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.

Bound Liberation

I can think of hundreds of noble reasons to help someone, to offer a hand to someone in need. 

I spent a good portion of my life believing that you should help people that are less fortunate than you. I believed that helping was a responsibility because I had more than I needed and others didn’t have enough. 

The more than I see the world, the more that I see in my own community, the more I realize how flawed that way of thinking is. 

It’s harmful. Toxic, actually. 

The work of justice and equality isn’t necessary because I was born into privilege and have the means to help. 

The work of justice and equality is necessary because we live in a world where some people can be born into privilege and some people can be born into injustice.  

The work of justice and equality is necessary because we belong to each other. Everyone. All of us. Your liberation is bound with mine.  

None of us thrive when anyone suffers. 

Western culture teaches us to work hard, to make a life for yourself, to get ahead. Then, if you have any sense of altruism or guilt you’re obligated to help those who have less. 

Perhaps nothing about that seems virulent, but it is.  That mentality allows a person to give whatever is convenient and continue living a comfortable life. 

Buy the homeless woman on the street a warm meal. Sign up for monthly donations to your favorite charity. Buy a pair of shoes that gives a kid you’ve never met a pair of shoes. 

Feel better about yourself. 

Go back to your normal. 

That philosophy lets you do just that. It lets you go back to your normal. 

You give. You feel better. You sleep a little better at night. 

I’m not advocating for living more selfishly, for never giving anything to those in need. That’s not what I mean to convey. 

I love philanthropy. I own several pairs of Toms and I’ve seen kids in every developing country I’ve ever visited wearing their very own pairs. 

My sister empties her pockets for every homeless person she sees when she visits New York. I’m not good at that. I see homeless people every single day and very rarely stop to find ways to help. 

I’m not down playing what good can be done with a “one and done” act of kindness. 

But, here’s the thing - there’s nothing sustainable about “one and done.”

There is nothing that pulls you out of your life and demands your continued attention. There is nothing that wakes you up the next morning with a burning desire to spend your energy on long-term solutions. 

That’s where the problem is for me. 

When we shift our thinking to understand that we are actually connected to everyone and everything around us, that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere, then we are obligated to give more than a few coins when we see someone in need. 

We are obligated to give ourselves. 

We are obligated to give ourselves the same way that we do when our own families are in need. There’s not a damn thing that will keep me from protecting my family. 

We’re connected to the human race and the planet in a similar way. 

That’s a responsibility that keeps me up at night. 

There are too many issues that break my heart, too many problems to give my energy to. 

I can lose myself in it, or at least I have at different points in my life. 

I felt bound to all of it and I couldn’t authentically “one and done” any of it. 

What has helped bring balance to my own life has been matching my passion with communities that need those services and building relationships within those parameters. 

Education. Training. The arts. 

Long-term relationships, sustainable solutions.  

Not because it makes me feel better about the privilege that I was born into, but because my liberation is bound together with everyone else’s. No one can be free until everyone is free.  

I'm connected to the staff at HACEY, to the girls at this camp, and to Ola and his sweet mother.  

I didn't come here to build a house or dig a well and go home with less guilt.  

I came here because this is something that I can give my life to for always, something that I have been giving my life to for the past 13 years.

That’s why I teach. That’s why I go. That’s why I brought Lily. 

"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."

-Mother Teresa

Preach.

Narrative mindsets

I was taught the value of having a positive attitude at an early age.  

Complaining doesn’t help your situation. It only makes the people that are with you just as  miserable. 

I’d like to think that those seeds took root in the soil of my life. I’d like to think that I find the good in every situation. 

I’m sure that some of you are thinking of specific situations where I have had the worst attitude of anyone in the room, like when I’m tired, wet, anything in my apartment is dirty, or it’s January - March. 

We all have our triggers, but I hope that the majority of what I see, of what I help other people see, is everything that is beautiful. 

Attitude can change everything. 

But the thing is, attitude is just one ingredient in what I need to thrive in any given context. 

I can’t stand on attitude alone. It’s so much more, for me at least. It’s about mindset. 

I’m not talking about fixed mindsets vs. growth mindsets. I have nothing to add to the genius that is Carol Dweck. That’s blasphemy.  Respect, people. Respect. 

I’m talking about preparing my own mindset for any situation before it happens. 

I’m talking about how I get myself ready for a 12 hour car ride to see my sister by thinking through all of the things that will make me start to lose my mind before I even make the trip.  

I’m going to feel trapped in the car. When I do I will remind myself that it’s temporary, that I will be free by the end of the day. I’m going to get tired. When I do I will pull over and nap at a gas station. I will be able to rest in the short term in the car, and the long term at the end of my journey. I’m going to want coffee and there are only Dunkin’ Donuts on Route 80 in Pennsylvania.  I can’t force myself to drink Dunkin Donuts even in the most desperate of times. I take a coffee for the road and I wait for Youngstown, where civilization begins again. 

I make it through because I know what I’m heading into. I know how to prepare myself. I know how to adjust my mindset. 

I’m talking about working through the worst case scenarios of what could possibly happen in a foreign country before I even get on the plane. 

I might not have water for an extended period of time. I have to talk myself through that. I know that showering, food, bathrooms, sleeping, and every other aspect of daily life will be the opposite of what I know in New York.  I will tell myself that I will make it through every struggle as they come, just as I have always done and will keep doing in the future. 

It’s the mindset that I have going into any situation. I prepare for what I’m getting myself into and what inner strength I will need in those moments. 

Yes, I have a positive attitude throughout - regardless of what the moment holds. And yes, that matters, but it’s not my foundation. 

Mindset is. 

It’s the story I tell myself on a daily basis. 

This monologue has always taken place between my ears, something that I know that I need and do without thinking at this point. 

Having Lily with me has changed all of that. 

I’m not just preparing myself, I’m preparing a 12 year old girl. 

As we enter every new environment, every new set of circumstances, I tell her what it may hold for us. I verbalize the dialogue that has always been internal. 

“Ok. Listen. There are going to be times that you are uncomfortable, that you are hot, that you are tired, that you miss home. It’s going to happen to both of us. When it does, tell me. When you feel sad, feel sad. Feel it fully and don’t hold it back. When you are tired, sleep on my lap. When you are hungry, I have food in my bag. When you are hot, you’ll have to deal with it. We’re in this together. You are not alone.  Prepare yourself in your head and work through it when it happens.”

We had that conversation at the onset. We have a version of it at some point every day. 

I didn’t know how she would adjust. I didn’t know how she would handle a vastly different life than the one she’s always known. 

Let me tell you something, this kid has risen to the challenge. 

She has rolled with every punch without batting an eye. I hear her talking through challenging moments as she processes. 

“I can’t wash my hair. That’s ok. My hair doesn’t have to be washed every day. I can wait a few days. I’ll wash it when I can. No big deal. I can do that.”

“There’s no toilet paper. We have baby wipes. We will be fine with baby wipes. 

Wait?  What?  We only have two left for rest of the day?  Ok. We’ll divide them and only uses pieces. 

We’ll be able to get more tomorrow. Not the end of the world.”

When we enter a new situation I usually go first and tell her what to expect. 

If I can’t do that because we are experiencing it at the same time then she usually makes eye contact with me and we communicate without having to say anything to each other. 

It’s actually quite amazing. 

It’s not that she’s not always amazing. She is. But I anticipated managing complaints and talking her through emotional breakdowns. 

That just hasn’t been the case. 

She has navigated her way through a different culture, masses of people, traffic, rain and mud, new foods, missing home, and the absence of the conveniences in her daily life with ease. 

When I watch her in every new situation and as we talk through it together, I can see that mindset is the key for both of us. Probably for everyone. 

The narratives that we tell ourselves about what is happening and how we will need to manage the situation allows us to access our deepest resources, parts of us that we don’t even know exist until we need them. 

I honestly think that I can do anything that I can prepare myself for, anything that I can properly frame in my brain. 

It’s when I’m blindsided that I lose myself. It’s when something happens without warning. 

That’s when I unravel. That’s when attitude matters. That’s when I have to choose to have a good attitude despite feeling throttled. 

If I have enough time to properly set my mind beforehand then I can easily adjust. 

I’ve had that feeling about myself in my gut for years and thought that it was just me, but watching it play out with Lily is confirmation that it’s how we’re wired. 

I know that part of it is being an introvert and needing to know what to expect, but most of t is just being human. 

I can do anything that I can prepare my mind for. I’ve seen it in myself over the course of my life. I am watching it in Lily in real-time every day. 

It makes me want to tackle bigger obstacles, take more calculated risks, and dream loftier dreams. 

If it’s just a matter of mindset, just a matter of properly framed narratives, then why not?

Family is forever.

I was lucky to be born into my family. 

My mom has been nothing but supportive and encouraging my entire life.  She never let me settle for anything less than my full potential, pushing me to more than I knew I was capable of. She has loved me unconditionally from the day I was born. 

My sister is my best friend. We communicate without language.  Always have. There is nothing that I could tell her that would change what she thinks of me. There’s a freedom in that that you don’t realize until you experience. 

I know that not everyone is so lucky. 

I also know that I am lucky to have a group of people outside of my blood family that are my own - a handful of people that I rock with through thick and thin, whose backs I have to the end of days, who remind me of who I am when I’ve forgotten. 

Family. 

Blood and more than blood. 

I know that not everyone is so lucky. 

Family is why I’m in Nigeria this summer. 

Ola is why I’m in Nigeria. 

I met Ola last June and within a month he was in my family.  It took a few weeks for the legal paperwork to be official, but he had my heart from the beginning. 

Ola grew up in Nigeria, though you would never know that he wasn’t a native New Yorker, besides the fact that he has a gentleness about him that most New Yorkers lose by the age of three. 

When I was considering where to go this summer I really only considered one option. I wanted to meet the blood family of the young man that stole my heart and the hearts of my own blood family. 

I had to come here. I had to see where he grew up. I had to meet his mother, his grandmother. 

I had to meet my family on the other side of the world. 

Though I had only ever seen her photo before, I knew her instantly when I saw her at the airport. It was 3 am and we were both exhausted, but the joy between us sustained us for hours. 

I did not meet a stranger that day, I met family that I had never known before. 

We talked for hours at the airport while we waited for our taxi.  She told me stories about the kind of kid that Ola was; kind, studious, and obedient.  The same as he is today. I showed her photos of us together at holidays and birthdays and celebrations. I showed her photos of moments where I was privileged enough to support him as I watched him shine.  

Family. 

I’ve stayed with so many different people in so many foreign lands. Everyone has been welcoming. Everyone has altered their daily lives in order to host me.  But, this is different. This was different from before I even got on a plane. 

This is family. 

Bilikis has not treated us as honored guests. She has loved us like we belong to one another - because, in fact, we do. 

It doesn’t matter how much I tell her that we are content, that we are satisfied, that we don’t need anything, she cannot stop taking care of us. 

Ironically, we just want to take care of her, of her son. 

You know, like families do. 

I have my niece by my side throughout this entire experience and I could not feel more grateful for the family that I was born into, that she was born into - and for the one that I have collected along the way. 

Family is forever. 

Lifetimes of evolving.

I started going on trips every summer when I was in middle school. I went somewhere new every summer from 7th grade through my senior year in high school. 

There were usually about 30 of us, sometimes more, that went as a part of our youth group. 

I was under the illusion, we were under the illusion, that service projects and day camps were meeting the needs of the communities that we invaded - an incursion of midwestern kids sent to be the answers to the prayers of every place we ever went. 

Those trips were the highlight of my summer, of my teenage years, for as long as I lived under the canopy of my religious upbringing. 

All of that started to change for me when I went to college.  The thin veneer of religion that I had covered myself with for the first 17 years of my life had shattered, along with my identity. 

I spent the next couple years figuring out what I thought of the world, of myself, and rebuilding my life, but it wasn’t until I started teaching that I truly felt grounded. 

I left the shelter of the right and wrong to find a new world, a new me. In so many ways those were some of the most formative years of my life.  I teetered between what I had been indoctrinated with as a kid and what I was coming to understand as a grown adult - years of breaking apart the foundation that I had stood on to form a new base for myself. 

Deconstruction. 

I threw myself into science and history and philosophy and quantum physics and energy fields, re-examining story and relationship through these new lenses. 

It’s an ongoing process in my life that leaves me saying, “I don’t really know what I think about that yet.” on a daily basis. 

I am in a constant state of reconstruction. 

What do I want to hold on to from the days of my childhood?  What still fits in my worldview?  What doesn’t?  What did I learn from my past that serves my present?  What do I need to bury for the rest of my existence on this planet?  

My grad school program was instrumental in helping me stitch the pieces of my former life together with the life I was (am) in the process of creating. It was through this program that I was able to marry the ideal of serving others with empowerment and sustainability. 

I learned how to enter a community as an expert with a specific skill equipped to meet a predetermined need. I learned how to see the assets already within the community and equip those living there to see their own strength. 

I learned to go with as a conduit, not as the benevolent source. 

It’s embarrassing to even say those words, to admit the mindset that I had for so long, but its part of my story and most of the reason that I defer to having more questions than answers in my daily life. 

I leave for Nigeria in the middle of the night. My eighth trip with BuildaBridge. My eighth year of practicing the value of serving others in a way that empowers, as opposed to contributing to the systems of oppression already in motion throughout the world. 

This year will be different than the seven previous years, though each year is always unique. 

This year I am not going alone. I am taking one of the most precious people in my life, my niece. 

She starts 7th grade in less than a month, her journey of world travel starting nearly the exact same time in her life that I started my own.  Only, she isn’t going with me in order to serve or help or fix or provide. 

She is going to observe, to learn, to experience. 

She is going to meet new people, to live in a new culture, to see a new world. 

She is going without delusions of grandeur, a privilege afforded to her because of the mistakes of the generation before her. 

She will have a more stable foundation to build upon, just as I had a more stable one than the generation before me. 

Lily will have her own deconstruction at some point, I’m sure. I hope. But, hers will not be what mine was. Hers will be more evolved. Hers will help her help the generation after her in a capacity that I will not be able to. Evolution is slow. We stand on the shoulders of those that came before us, more specifically those whose lives intertwine with our own. 

Her life will help those that come after her to not make the mistakes that will be an inevitable part of her journey, just as mine is an attempt to give her a life without repeating the mistakes that I made at her age. 

I will be with her as we go, both in Nigeria and in life, helping her process along the way, helping her think through what she’s learning as her 12-and-a-half-year-old brain works through this major life experience. 

This kid changed my entire world from the moment that I found out that she was the size of a sunflower seed in my sister’s womb and now I have one of the opportunity to take her across the globe with me.  

I have made a conscious effort to savor every moment of this experience from the second we started planning in April. 

I’m headed across the world with this little life that taught me to love in a capacity that I didn’t know was possible. I’m humbled by the privilege and the gravity of it is not lost on me. 

Her experience will be vastly different from the one that I had at her age, which is progress - for her, for me, for the future.