Stories

It was my last day in Belfast.  All of my teaching projects had been completed.  My work was done and I was preparing for a redeye home.  

I had one day left.  

My plan was to make a final site visit to a partnering organization, wander aimlessly for a few hours, and pretend that I would be able to get some sleep before my 2:30 am ride to the airport.  

I met Syann at the bus stop for our final excursion.  Syann, by her own estimation, is multiple decades my senior, though we never actually discussed our ages.  With all of her belongings in two small bags, she was on a journey of her own, a journey that started several weeks before mine, and one that had yet to reach its final mile.

In pursuit of her second masters degree, she was on a six-week expedition to study the correlation of art-making and peace in Northern Ireland. Originally from Australia, though currently studying in Japan for two years, she exuded the type of fierce independence that resemble the women in my life, the ones that helped shape me as a person - the kind of woman that travels the world to study peace and art and culture with everything that she owns in two small backpacks, proud silver hair atop her head.

I want to be like Syann when I grow up.

We spent several days together as she shadowed our art classes, took copious notes, and interviewed anyone that would give her a few minutes of their time, but this would be our final day together.  She was headed to Derry.  I was headed to NYC.

Our final hours together would be spent with Glenn.

Glenn runs Alternatives, an organization designed to use restorative justice with criminal offenders.  

Syann and I spent several hours listening to Glenn tell stories.  

I was feeling anxious when we first arrived.  We had already taken the wrong bus two different times and we were more than 45 minutes late for our appointment.  

I still had to pack and arrange my taxi to the airport.  I was less than interested in a tour of the facility.  I had other things on my mind.  

But then, Glenn started talking.  Glenn started telling stories.

He told us about real people that had impacted his life, whom he clearly loved.  On more than one occasion he had to pause to collect himself through his tears.  

He was passionate, invested, empathetic, and he wore his heart on his sleeve.

I was captivated.  I wanted to hear more.  I wanted to hear as much as he would share.  

Not ironically, he shared that he learned that stories are the most powerful tool for communication, that stories impact people far more than data or statistics.  

I would have missed my flight to listen to more.

Glenn was a good way to spend my final day in Northern Ireland.

As I made my way from the city center back to my home, I found myself reflecting on my time in Northern Ireland. I found myself thinking about Glenn and Syann, then about Darren. 

Darren, the executive director of Beyond Skin, was the reason I came to NI. He made all of my arrangements, found me a place to stay, organized my events, and took me on a cultural tour of Belfast.   He treated me like family, though we had only just met. 

Tessa came to my mind, as well. She ran all of the healing therapy sessions that preceded my art classes for the week. I learned a great deal from Tessa over the course of a few days, not only about the power of sound and its role in healing, but about her own story. 

Northern Ireland brought a plethora of beauty into my world in the form of human stories.  As I reflected on these people, I began to recall the stories that I had been impacted by in my previous trips. 

I have never gone anywhere that hasn’t left an impression on my life in the form of relationship and connection - from the month that I shared with Ben and his family in a mud hut in Kenya, to breaking Ramadan with Anwar in the Negev, to watching Denny and Crystal organize the only educational classes that the kids in the Bateyes would ever go to, to the young refugees from Afghanistan that struggled to find their place in Holland, to the hospitality extended to my niece and me when we lived with Bilikis in Nigeria. 

These faces impacted my life and left an impression on my heart. There isn’t a day that I don’t reflect on the Glenns and Syanns that have inevitably become part of who I am. 

I may never see their faces again. Our paths may only have crossed for a period, one chapter of each other’s stories, but we are forever connected in that shared journey. 

They are a part of my story. I am a part of theirs. 

I am a part of my student’s stories. They are a part of mine. 

The same is true for my colleagues, my friends, my family, everyone that I have ever known, ever interacted with, ever loved, ever not loved, or even interacted with on the internet.

We're all connected.  

We're all a part of each other's stories.  

I'm grateful for the faces that have become part of mine.

Corrymeela and Dr. Nick

I don’t know if you’ve ever had the privilege of knowing someone that operates on an unwavering frequency or not, but I’ve had a few encounters with such people. 

My mom had a freak accident in January of 2015. If you live in the tri-state area, you probably remember the ice storm that covered us in a sheet of black ice on a frigid Sunday morning in January. 

My mom was late to work and ran to her car. She didn’t make it. 

I’ll never forget that phone call. Her voice was scared and I could hear the pain. “I broke my arm. Kelly, I broke my arm.”

She called me before she called 911, worried about how she would pay for her inevitable medical bills. 

The phone call woke me up and I was disoriented, but tried to gauge the situation as quickly as possible. 

“How do you know you broke your arm? Where are you?  What happened.”

“I see both of my bones. I’m on the sidewalk. I fell.”

Fear covered my body. 

Within minutes, I slid to the train station, then to Penn Station, then to the hospital where she eventually ended up. 

The ice kept an ambulance from getting to her and she spent over two hours in a neighbor’s car trying to navigate her way to professional help. 

Her eyes were closed when I found her in the hospital bed. Mine were filled with tears. 

I touched her face and my voice quivered as I said, “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok. You’re going to be ok.”

The next 6 months, or more realistically, the next year, was one of the scariest of my life. 

She wasn’t ok. She wasn’t ok for a long, long time. 

She moved in with me, sharing my New York apartment with my roommate and me. She lived with us for 6 months, staying alone all day while I was at work, sleeping in my bed, struggling through the pain and fear. 

It wasn’t just a broken arm. It was whiplash, dislocated ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. 

We didn’t know all of that until much later.

The doctor in the ER didn’t set her arm properly and didn’t diagnose her other injuries. 

She lived with all of that until late March, when her pain became intolerable and she had to seek alternative help. 

That’s when Nick Carruthers entered our lives. That’s when everything changed. 

We found our way to his office when we were both at our lowest points. 

I was trying so hard to take care of my mom, while still giving all of myself to teaching. 

My mom was trying so hard to be brave, but was in so much pain that she couldn’t function. 

We were a collective mess. 

After Dr. Nick’s initial intake, he gave us his diagnosis. He told us that her arm hadn’t had the chance to heal because it wasn’t properly aligned. He told us that he could help us. 

He was calm, assuring, gentle, and direct. 

He didn’t react to the fact that I was sprawled out on a chair in his office, physically unable to keep myself up. I brought my real self to him. He brought his real self to the situation. 

He didn’t coddle. He didn’t soothe. He didn’t react. 

He responded. 

Cool and collected. 

That’s Nick. He sets the tone in every room, regardless of the climate. 

Over time, my mom regained the use of her arm. It was slow, as healing typically is, but we were seeing progress for the first time. 

After 6 months of living together, my mom eventually moved back to her NJ apartment. She still couldn’t button her pants or brush her hair, but she was stable enough to live on her own again. 

That was one of the hardest times of my life. Even thinking about it now brings back a rush of fear, exhaustion, and sadness.

I think about what would have happened if we wouldn’t have found Dr. Nick. 

I don’t know. 

It’s a terrifying thought to consider.

Obviously, his medical expertise was a massive part of her healing.  It was more than that, though. 

It was the essence of who he was that brought both of us to a hopeful place. 

I don’t know if you know anyone that has done that for you. I don’t know if you know anyone that has brought peace to your life with their mere presence. 

I’ve had the privilege a few times. 

I had the privilege again yesterday. 

I was on the tail end of a trip from Rathlin Island where Beyond Skin and BuildaBridge had been conducting art workshops on conflict. 

We had a tour of Corrymeela, the oldest center for peace in Ireland, planned for the afternoon. 

I wasn’t thrilled about it. 

I don’t like tours. I like wandering about on my own. 

Then it happened. My soul experienced an immediate resonance with our tour guide, with the center as a whole. 

She walked us around, telling us about how the center was started, how it’s been utilized in the past and present, how it’s run by volunteers, how it’s ecumenical, how it’s meant to be a respite for all. 

She spoke of the history, of the mission, of the founders, of how it is a place of peace for all people. But really, beyond her words, she embodied those ideals. 

She was gentle, sincere, and loving. She was Corrymeela. 

It soon became quite clear that everyone there was Corrymeela. 

Everyone. 

This little oasis in the center of a conflict-ridden country was meant to offer hope to anyone that needed it. In doing so, it transformed the people on the premises with the idea being that if you can give people a place to be right with themselves and with the world, you can give people the tools that they need to be right outside of that place. 

As she walked us around she said, “Corrymeela happens when you leave.”

Meaning, “You come here, heal yourself, and as a result, live a more aligned life when you leave.”

Corrymeela is Dr. Nick. 

Nonreactive. Calm. Gentle. A respite.  Embodied peace. 

My soul resonates with that. 

My anxious, overthinking, inner-turmoiled soul resonates with that. 

I want my classroom to be that for my kids. I want my BuildaBridge classes to be that around the world. I want to be that when I’m walking home after a long day of work. 

Centered. Whole. Deliberate. 

Deliberateness in every detail of life. 

Meaning in every detail. 

Spending the day at Corrymeela reminded me of how just a little time in a place, or even with a person, can transform you. 

I was moved. Deeply. 

I want to be that force, too. Like Corrymeela. Like Dr. Nick. 

Corrymeela happens when you leave.

Resiliency semantics

BuildaBridge is rooted in a few fundamental principles. 

Ritual

Safe space

Metaphor 

And resiliency 

When I was in Kenya in 2014 I trained the teachers at the orphanage in these principles. We spent one day on each principle and then we led an art camp for the kids at the orphanage. 

The day that I taught ritual taught me so, so much about the words we choose to you and the power that they have. 

I anticipated issues that may come up with some of these foundational concepts, but I didn’t anticipate an issue with ritual. 

In my western head, ritual was going to be the easiest to teach. It was Kenya. They already knew about ritual. 

I started by asking, “What rituals do you practice in your culture?”

I was expecting to fill the chalkboard with their responses, but the room was awkwardly silent. 

The uncomfortable looks on their faces prompted me to dig more deeply. 

As the conversation unfolded it became very evident that we didn’t have the same connotation for the word “ritual.”

I wanted to know what their rights of passage were, what traditions they held in high regard, and what daily/monthly/yearly “rituals” they practiced as a culture. 

In the tension of the silence, I offered an example from my own life. “Every year I celebrate the day that I was hired at my current school. I take a day to remember how one phone call changed my life forever. I take a day to be still, to reflect, and then I get a celebratory massage.  It’s my ritual every year.”

I could see the tension in the room dissipate. 

“That’s not a ritual. That’s a routine. A ritual is something that people in tribal cultures do and we don’t want anything to do with that. Ritual sacrifices still happen and we aren’t any part of those practices.”

It was all semantics. 

The word “ritual” has no stigma for me, no negative association. I haven’t spent my life separating myself from ancient traditions that are loosely connected to me and cause embarrassment.

Clearly, my students had a far different background with this specific topic. 

Immediately, I erased the word from the board. 

I replaced it with “routine” and asked the same question. 

The rest of the lesson played out as I originally intended. 

We just had to find a common language. 

Fast forward to today, where I’m receiving an education on Irish history, Northern Ireland, Catholics, Protestants, The UK, and the current political climate in the country. 

Darren, the Beyond Skin founder, was taking me on a whirlwind tour of Belfast and inundating me with information. He pulled off of the road to show me a building that he knew would be of particular interest to me. 

The building was covered in a massive sign that read, “Stop calling me resilient. Because every time you say, ‘Oh, they’re resilient.’ that means you can do something else to me. I am not resilient.”

I couldn’t help but think of my time in Kenya and the connotation of “ritual.”

It’s intention vs. impact. 

Resiliency is one of my favorite words. 

I’m going to stand up every time that I fall. 

I’m going to grow in the most heartbreaking of circumstances. 

I will never stop fighting for equality, justice, and for the people that I love. 

I won’t be beaten. 

Being resilient is beautiful. It is a part of how I see myself. 

And yet, in this ever so complex country that is divided by history, walls, religion, and imaginary lines, one of my favorite words doesn’t carry hope. 

It offends. 

It reminds the people that raised that sign that they have endured a lifetime of wrongs at the hands of people that believed that they could take it, and in taking it, would be able to take a lifetime more. 

That’s not what it means to me. 

I’ll always see myself as resilient and I’ll always cling to that word in my daily life. 

I will also always value ritual, but I won’t use that term if I go back to Kenya. 

Dr. Corbitt always says, “If you don’t know where you are, you don’t know who you are.”

Context. 

I know where I am. I know who I am. Always. 

As I sit here in Ireland, technically in the UK, I realize the impact of my words. I realize that I can teach resiliency with art without ever using the word.

I realize that this country is complex and storied in ways that I will never fully comprehend.  One day of history class has left my head spinning. 

If resiliency is offensive to you, you’ll never hear me say it. 

You will, however, watch resiliency in action when you see my life.  And you’ll learn that you are able to rise above your circumstances and grow, even in the most desperate of times, through an art lesson or two. 

Just a kid from Akron

I’m from Akron.

I grew up with weather that changed several times within an hour, football on Friday nights, a garden in my backyard, and rubber.

And Lebron.  I grew up with Lebron.

Akron isn’t a highly transient city, and Ohio isn't a highly transient state, generally speaking.

“Where are you from?” isn’t a common starting point for conversations when meeting new people in the Akron area.

If you live in the Akron area, you’ve probably been there for your entire life.  Your parents probably came from the area.  Your grandparents, too.  And their’s 

I can think of one person from my childhood that came to Akron from somewhere else.

As a New Yorker, I can think of maybe three friends that were born and raised in this city.  

Some of my friends moved from other states, some from other countries, and while they may be settled here, while New York is their home, that wasn’t their reality for their early years.

As a teacher in Washington Heights, my kids and their families feel connected to both New York and their countries of origin.  Even if my kids were born here, they know where they come from.  They’re Mexican, Puerto Rican, Ecuadorian, Yemeni, El Salvadorian, and, of course, Dominican.

These same students often ask me where I’m from, where my family came from.  I always say, “Ohio.”  Actually, I always say, “Akron, Ohio.”  

I take every opportunity to advertise that Lebron and I are from the same hometown.

Sometimes the conversation stops there and we talk about Akron and basketball.  Other times, they clarify their original question by saying, “No.  I mean, what country do you come from?  Where did your family come from?”

I love that.  

Without verbalizing it, my kids understand that Native Americans are the only ones that shouldn’t have to answer that question.  We are all immigrants.  Some of us are just more aware, more connected to our roots.

I always tell my kids that I’m Irish.  That’s what I’ve always been told, anyway.

I don’t have a strong connection to my Irish roots.  I come from McCaffertys and Finlaws.  The little research that I have done on my own history points to Ireland.  

The former custodian at my school was Irish and he took an interest in my Irish heritage.  He loved genealogies and research, so he traced my family as far back as he could.  He even went as far as to call cemeteries in Akron to connect the lines of my family tree.  

He came to a dead end when he found James Finlaw, who came in America in 1805.

He also found the McCafferty coat of arms in Ireland and had it sent to me.

Maybe it was because he was so connected to his Irish heritage that he felt connected to my family’s story. Maybe it was because he loved the challenge in the research.

For whatever reason, he gave months of his life to help me trace the history of those that came before me.

Apparently, someone at some point immigrated from Ireland.  It’s highly likely that that person immigrated to Ireland from Scotland.

I don’t feel highly connected to any of it.  It’s not a part of my heritage.  It’s not something that forms my identity.  

I’m a New Yorker that came from Akron.

With that (not so brief) contextual foundation, I’m headed to Ireland tonight, where I’ll be representing BuildaBridge and working Beyond Skin until the end of July.

This isn’t BuildaBridge’s first trip to my “homeland”, but it is mine.

I’m not going on a pilgrimage.  I’m not going to connect with my family’s heritage.  I’m not going for my own story.

I’m going to represent BuildaBridge.  I’m going to learn from Beyond Skin.

Still, I can’t help but think about my own story in all of this.  For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve said that this place is where I’m from.  For the first time in my life, I’ll set foot on that soil.  

I have the unbelievable privilege of doing what I love with my life.  Most of the time, that takes place in New York City.  Every summer, that takes place in a different part of the world.  Today, that’s going to happen at my “home.”

I’ll share my stories here.