may cool off some by sticking your head inside an oven. It’s sticky and humid to the point where you need to take at least two showers a day because when night time hits and you’re scratching your skin from all the mosquito bites, you can see the dirt piling up underneath your nails. But even with the extreme heat, I love it here! Mi familia that I am living with has to be the best host family ever (although my new friend Greg would probably beg to differ).

The abuela who I call my “Mama” has to be the sweetest lady I’ve ever met. She no more than 5 foot tall and always welcomes me with hugs and kisses while pinching my cheeks and crying out “Que linda! Que linda!” (How cute!) She doesn’t speak a word of English but is extremely patient, kind, and loving to me despite my inability to understand what she is saying half the time.

There is mi hermana, DarJennie, who can sing her ass off! She is 14, skinny, and has a voice bigger than Christina Aguilera’s. I love her to death. It’s so easy to forget that she doesn’t speak English because she looks like a regular 14 year old American girl you would see in the States, Miley Cyrus fan and all. Then there’s the 2 year old boy, Hosea, and the 3 month baby boy, whose name I forget at the moment honestly.

My room is WAY better than I expected. It’s bigger than my dorm room at school so that should speak volumes. I have a full size bed, a vanity dresser, a full length mirror, and (thank the Lord) a ceiling fan. By the end of the first day my head was pounding so vigorously from trying to understand all this Spanish being thrown at me I thought it was going to explode. When the working mom came home and spoke in English I almost cried in relief.

The next day, all of the students in the study abroad program had to take a Spanish placement test to see what level our Spanish is on for the classes we will be taking this semester. There are three levels: Basic, Intermediate, and Advanced. I was placed in Intermediate which isn’t so bad considering I haven’t taken a single Spanish class since high school.

After class, most of us bombard the computer lab to connect to our family and friends so they can know that we are alive and safe. I never saw the importance of social media until now (I always saw it as egotistical and narcissistic but that’s a different topic) but it really is an asset when out of the country and your phone company is trying to charge you an international fee of $3 per minute. There is another girl who is living in the same apartment complex as me named, Arcena, so we take a taxi that her host mom pre-paid for back to the house.

At my new house the family is very warm and receptive. Catering to me like I’m a hotel guest and they’re expecting tips, but I try not to make a fuss out of anything. Dinner was a traditional Dominican dish called Mangoo. Mangoo is mashed plantains with white cheese on top. The plantains tasted like mashed potatoes and the cheese was so thick I thought it was meat at first. It tasted alright. The water cuts off after around 8:30 ish so I took a shower (a COLD shower, no hot water fyi) and as soon as I hit the bed, I was knocked out! The sun wears you out down here so most people wake up early and go to bed early.

With so much stuff to take in I honestly have barely had time to do anything else but just that. Just sit back and figure out how everything operates down here and then after that I can spread my own wings and try to fly. But it’s only the beginning of my two months and so I have time to first observe from my branch on this beautiful, humid island.


Hasta lluego!

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind

So what do you think, could you live with a family in a different culture who don’t even speak your language? It’s honestly not as weird as I thought it would be, but I think a lot of us are too afraid to try. What do you think?

What did you call me?!

The toilet won’t flush. I tried at least three times to stop the white toilet paper floating in its own demise from staring up at me, but it refuses. The paper blatantly declines to take its route down the wet pipe path to who knows where and instead seems to find it okay to float in the toilet bowl, even though the water surrounding it has already ventured onward. I guess it wants to be difficult. And that would be okay if I was at home, but I’m in a house with my new family in the Dominican Republic and I don’t want to leave a bad first impression.

Let me explain. Today is day three of my summer in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republican. I will be living here for two months through a study abroad program with my school, Howard University, where I will be studying the Spanish language and the Dominican culture.

For a place with no hot water, no air-conditioning and no Wi-Fi, it’s not so bad. The whole island isn’t like this of course but my host family’s apartment is. For two months I will be living with a family that barely speaks English, but exudes a warmth and kind spirit that transcends our language barrier. But before I get into my new life here, let me debrief you a little.

My name is Alyssa McLendon and I have just finished my sophomore year at Howard University in Washington, DC. I am a Journalism major with a concentration in Broadcast News, on paper my minor is Psychology but that’s only because I had to pick one. In reality my minor is Undecided. Long term, I want to become an international correspondent for a major network television station. In other words, travel the world for free while doing something I love: reporting.

I decided to study abroad in la Republica Dominica to (as I so eloquently phrased it in my application letter) “immerse myself in the culture and language and become a fluent Spanish speaker and an international student.” A few days before I ventured off on my trip, I wandered into this little book collection on the third floor in my school’s library while on my way to turn in a late paper to a professor. I entered the medium sized room with wide eyes wondering why I never noticed it before. The small library was full of colorful pictures and quotes from legends like Gandhi, Toni Morrison, and my favorite, Malcolm X.

“May I help you?”

An older man with a near bald head and round glasses asked me. Without removing my thirsty eyes from the stacks of books I replied, “What is this place?”

I never knew this secret room even existed and all the books! My knees grow weak at the sight of books like a child would at the sight of a Chucky Cheese building. I absolutely love to read.

The man sat peacefully at his desk and proceeded to tell me that it was his private collection of books as well as the African-American department’s library. I eagerly asked if the books were available to check out and he firmly replied, “No.”

“See. That never makes any sense to me,” I started to say. I felt the familiar feeling of one of my famous tangents of philosophical questioning that my Aquarian nature is prone to pump through my veins. “What is the point of having books if they aren’t allowed to be read? They aren’t fulfilling their purpose. Books are meant to be read, not sit on a shelf and collect dust.”

This statement being said to any librarian any where would naturally spark a conversation, however I was soon to find out that this wasn’t your typical librarian and therefore this wasn’t your normal conversation. My statement created more than a spark; it started a forest fire that quickly spread from the topic of books, to school, to my summer plans, to a complete psychoanalysis of my life. The best therapy session I ever had wasn’t with a psychologist, but was with E. Ethelbert Miller, this extremely interesting writer, poet, librarian guy who’s blog you may be reading this from now. Unlike your average librarian whom most of us picture as some old woman with wiry gray hair, thin round spectacles, a pointy nose and a “shhh” permanently attached to her lips, he was quite the opposite (except for the round spectacles). Instead of silencing me, he encouraged me to talk. And being a Broadcast Journalism major I naturally love to talk, so I did.

He listened and laughed and asked questioned until he finally arrived at my diagnosis.

“You have a monkey mind,” Mr. Miller declared matter-of-factly.

“A monkey mind?” I repeated with my face scrunched.

“Yes.” He spoke calmly as he turned his chair to face me. His hands lay gently on his lap as he explained. “You know how a monkey swings from branch to branch? That’s how your mind works. You go from one idea to the next without stopping to fully develop the idea into a product. You need to learn how to focus.”

And that’s how I got started writing this blog. Over the next 2 months I will be journaling my experience and sharing it with whomever stumbles across my entries, in the same way that I stumbled across this opportunity. It may be by luck, choice, or fate. I honestly don’t know. This summer I will try to learn how to decide (and hopefully learn to speak Spanish too) while also making new friends, eating new food, exploring a new country, and if I’m lucky, I’ll leave the Dominican Republic with not only a nice tan, but with a clear realization of myself.


Hasta luego!

-The Girl with the Monkey Mind

p.s. I later found out they don't flush the toilet paper here. You wipe and then throw the paper away in a trash can....


The ocean is 2 blocks away from my host families apartment.






And of course I have WAY more pictures so check back soon or on Facebook :)

The only color that matters is green

Crazy Thought of the Day:

Race really isn't the issue.. it's money.

I'm watching the movie Titanic, and although there are numerous themes in this movie that make me think (especially the devastating thoughts about true love and how I desperately need a Jack Dawson in my life), but one thing that stood out as I watch it for the 56th time... is class based on economic standings.

It normally upsets me when I continue to see people in the Black community obsessed with trying to become white. Not necessarily blatantly, but subconsciously. This can include anything from dressing the way they dress, to perming our hair straight to bleaching cream. It pisses me off how in almost everything we do we are trying to get on "their level".. But what I'm coming to realize is that we aren't really trying to be White. We are trying to be what White stands for.

We are materialistic and all about making money, which is how a vast amount of White people are seen. If all White people were poor and raggedy, I'm pretty sure we wouldn't want to be White. What we want are the luxuries and freedoms we see wealthy Whites represent. Blacks in America have never been the wealthy, because we began here as slaves. We want to be masters. We see Whites floating through life with their Louie bags and Polo shirts, sipping Chardonnay on yachts seemingly without a care in the world. THAT is what I believe we are searching for. We could give a damn about their pale skin color that reddens and peals in the sun.

I believe if we could all afford the luxuries of life, then skin color wouldn't matter. Watching the Titanic, the first-class people treated the people of the third-class like they weren't human; like their lives didn't matter; like how Blacks were viewed in times of slavery. The mother, while boarding the life boat, asks, "Will the lifeboats be seated by class?". Snobbery in the face of an epic disaster. Now, had their been Blacks on the Titanic.. the poor third-class whites (who have been mistreated by the wealthy) would use this same mistreatment towards Black people even though wealthy Whites wouldn't care for either of them (unless the Blacks had money). Race gave poor Whites something to feel good about themselves and oppress others. Why do you think most members of the KKK reside in rural, lower income areas full of "rednecks"?

Immigrants were treated horribly when they first came to the United States because they were 1) different, 2) broke, and 3) had no foundation in the New World. But if they'd had been rich Kings or Queens, the word "immigrant" wouldn't have meant anything.

And in all actuality, some of the things we attach to the stigma of White people is as stereotypical as those applied to other races, except in a more positive light. The wealthiest people in any country: India, China, France, Brazil, Canada, wherever, all probably act more similar to one another than they do a poor person of their same nationality. So when people say to someone, "Why you talkin' so White?" what does that really mean?

We can assume (from pre-existing stigmas) that they are probably speaking with big words, lots of pronunciation, and of topics that stem from: a good education.

So White equals good education? No.

How do you receive a good education? Money.

People don't want to be White, they want to be Rich.

Blacks have become more White in their actions strictly based on their current obsession with achieving wealth and addiction to materials that signify the accomplished wealth. I say that this is based on European influence simply because the original nature of Africans was purely spiritual. Life was based on harmony with nature, family, community and love. Items were swapped through trade, not money.

We need to change what it means "to be" White or Black or anyother color or ethnicity. Why does being Black/ African-American mean "poor, uneducated, gangster, live in ghetto, likes rap music"? And how can we change our definition?

"If we don't talk, we don't heal"

Jill Scott is being called a Racist.

Jill Scott, a grammy award winning R&B soul singer and actress, recently wrote an article in Essence magazine about Inter-racial couples and "the wince" incurred by herself and other black women when she witnesses a successful black man married to a white woman and people are going crazy!

The Essence article simply explains the history of slavery which has left a permanent scar in our subconcious regarding the images of white woman, black woman, and black men. She discusses how the mistreatment of people due to skin color has left her feeling some sort of way when she witnesses inter-racial couples. So what!

Jill Scott isn't racist, she's just being REAL.

The comments following her story are ignorant and consist of people ignoring history and lieing to themselves. Jill Scott doesn't mention anything about her wishing the Black man discussed would have married a Black woman instead of a White woman, nor does she say that they can't be together or love each other, she simply describes her feelings towards the matter. What really disturbs me is how Black women are responding like they don't feel anything when they see the same thing. And if you do or don't, it's a feeling inspired by years of brainwashing to the point where, mentally, its almost natural. She never states that she feels "betrayed". She never states that it's "wrong". All she says is it's a feeling she experiences and feels like other Black women might also experience this feeling and now is the time to analyze why and where is this feeling coming from.

This controversy upsets me because Jill Scott is being discredited and being called a racist simply because she was brave and honest enough to submit her real feelings to the world only to be criticized. And the sadest part, is that the people who are criticizing her are probaly all of her same race; African-Americans! And in particular, African-American women.

Why must we continue to find divisive ways to bring each other down? We are becoming as closed minded as the Europeans that originally enslaved us! Anything that is unique was once declared "savage" and "barbaric"; we now call it "racist" and "prejudice". Stop being so sensitive and shunning people that are being real. Maybe if some of us weren't so busy trying to pretend like the injustices of the past didn't happen, THEN we could move forward. Stop being an Uncle Tom and kissing the Master's ass with all this crap, do you even know who you truly are or are you to busy trying to impress someone else? We can't have progressive change by eliminating what happened and hiding our true feelings. These are conversations we need to have within our communities to recognize the foundation of the problem so we can trace our feelings, and work together to make positive advancements.

So all you who are calling Jill Scott a racist. Please read the article and try to be empathetic, not judmental. And let me know what your comments are.

http://www.essence.com/relationships/commentary_3/commentary_jill_scott_talks_interracial.php

I also encourage anyone who disagrees to read this statement Jill Scott made on CNN to Anchor Tony Harris on Friday, March 26th.

JILL SCOTT: I'm going to take on a lot of different issues and thoughts and feelings. This is a Black woman's magazine and it's for everybody, but it's specifically the viewpoint of a Black woman. that's what i am. so i'm going to continue to write and critically write con accepts, ideas, things that trouble us, frustrate us, make us wonder so we can talk. If we don't talk, we don't heal. That's my whole point of position. I have no issue or problem with interracial love. i'm all for love. Love is the most wonderful thing ever created. So i don't want people to get confused by this. I just wanted to discuss what that little pinch is, what that that quiet little "ouch", are that comes from.

Bad Weather, Good Fortune

It's crazy how the weather can really affect your mood.
When the sun's out, I'm happy, energetic, playful and at peace. But as soon as the clouds come, depression sets in with the rain.

I hate it.

I missed the funeral today because of my self-diagnosed seasonal depression.. which in result made me even more depressed lol. But remarkably.. this post is about God.

Even when I'm in a lost mood, as long as I stay at peace, pray to Him, and think with my faith, everything seems to just fall into place.

On days like those, poetry soothes me. It was a beautiful night with a cool after-rain mist; one of those nights where you can still see the clouds and peak at the moon, and I realized it was Tuesday. Tuesday's are poetry night at Bus Boys & Poets. So I packed my laptop, i pod, and current reading book and walked.


I arrived at Bus Boys and the usual bustle greeted me. I eased my way to the bookstore side to buy my ticket for open mic and took a deep sigh as I read the white sign saying "Open Mic is SOLD OUT."

Oh well, I thought. I might as well download some music while I'm in here.

My eyes scanned the room for a comfy barren spot, when I noticed someone else's eyes following me. While finding my seat, one of the employees at Bus Boys excorted me.
"Is open mic normally sold out?" I asked him curiously.
"Like clock-work."
"Really?"
"Yup. We start selling tickets at 10 in the morning and normally around 3:00 we're sold out," he replied casually. A nice looking guy, probaly a manager since he had a black ear plug coiling his button up shirt. "Were you really interested in the poetry?"
"Yes I really was." I saw that this could maybe be an invitation to see the show. "I walked all the way here. I've never been to the open mic before.. I go to Howard."

I threw it all down with a charming smile. Would he pick up the bait?

"I'll see what I can do."

YES!!!!!

And next thing I knew, I was on stage in Bus Boys & Poets sipping my hot chocolate for the free-ski... These are the times that I'm glad I'm a loner and happy I was born with decent looks and a vagina lol.

But all praise goes to God. It's amazing how He has everything worked out. All we have to do is trust in him. No fear. No worries. No guilt.

Davon Green-Franklin

It’s crazy how death makes you think about life.
It makes you think about love.
It unifies people; brings us together in a way that nothing else can.

I’ve never known someone that’s died before, until now. I had a long distanced aunt that I didn’t know once. But never someone whom I shared in conversation with, looked into their eyes and made a connection with.

At first, when I heard he died, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it at all actually. I don’t know if even believe it now..

It’s funny, because I was watching the movie Avatar when I heard what happened. Crying my eyes out over fictional characters that I developed a strong, emotional connection with over one hour. And while I was watching it, he crossed my mind. I was planning on having an in depth discussion with him about it, ask him what he thought because I had heard him mention the movie more than once, and because Davon tended to have such an interested opinion that I always valued and respected…

Davon was a good soul. He took me to get some medicine once when I was sick; he made an effort to reach out to me that seldom people take the time to do. Davon was a whisper that very few could hear; they just saw people’s lips move. They may have seen the labels: the Kappa, the Pal, the senior. But Davon was so much more than that.

Now I know why no one mentions the bad thing about a person when they die. Because it isn’t relevant. All that matters is what they contributed to the world, the good they had to offer, and their hearts that shone brighter than jewels. Everyone sins, but how many of us can say that we positively contributed to another person’s life?

My tears aren’t for Davon. Davon has transitioned from caterpillar to cocoon and is on his way to floating like a butterfly. He’s in a much better place. My tears are for the life he lived that passed before me that I should have taken advantage of; that I didn’t spend enough time with trying to get to know. They are for the people who we miss out on every single day; for the people that can hold a grudge when life’s too short, and for the people that judge others, spit on their names, and now are feeling so horrible inside because of the words they said against someone whom died too young. My soul aches for those who don’t know love, don’t know God, and therefore don’t know how to appreciate our days here on earth.. I’m at peace because I know Davon is with God, smiling with love in his hearts for all of us who are shedding tears for him. I’m okay because I know that one day, me and him will get to have our conversation about Avatar.