In order for you to understand why I am doing what I am doing or the way I am, you must first understand the places I’ve been, the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve experienced. It is not simply about social injustice. It’s about the way the world truly is.
In a perfect world, every student would be sent to a different country across the world, somewhere far and counter-intuitive to their culture, somewhere they could integrate and understand that their culture, their way of life was not the only one. In a perfect world, there would be no poverty, no sadness. This raised awareness would stem the flow of ignorance that permeates many places all over the globe today. In a perfect world...
This, as you very well know, however, is not a perfect world. There is beauty, yes, but there is also desperation. It is through these moments of desperation that occasionally a light shines through, ones that we appreciate all the more, ones that illuminate the truth of the situation. It's a visceral photograph of the complexity that lies behind the frame of the world, what holds it up and also brings it down.
Growing up, I have had the privilege of traveling all over the world due to my mother working in the flight industry. Oh the places I have been. “Must have been wonderful!” people always say. Yes, it was, but the things I’ve seen weren't always that of transcendent beauty or a glazed over viewing of some National Geographic picturesque view. Some of the things I’ve seen were heart wrenching, gut pounding displays of human desperation, some quiet in action, others loud. The truth of the world was splayed at the ends of my fingertips and it was all I could do to hang on.
I had the incredible opportunity to spend three months in the Philippines. That was my first real, visceral life changing episode. I was 12 years old at the time. There was barely any running water in the rural home I spent my time in. Two of my cousins, two very sweet and beautiful girls had no roof over their heads save one part of the building which was very small. Life was simple, and though they smiled and laughed, it was apparent that they, as well as some that I went to school with, longed for more. “America!” As they would call me, “Remember us when you go back to the US! I know we are just poor, but don’t forget us when you become famous!” How could I ever forget an experience as beautiful and life changing as that?
I have been to Kenya where hopeless mothers threw themselves without abandon into our van window asking, begging, pleading, for money, a baby in one hand, the other hand outstretched, “Please! Please!” They would cry. I, a helpless and penniless teenager at the time, could do nothing but watch. Outside my hotel window in Nairobi, I saw wave after wave of slums, an ocean of huts and shacks veering off into the horizon, a staple to the poverty that rose and crashed around the city, a skewed reflection of the city that contained such a beautiful people.
I have been to Egypt where a ten year old boy stood begging for change in the street. He is confident, already well versed in the ways of street vending. “Go to school!” said one man in our tour group. If he could go to school, would he? Would he take that education and go far, further than possibly anyone in his family? Or would he trap himself in the only world he knows forever? It was evident that he was already stuck, in his mind. Otherwise he would not be doing it. Nobody had ever shown him there was another way.
I’ve been to Sweden where life always felt a little more clean-cut. Yet there in front of me, one day, in the center of town, a girl was sitting in the streets, on her knees, not saying a word, her coin cup to her left, her hands clasped prayer-like, hopeful and patient, but ever so slowly dimming with each person who walked briskly by, most with bags from lavish clothing stores, others coming within inches of her, carrying groceries, none making eye contact. With little money, all I could do was take a picture, my camera being my weapon of awareness.
As a student in Chicago, I would always take the train into the city and then walk across a bridge and down a few streets to my college. There was always a few homeless people lining the sides of the bridge, usually not saying a word, huddled in wooly hats and ragged cotton, plastic bags, and newspapers. The hope and light had long since diminished from their eyes. A poor student, working part time, with little to her name, I usually clung tight to what little I had in my wallet. There was one man who stood out. Let’s call him “Mr.Friday” or the “Happy Monday Guy”. He stood, Mr. Friday. He would call out to every single passerby, “Happy-“ and then insert whatever day it happened to be. Some would respond, some would drop a few coins. Some would just walk on by. Mr. Friday had that pop in his step and the light in his eyes had not gone out, but I knew more that most that was on the surface did not tell what lay underneath. One week, Happy Monday Guy did not look so happy. He stood, his own light, a dim, overcast gloom, flickering in and out. It didn’t take much for me to bee-line straight for him, pushing through the crowd along the way. I crammed whatever I had into his cup and told him, “Happy Wednesday.” The look on this man’s face broke my heart and warmed me at the same time. His face shone with the gratitude I had not seen in a long time. “Thank you!” He said, tears in his eyes. “May God bless you! Thank you! Thank you!” He said over and over.
You never know a man’s story until you’ve learned to give a little of yourself first. A few days later, Mr. Friday disappeared from my life forever. I couldn’t tell you if he was okay. All I knew was that a new “Mr. Friday” showed up in his place. Let’s call him “Mr. Wednesday”, a man I had never seen before. It may have been my imagination, but his “Happy’s” didn't seem so warm. I can only hope it was just my imagination.
These experiences are simply a few reasons that I do what I do, but all of them just as meaningful. To truly know the strength of True Compassion, one must first be on the receiving end and then use it to better themselves and the lives of others. I truly believe it doesn’t matter where you come from, what your background is. Your story is just as important as everybody else’s. You, your story is worth being told. You are not Invisible.