In Defense of Voluntourism

   If you asked me what my greatest achievement in life was, I would not tell you that it was graduating from college with honors or finishing my master's degree. I wouldn't say it was skydiving or bungee jumping or evading arrest at an Italian national park (all of which I've done). I'd say it was teaching these kids:

Ayubu, Huruma, Frank, Moses, Happyness, Irene, Joshua, Halima, Jacklin, Rebeka, and Samuel.

  I never thought that quitting my job to teach kids for free in Africa would be something that I would have to defend, and I certainly never thought it would be something that I would feel guilty for. And then this article started to make the rounds on the internet, and for the first time I was made to feel like my time in Africa was something I should be ashamed of. (One Facebook proponent of the article went so far as to call me a White Imperialist for teaching abroad.)

Just another day of spreading my white imperialist propaganda...clearly the kids are miserable.

  The article basically argues that "voluntourism" is inefficient, propagates a white savior complex, and that the majority of the jobs done by voluntourists could be done better by local people, so instead everyone should only volunteer if they are fit for the job and then donate money and resources to local companies in developing countries to fill in the gaps. Okay, fair enough. But that logic is problematic for several reasons.

1.) You are functioning on the assumption that your money will be used appropriately in your absence. Trust me, as a person who lived in Africa, that's not always the way things happen. People are struggling to get by, and corruption is rampant, so donating money does not mean it is getting used effectively. If that were the case, then the billions of aid dollars sent to Africa every year would have fixed all of its problems by now, right?

2.) By the author's logic, why should anyone volunteer at all? Sometimes my friends and I volunteer together at the Houston Food Bank. Lifting heavy objects is not really a skill of mine, nor am I great at packing boxes of food, but I do it because it's something. They need hands. I have them.

  I'm sure there are other people who need work who could do a better job than me, but the Houston Food Bank doesn't have money to pay local people to do the work. So they deal with my crappy can-stacking skills, because they need labor. Even if I donated $1,000 to HFB right now, they probably wouldn't use it to hire local labor. They'd use it for their existing expenses.

   The same was true of my time in Africa. I worked at an orphanage that teaches about 20 kids during the day. They have one teacher (when they can afford to pay her). My job was to assist her by teaching the three year olds. 

   Was I the best teacher for them? No. Of course not. My Swahili is rudimentary at best, and I have no early childhood teaching experience. BUT my presence there allowed there to be two classrooms, so while I sang songs and learned letters and numbers with the babies, Sinyati, the paid teacher, was able to actually educate the bigger kids who were hoping to transition into primary schools. 

  Maybe I was a glorified babysitter, but my presence allowed the "big kids" to learn without getting distracted by the babies.  Without volunteers, Sinyati is stuck with 20+ kids by herself, which is a punishment I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. 

  Even if I had never gone to Africa and just donated my money to Hope Center, they wouldn't use that money to hire another teacher. They would use it to buy corn meal or seeds or use it to complete construction on their unfinished school building. The only way for Sinyati to have any help is for volunteers to come teach the little kids. (And, it should be noted that the uh-mazing IVHQ donates a percentage of volunteer fees to the orphanages and schools, so Hope Center did profit off of me being there.)

3.) You don't have to be "skilled" to make a difference. This was the biggest issue I had with the article. She functions on the assumption that unskilled people are actually hurtful to the residents of Third World countries.  Um. I met a lot of "little white boys and girls" while in Africa. One moved to Tanzania and is funding and overseeing the building a new school building in Arusha. One started a women's empowerment non-profit. One is traveling across southern Africa building playgrounds, schools, and raising money and awareness for good causes. Another woman I volunteered with got almost all of the kids at her orphanage sponsored in her two weeks in Tanzania and then went back this year to check up on them. None of these people had any special skill that made them stick out. They just saw a need and they tried to help. I have seen everyday people do remarkable things just by opening their eyes and investing themselves wherever they are needed.

4.) Travel and voluntourism changes people. We live in a world that is increasingly self-centered that, despite growing knowledge of global issues, chooses to remain apathetic. We need people who care and voluntourism is one way to raise awareness. The aforementioned article provides logic that yields apathy: if it's not what you're good at, let someone else do the work. But I saw that firsthand experience with other cultures breeds interest and confronts apathy.

  For example, I spent the last three months of the school year teaching fourteen year olds at a suburban high school. Most freshman in high school don't know or care much about the third world, but when I shared stories and pictures of my babies in Africa, I started getting questions like, "What did you do while you were there?", "How can I do something like this?", "How can we help?", "Do you want to go back?", "What's it like over there?"

  People have a tendency to ignore things until they can connect to them. It's easy to lament and subsequently ignore what's going on "over there" when nobody you know has actually been "over there". But when you hear stories and see pictures of people who have seen suffering in real life, it's harder to detach yourself from your responsibilities as a member of humanity. Sending money doesn't generate interest or activism. Sharing stories does.

_________________

  For the record, there are bad ways to volunteer. I saw some people who came to Africa to demonstrate how great they were to the world. They wanted to take their selfies with the cute kids, go on safari, and get out of there. Those people exist. There are also some people who pick volunteer projects that are ill-fit to their skills, but good can still come from all of those situations. If they leave with a bigger heart or a changed worldview, then it's still a victory, right?

  I understand the argument that we should give under-served areas the tools to bring themselves out of poverty and that we shouldn't play the "white savior". That's a fair statement. I don't think we should go in with any kind of superiority complex about saving the world or making them "like us". Good volunteers go in humble and do what is needed where it is needed with respect and deference to the local culture. Good volunteers don't aim to overshadow their local counterparts, nor do they try to make their placement like America or Australia or Canada or wherever they're from. A good volunteer should aim to help make their placement the best version of itself. And maybe too many people go in to voluntourism with misplaced priorities or with skewed cultural suppositions, but I still wholeheartedly believe that even unskilled "little white girls" can do good and make the world a slightly better place.

Blessings

"A pack of blessings light upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love."

-Friar Lawrence. Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene III

  Two weeks ago, I went on a tour of the Kibera Slum in Nairobi, Kenya. The slums, which are visible from most of the downtown tourist sites, are the largest urban slums in Africa, with an estimated population of just under two million people. Two million.  The labyrinthine web of alleys and neighborhoods is impossible to navigate without the help of a long-time resident, and around every turn, visitors to the area see raw sewage, rubbish, malnourished and mange-ridden animals, and row after row of shoddily-built one room houses.

These railroad tracks are still in operation, by the way.

Father and his favorite daughter looking out over the slums.

   The people in the slums, the children in particular, were some of the kindest, warmest, happiest people I have ever met. Despite their situation, they laughed and smiled more than most of the people I meet back home. They welcomed us into their homes with open arms, and showed us the type of kindness and generosity that feels all too rare in the egocentric western world. And in the whole time I spent in the slums, I never heard the ubiquitous phrase, "Mzungu, give me money!" that you hear everywhere else in Africa. Rather than seeing themselves as entitled to aid or handouts, the people in Kibera saw everything they had as a blessing rather than something deserved.

Mama Christian's family outside of her two-room home.

  The two hours I spent in the slum were difficult and eye-opening, and forced me to rethink the way I viewed the terms "luxury" and "necessity". The slums, which are so expansive that they are impossible to ignore, are wedged between a new set of luxury condos and a golf course. (There is a lovely view of the shanty-town from the eighth green.) The whole idea made me sick. Rich and semi-rich people literally live their daily lives overlooking the pain and struggles of two million people right next door.

Foreground: Kibera. Background: Luxury Apartments

   The whole thing made me angry, both at the situation and at myself. I was no different from the people living in the new high-rise apartments. I live a life of comparative luxury, while people in my immediate vicinity struggle every day. The night before going to the slums I literally ate myself sick on a $50 meal of meat and meat and more meat. (It was delicious. I highly recommend eating at Carnivore if you are ever in the Greater-Nairobi area. But I digress.) And now I was among people who don't even get a full meal every day.
   Immediately after leaving the slums, heartbroken and drained, my companions and I went for a quick bite. At Kentucky Fried Chicken. In a shopping mall. After spending two hours trudging though mud, human waste, and garbage, we immediately found ourselves thrust back into the world of "buy one diamond watch and get the second one half off" and "Super size your meal so you and your family can get diabetes twice as fast!" 

Saturated fat and High-Fructose Corn Syrup, how I've missed you.

   My friend/daughter Erin and I felt physically ill when we arrived at the shopping center. We were standing in the middle of a mall almost identical to the ones we have back home, and yet it felt somehow foreign and unnecessary, and as we ate our greasy, fattening (albeit delicious) lunch, we felt guilty at our own gluttony. It seemed almost impossible for us to reconcile the two experiences in our minds. It was as if in two short hours, our worldview, which had already evolved dramatically since arriving in Africa, had changed. We had a keen sense of perspective that we hadn't had before arriving in Kenya.
   

   Six days later I had another experience that forced me to look at my own life and reevaluate my priorities. For the past two months I have been working with the amazing kids at Hope Center Orphanage, just outside of Arusha. In my all too short time there, I have grown to love the kids who live at Hope as if they are my own family. They constantly remind me how blessed I am to have parents and siblings, a modern house with a fully-stocked kitchen and air conditioning, and a million other little things that I rarely stop to be grateful for.
   On Friday night, however, my understanding of their daily life reached a new level when I spent the night at the orphanage. Another volunteer and I made the choice that we would give our kids a one night break from the monotony of orphanage life by bringing them pizza from a well-known local restaurant, cake from a delicious hotel bakery, and a laptop on which we could stream Netflix. (I am rather proud to say that the kids at Hope Center have now been exposed to the awesomeness that is Disney's "Hercules".)

Six pizzas, Two cakes, and One laptop = 12 happy kids

Rough Translation: "I love Hope Center"

   The night was great, and it was amazing to see the joy on the kids faces as they ate and watched the movie, but the best part of the night came immediately before we all went to sleep. All of the kids sat in the small classroom, which was lit by a single candle due to the lack of electricity. Then, one of the girls, Jacklin, sang a hauntingly beautiful hymn in Swahili, which the other kids proceeded to repeat. When they finished the song, immediately all of the people in the room simultaneously began praying out loud. The swelling sound of over a dozen praying kids and adults was enough to make my heart leap, but the content of the prayers was really what stuck with me. As I listened to all of the kids talking over each other, I kept hearing one word: "Asante" ("Thank You"). 
   In this dark room with no power and about ten million flies, in an orphanage where kids who have no families sleep two and three to a bed, they were thanking God for the blessings in their lives. Whoa. Hey there, perspective. Thanks for the punch in the face.
  

   This week, the Tanzanian government announced that they do not have enough power for the whole country. So from Arusha to Dar Es Salaam and beyond, the power is being tightly rationed. Everyone gets only a few hours of power a day, mostly in the middle of the night. To compound the problem, when the power goes out, the water goes out with it. So no showers. No toilets. No faucets. All available water has to be stored in buckets and used sparingly throughout the day, since goodness knows when our spigots will be working again.
   Despite the frustration of sitting in the dark with no water and no power, I am still struck by how blessed I am. Blessed to have this experience. Blessed to have family and friends back home. Blessed to have food to eat. Blessed to have money in my pocket (well, not so much anymore). I am blessed to have clean clothes every day. (Haha. Just kidding. Nobody wears clean clothes here). I am blessed to have an education. I am blessed to live in a country where women are valued. I am blessed that I don't have to fear for my safety, well-being, or health every day.
   My biggest fear in returning home is that I will forget the lessons that I learned in Kibera and at Hope Center. I fear that I will once again take all of my blessings for granted. I fear that I will once again start complaining about trivialities like traffic or taxes or the weakness of my latte at Starbucks. I fear that I will once again grow complacent, seeing but not acting on the injustices around me. I fear getting too comfortable.
   It's the home stretch (T-Minus 5 days), and, like it or not, I have to come back to the States sometime. I just hope that the lessons I have learned here follow me home.

Mzungus and the Failure of International Aid in East Africa

  "For fifty cents a day, you can sponsor a child and end the cycle of poverty in Africa."

  We all know the ad. It generally comes on around two AM when there is literally nothing else to watch on TV. The commercial comes in multiple iterations, but it generally involves some sort of well-dressed, sightly-overweight white man walking through an African slum describing how miserable life is for the children of Africa. Cut to the shot of an expressionless, swollen-bellied baby, covered in flies and filth. Dane Cook provides a fairly accurate commentary on what I'm talking about:

   As an American, the broadcasted images of African life shaped my perspective on the continent as a whole. I came to view it as a distant, poverty-ridden land that was in desperate need of help from the more civilized western nations. Over the years, my understanding of African history, economics, and politics grew, and my opinions on the west's role in international development evolved, but it was not until I got to Tanzania that I really began to see firsthand the effects of international aid, and how foreign "investment" is actually crippling the governments and citizens of Africa.

   Full disclosure, I am not an economist or an African historian. I have no background in international development, and I am by no means an expert, but what follows comes from my own experience and research.

   

   Tanzania is an amazingly interesting and diverse country. It has a rapidly-growing tourism industry, has a fairly decent mining and agricultural sector, and, compared to its neighbors, has experienced consistent growth and stability since achieving independence from Britain in 1961. According to the World Bank, Tanzania's GDP has been growing at an average rate of 7% annually since the start of the new millennium. 

   Interestingly, however, despite its steady growth, Tanzania is still the fourth largest African recipient of Official Development Assistance (ODA), behind the Democratic Republic of Congo, Ethiopia, and Kenya. As of 2011, Tanzania was receiving roughly 2.5 billion dollars in international assistance, which is equivalent to almost 10% of the country's GDP.

   The influence of the international community can be seen everywhere in the streets of Arusha. Daily I see people wearing Manchester United jerseys and tee shirts that say things like "Penn State Swimming Club". I see little boys at my orphanage wearing girls' pink, bedazzled hoodies, and I see other kids in ill-fitting shoes and dresses that were clearly sent to Africa from some western donor.

   Additionally, I see the effects of international aid in the way that I am treated by the locals. When I go to a shop, prices magically seem to rise. When I take the dala dala to my placement, the money collector accidentally forgets to give me the right amount of change. And, my personal favorite, is when I walk down the street, I have this conversation:

Local person: Mzungu! Mambo? (White Person! How are you?)

Me: Poa, vipi? (I'm cool, you?)

Local person: *in English* Give me money.

Me: Hapana! (No!)

   It would be easy for me to get upset and frustrated by the constant price gauging and begging from locals, and the assumption that white = wealthy certainly gets old, but, unfortunately, my experiences are a direct result of the influx of money from developed nations, and the methods with which it is used, not the locals.

   In her book Dead Aid, Dambisa Moyo provides an excellent discussion of how the world is failing the people of Africa through its international aid policies.

   In the more unstable African countries, particularly in central and West Africa, aid money is given to authorities at the top levels of government with no guarantee that it will ever be equitably distributed to the people who need it the most. Additionally, desire to access and control foreign aid dollars has fueled corruption and violence in these countries, once again perpetuating the history of armed conflict and rebel activities in more underdeveloped nations.

   

   The influx of free goods such as shoes, clothes, glasses, cell phones, and the like, have also prevented domestic textile and manufacturing industries from gaining traction in some African countries, which, in turn, further weakens their global export business as well as their domestic income.

  In Tanzania, the problems wrought by flawed international funding schemes are not nearly as extreme or overt, but they still are visible in every aspect of local culture. For example, despite the billions of dollars pouring into the country, the infrastructure, even in the largest cities, is sub-par, at best. Roads are not well maintained, if they are even paved at all, sanitation and sewage services are ineffective, and power and water are regularly shut off because of inability to keep up with usage in the city. Interestingly, much of the new infrastructure projects, such as highways and roads, are being underwritten by companies out of China and other Asian nations, rather than by the Tanzanian government. 

   Moreover, very little of the aid money coming into Tanzania is being used to grow domestic industry. The national growth that the country has experienced over the last decade has largely been the result of government spending, but industry remains underdeveloped throughout the country. Though tourism, mining, and agriculture have experienced small gains, investment in business remains scant. In effect, international aid dollars are putting a Band-Aid on the much larger problems of poverty and unemployment, but are not encouraging much domestic or international investment. Simply put, aid dollars are helping to keep the Tanzanian government afloat, but they are not leading to long-term development and financial independence.

   It also has to be remembered that government-to-government aid does not come for free. African nations are required to make payments on international aid dollars received, which, in the long term, is detrimental to the governments and citizens of Africa, especially if aid monies are not originally used to fund domestic investment, business, and infrastructure.

   So, what is a person to do? How do we help Africa without perpetuating the dependency culture that has been created by decades of flawed international investment?

   There is no perfect answer. The road to economic stability and independence in Africa is going to be long, but based on what I've seen since I've been here, I know that the people on this continent are ready and capable to take the reigns of their own country, but they will only be able to do so if people begin to rethink the way they view charity and aid.

   The easiest way to help pull Africa out of poverty is to invest your money in microfinance rather than direct aid. The money invested through companies like Kiva go directly to the people who are trying to generate income for themselves and their communities. By getting involved with microfinance organizations, you not only have the ability to choose where your money goes, but you can re-invest your money as many times as you want, making it much more effective than a simple one-time cash donation.

   Sponsoring children through companies like Compassion International or World Vision is also another way to get involved on a micro scale. After spending several weeks in Africa, the need for nutrition and education has become clearly visible, and sponsorship is a large concern for a lot of the schools and orphanages where our volunteers work.

   Another simple way to help is to be a responsible donor. Do your research and find a specific project or company that you want to donate to. Rather than donating to broad programs, find a specific cause and a specific organization that is very explicit about how donations are used. For example, earlier this year I donated to a small school called Cheti, not knowing that I would soon be living in Tanzania. Now that I'm in Arusha, I have the ability to visit the school and see exactly where my money went. Such an experience would not be possible by donating to a larger, generalized organization.

   Be a responsible consumer. There are lots of companies based out of African nations that are doing their part to generate money for their countries. The company that I always point to as a shining example is Sseko, the Uganda-based sandal manufacturer that focuses on women's empowerment, but other companies like African Nature also provide quality products that were created in an ethical work environment. By purchasing from companies like these, people help stimulate the economies of African nations, and they get well-made products out of the deal.

   It is going to be a long time before African nations reach the level of development that most westerners would consider "desirable", but if governments, aid organizations, and individuals can reshape the way we view international assistance, I foresee a very stable and bright future for the continent that I am rapidly falling in love with.

Sources:

OECD: Development Aid At A Glance, Statistics by Region

Wall Street Journal, "Why Foreign Aid is Hurting Africa"

United Nations, Office of the Special Adviser on Africa, "Aid to Africa"

World Bank, "Tanzania Overview"

CIA World Fact Book, "Tanzania"

OkayAfrica, "The Trouble with TOMS"

A Day In the Life

  So, I have now been in Africa for almost two weeks, and I am really beginning to feel at home here. Of course, there has been an adjustment period. It's strange to have very little personal space and limited access to the outside world. Our power goes out at least once a week, and the water goes out almost daily.

Our first power outage turned out to be one of our better nights in Africa.

 It is also somewhat unenjoyable to have to wear the same 10 pieces of clothing over, and over, and over again. I miss real Amer'kin ketchup, Nutella, and country fried chicken (which no one here had even heard of). And, naturally, I really miss my expansive collection of nail polish and makeup. (I mean, I miss my family and friends too, but I REALLY miss my cosmetics and beauty products.)

  Even though there are certainly things that I miss about the great state of Texas, I'm starting to fall into a routine here that makes me more happy and fulfilled than I have been in a long time. So, for the tens of people who are interested, here is what an average day in Tanzania is like:

  I wake up around 7:15 or 7:30. Anyone who knows me well will understand what a huge adjustment this was for me. I get dressed and try to make myself look fairly presentable (though most days I still look like I crawled out from under a bridge).
  
   I go downstairs and have breakfast, which usually consists of fresh fruit and some kind of fried bread, like Mandazi, which is basically a funnel cake or beignet without the powdered sugar. I also usually start my day with a hot cup a AfriCafe Coffee, which is a far cry from Starbucks, but it still gets the job done.
  
   Around 8:10 I take the dala dala to my placement. Not the most comfortable method of transport, but it costs $.25 for a 15 minute ride. Can't beat that.

....3-4 more people could definitely fit in this one.

  I get to my placement at Hope Center around 8:30. Hope is both an orphanage and a day care for kids of all ages, but the kids I work with are between the ages of 3 and 5. Some of the kids live there full time, and others just come in during the day for play and lessons.

This is where the kids and I play every day.

The outside of the building. All the kids are lined up for their daily porridge.

  The first two hours at the orphanage is spent working on basic pre-school lessons like counting, the alphabet, colors, basic English and tracing. 

   Once again, anyone who knows me will understand what a huge transition was for me. Last year I was teaching my (adult) students about the long-term implications of the rise of the Christian Right, and now I'm teaching babies how to trace their "1"s. I would say teaching undergrads is a lot easier than teaching three year olds. The lessons are made even harder by the fact that I don't speak Swahili, so I have no idea what the hell my kids are saying to me.

  After the kids finish their work, they can go outside for playtime. As soon as I step out of the classroom for playtime, I immediately have 2-5 kids hanging on every limb of my body, looking at my watch (because they love to hear it beep), playing with my hair, and asking me to pick them up or swing them around. Sometimes we play games or go on the swings, and on really special days, we get out the parachute. (Don't act like you aren't jealous).

My baby girl Doreen. She's a little terror, but she's so stinkin' cute.

  Watching the kids play is incredible, because they have so little, and yet they make the most of what they have available to them. Old wooden boxes and bicycle tires become coveted play things, and under-inflated soccer balls are the most exciting thing on the playground. The kids' appreciation and excitement for their small luxuries is an incredible thing to watch.

  At 11:30, my babies get released to go home, so I walk them to the main road and help them cross, and then catch the dala dala back to my house.

  Once home, I eat lunch, and then do any number of fairly mundane things: Do my wash (Which I do by hand. Achievement Unlocked.), hang out with my roommates (who are all awesome, fun, hilarious people), get on the internet, or take the oh so luxurious African bucket shower.

  Several times a week we also go into town, which is always chaotic and fantastic. There are dala dalas and boda bodas (moterbikes) everywhere, and people yell from all different directions, calling us "mzungu" or "white person". In town there is a coffee shop with free wifi, a Shoprite grocery store, and several cool restaurants and shops.

My coffee and cake at Fifi's, one of the better coffee shops in the area.

  At night we either do one of two things: Stay at the house and listen to music while playing card games, or go out to any one of the bars or clubs in the area.

In the cab on the way home with our favorite driver, Jimmy.

  Overall, life here is pretty awesome. Things move slower here, despite the frantic movement in the city. For the most part, the people are kind and welcoming, though, of course, there are a fair share of ass clowns here too, but that's true of any country. The food is a lot better than I was expecting, and the beer is also much better than anticipated.

 I also love that I spend a large portion of my day outdoors, and, unlike in the States, I actually walk places, which I really enjoy.

  Being here has already changed my perspective on how I live my life in the States, and it has also changed the way I see the world around me. And, interestingly, it has completely changed my opinions on international aid. But that's a whole other post. 

The Never-ending Battle of an Incurable Introvert

   I've been an introvert my whole life. I hate small talk, I mean, HATE small talk. If I haven't seen you since high school, I'm really not that interested in your new baby or your breast reduction. I don't care that you switched to a paleo diet and now shop only at places that sell fair-trade, local, organic, sustainable produce. And, I'd bet you're not that interested in "what I've been up to" either. To be honest, I'm probably more interested in the distant struggles of dead people from the 1940s than I am in most living, breathing people.

  I love being alone in movie theaters, restaurants, and shopping malls. I hate birthday parties (for myself). They stress me out because people are focused on me, and I don't like the attention or gifts. (But I love finding and giving gifts to other people).


  I also hate group work. I don't understand the point and I don't understand why "pedogologically speaking" group work is always encouraged as the ideal way to teach. No. It isn't. It's awkward and alienating, and I always end up doing all the work (with one recent documentary project as a pleasant outlier).

  Additionally, I have debilitating social anxiety. (Which, according to the DSM-IV, is a legit personality disorder.) If I sort-of know you and you come into the restaurant where I work, I will probably do my best to avoid eye contact with you (to avoid the aforementioned small talk). If I see you in a grocery store, I will camp out among the deli meats until I am sure we won't run into each other. It's not that I don't like you, it's just that I don't like surprise social interactions that I'm unprepared for. Similarly, when my friends introduce me to new people, my pulse quickens, my knees begin to shake, and my palms get disgustingly sweaty, which makes the obligatory introductory handshake even more awkward. And when the new acquaintance is an attractive, bearded male, I will likely just pass out immediately. 

  Do you want to be friends with me yet?

  I love it when plans get cancelled, because it means I can spend the night reading books and surfing Reddit. When I go places, I observe the people around me more than I engage them. I take mental notes all the time. A lot of times I feel like Renton from Trainspotting or Nick Carraway from The Great Gatsby: Always observing, but not really the main actor in the story.

  The thing is, this is just the way I am. I've tried to change it. I try to be more involved and less socially awkward (until I inevitably drop something, break something, trip over my own feet, accidentally injure someone, or say something so inflammatory that people lose all interest in speaking to me), but I simply can't change the way I am hard-wired, which makes me more concerned with my own thoughts than the external world. At any given time, I have 6 million thoughts and observations running through my head and I'm only able to express about .05% of them. (See diagram 1A for a visual)

Diagram 1A

  According to Google, which, as we all know is our silent omnipotent overlord, "Introvert" is defined as: A shy, reticent, and typically self-centered person. Ouch, Google, you cut me real deep just now. Meanwhile, "Extrovert" is defined as: An outgoing, overtly expressive person. The difference in definition alone demonstrates a significant flaw in our society. Extroverts are glorified and praised while introverts get labeled as "shy" and "awkward" and "quiet".

  At what point did our society begin to elevate the outspoken and ignore those who simply have no interest in being the center of attention? 

  My introversion has led to insecurity all my life, mostly because I am surrounded by wonderful, fun ambiverts (yeah, it's a thing) and extroverts. My dad can approach strangers and literally talk to then for hours. (Just ask the Jehovah's witnesses and Mormons who have the misfortune of knocking on our door.) And I have a best friend whose first actual sentence to a new acquaintance was, "So, your parents got divorced, huh? That must have been hard. Tell me about that." (They ended up dating for almost a year). One of my other best friends literally knows every local politician, school board member, and upper-middle class white lady/pseudo-activist in the Humble-Atascocita-Kingwood area, and can spark a conversation about just about anything.

These are my friends:

This is me:

I'll never understand why I'm still single.

  I've always compared myself to the people close to me, wondering why I can't just act like a "normal person". but I've recently come to realize that I am a fairly normal person, and maybe my introversion isn't such a bad thing. According to Susan Caine's book Quiet, something like one third to one half of Americans are introverts, and though society does not fully appreciate them, they make a valuable contribution to society. They are good listeners and writers. They care deeply about the people close to them. They tend to be creative and are more emotionally sensitive to both beauty and tragedy. They tend to be focused and unmaterialistic. They enjoy deep, lengthy conversations with close friends and they try to avoid conflict. Some of the greatest people in history have been introverts: Rosa Parks, Vincent Van Gogh, Sir Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, Dr. Seuss, The Great Stephen Spielberg, and my hero J.K. Rowling. So, I'm definitely in good company.

  A lot of introverts try to cover up their quiet demeanor because in business and social interactions, the "Type-A" personalities seem to be preferable. I'm definitely guilty of this. But it doesn't seem fair that introverts have to downplay their natural predisposition for being cerebral and introspective.

  So what do we do now? Let's be real, society isn't going to change. The charismatic, outspoken people will get a lot of the glory and accolades in this world, and I'd wager that most introverts are fully okay with that, but maybe we need to do a better job of respecting people who are not the vocal, engaging, "people-person" types. Additionally, it's time for people to start learning how to appropriately handle their interactions with introverted people, and to stop expecting them to approach life with the same extroverted attitude. (See Diagram for details).

  I still struggle with embracing my introspective personality, but at least I'm learning that I do have a place, and I'm not abnormal, and my strengths and skills are equally as valuable as those of CEOs and public speakers, and for now, that's good enough for me.
  

Sink or Swim

  Yesterday I turned in the first draft of my thesis. To be entirely honest, the stress of writing as well as the time-consuming nature of grad school has largely deprived me of the time and will to deeply get into the Scriptures. Today, however, in my glorious, albeit temporary, calm before the storm of revisions, I had the time to return to in-depth prayer and Bible Study. I've been reading through the book of Matthew, and, for the most part, it feels like more of a recap than anything. Growing up in a very, very active Christian household, it's easy to feel like we've heard all the stories a million times, and that there isn't much more to learn from them.

  But today, one of the most familiar stories stuck out to me, because I feel it directly correlates to my life as I move into the next phase of it. It was the story of Peter walking on water. I've heard the story a million times as a cautionary tale about having a lack of faith. So, the story goes like this: The disciples are hanging out on the lake in a boat, as people did in the days of yore. It's sometime between 3:00 and 6:00 in the morning, so either the guys are 1.) Up way too late, 2.) Nocturnal, 3.) Partying it up Hebrew style, or 4.) Hella tired. They look out across the lake and they see Jesus walking on the water towards them, and they're like, "What the deuce? This is a little strange." And then this happens:

²⁶ When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear.²⁷ But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
²⁸ “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”²⁹ “Come,” he said.Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. ³⁰ But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”³¹ Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”

So here are the things that struck me about the story that I hadn't really noticed before.

1.) The disciples are scared. And, I think they were certainly justified in their reaction. But as he always does, Jesus says "Do not be afraid." Now this phrase isn't exactly a new command in the Bible. The Bible tells people not to be afraid no less than 365 times. 365. Hmmm. That number is kind of important.  That's one reminder to not be afraid for each day of the year. (And some scholars argue that it is said 366 times, so leap years are covered too.) So, obviously, this is something that is close to the heart of God. Fear is unnecessary in the life of a Christian, and really in the life of anyone.

2.) Peter is the only disciple to respond to Jesus. The passage says, "The disciples." So that means there are other guys watching this happen. But Peter is the only one to say anything. And not only does he talk to the mysterious man across the water, but he says, "Hey. Let me come join you." Meanwhile, the other guys are still hanging out in the boat, apparently just watching this whole thing unfold. Now, keep in mind, these are the guys who have at this point seen Jesus feed the five thousand; they heard the Sermon on the Mount. He has healed paralytics and pretty much raised people from the dead, so these guys know what's up. They've seen what this guy can do. And yet they stay in the boat.

3.) Peter begins to sink "when he saw the wind". When things got a little rough, when things got a little scary, he begins to struggle. But Jesus pulls him out of the water, and reminds him, "Why didn't you believe me? Why didn't you trust me? I got this, remember?"

  I feel like the story of Peter is the story of a lot of us, myself included. The disciples were in a state of fear. Fear is a normal response to things that are out of the ordinary. But Peter didn't let his fear encumber him. He stepped out of the boat, at 3 AM no less into a very dark, very deep lake, not entirely positive what's going to happen. But at least he got off the boat. At least he took the step. None of the other disciples did that. They stayed where it was safe. Where it was familiar. Where there was little likelihood of being harmed. A lot of times we let fear keep us trapped on our own boats. We move through this life surrounded by a sea of uncertainty, and it's easier to remain in our comfort zones than to risk braving new waters. But Peter did. 

  It's also important to note that even an apostle can sink when life gets rough. And, let's be honest, we all sink sometimes. Either through overwhelming stress, or painful experiences, or lack of faith in our own strength and abilities, it's easy to be overcome by the tide. (I realize lakes like the one in the story don't have tides, but it's a metaphor, okay?) But notice that Jesus pulls him out. Jesus doesn't let him sink completely. Jesus takes over and says, "I got this. I always did. Why did you doubt me? I'm not gonna just watch you sink. That's not my style."

  I'll be honest, I've been sinking lately. Stress of grad school as well as a complete uncertainty about my future have me feeling like I'm not walking on stable ground anymore. But at least I'm trying to step out of the boat. I've still got a lot of fear and doubt to overcome, and some days it's hard to believe that God is going to take care of it. But hopefully, I can just follow Peter's example and dive right in.

Worst Case Scenarios and Hidden Blessings: AHA 2013

 I wise woman once said, "Life has a funny way of helping you out when you think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up in your face." The last 4 days of my life have proven the absolute truth of that statement.

  My friend Stephanie and I went to New Orleans to attend the annual American Historical Association conference. We rented a hotel room and hit the road, not knowing what ridiculous events were in store for us.

  The first few days of the trip were peppered with an interesting assortment of experiences, both good and bad. We went on a ghost tour, got hundreds of dollars in free books, stopped in the most racist city in Texas, hit a car while attempting to parallel park, drank on Bourbon and Frenchman Streets, got followed home by creepers, and met some incredibly big deal historians who have decisively shaped their fields. Additionally, we bumped into an old professor of mine who is the dean of the liberal arts department at Lone Star - Kingwood, who told us to come interview once we graduate. Win. 

   We also accidentally stumbled upon the best soul food we've ever had because our first choice restaurant was too crowded. It ended up being the best decision we ever made. Everyone should go to the Praline Connection on Frenchman Street. Amazing.

  It wasn't until Saturday, the third day of our stay in New Orleans, that the wheels began to fall off. It started when Stephanie lost her ID. We called everywhere to find it: The Mariott, the AHA office, Harrah's (where we were parked), and nobody had it. It also wasn't in the room or the car. We knew we had to find it if we wanted to go to bars or casinos, so we were slightly concerned. As we frantically searched through all of our things, I told Stephanie about a wonderful book I'd read that says:

   "Take the worst case scenario. Asking yourself, 'What's the absolute worst thing that could happen?' if something goes wrong can be very empowering. It helps you put things in their proper perspective. To take it further, you can also ask, 'Will the world end if this does not go the way I expect?' Shockingly, I've found that the answer is usually 'no'."

   We realized that, worst case scenario, we apply for a new driver's license online and spend the rest of the weekend eating and exploring rather than drinking and gambling. Definitely not a crisis. Definitely fixable. Definitely not worth freaking out over.

  After putting the situation into the proper context, we decided to head to Harrah's, even though Stephanie had no way to prove she was 21. Because we were parked at the casino, we were required to gamble for at least 30 minutes, so we decided that we would try to get in without having our IDs checked. Our brilliant plan was pretty much "If they ask for our IDs, just keep walking." We arrived at the casino and made our move to sneak past security.....and failed. (Note to self: never try to sneak backstage at a concert or infiltrate an enemy outpost. You're not as much of a ninja as you think you are.) 

  Stephanie tried to sweet talk her way into the casino, but the security attendant wouldn't have any of it...until she noticed a Michigan driver's license sitting on the desk in front of her. Turns out that the very security desk we were attempting to bypass coincidentally had Stephanie's ID. Thank goodness we failed at our attempt to sneak in, or we never would have recovered it. (And, for the record, she did not lose it. The casino took it to validate our parking and never gave it back to us.)

   Elated, we hit the penny slots, requested our drinks, and proceeded to have a great time. And by "have a great time" I mean that Stephanie and I downed 3 long island iced teas and 4 gin and tonics, respectively, within an hour's time. FO' FREE! Gotta love casinos.

Our winnings from "the corn game" penny slot. Show me the corn. I want da corn.

   After leaving the casino we had a few hours to kill before we had to meet up with friends, so we decided that we would get some wine and a Domino's pizza and be fat kids in our hotel room while watching trainwreck reality television, but fate had other plans for us.

   When we approached our hotel we saw that there were about 4 fire trucks and a news crew outside. Our response was something like:

We didn't grab no shoes or nothing, Jesus.

   Turns out that there was 4 alarm fire on the 4th floor and the whole hotel had to be evacuated. The Hilton hotel across the street was kind enough to set up an area where all the displaced persons could stay, so we spent then next hour or so in what was effectively a very, very nice refugee camp. Undaunted, Stephanie and I popped a squat on the floor and proceeded to eat our pizza and drink our wine.

"Kristen, don't throw away the floor pizza. We may want it later."

 Eventually we were told that we could get our luggage, but that we would have to move to another hotel. In our slightly inebriated minds, Stephanie and I decided that we would exact our revenge on the hotel by stealing every complimentary item we could find, including coffee, slippers, toiletries, a sewing kit, styrofoam cups, and toilet paper. That'll show 'em.

   When we got back down to the lobby, we were met with chaos and pandemonium, but we eventually found out that we were going to be moved to the Crowne Plaza a few blocks away, so we dragged all of our stuff, including the bags full of books that we had acquired earlier that day, to the new hotel. At eleven o'clock at night.

   Thankfully, the two of us laughed our way through the whole thing. Though slightly inconvenienced, our night was by no means ruined. Nobody was hurt in the fire and the damage was minimal. We had a fun little adventure and we got moved to a hotel that was actually in a more central location than the other one had been. Additionally, we got our last night's accommodations comped, so we saved money too.

   In the end, the trip turned out to be amazing and fun and full of hidden blessings. We couldn't go to dinner where we wanted and ended up having the best fried chicken we've ever tasted. Stephanie's ID was lost, but we happened to wander to exactly where it was. Our hotel caught on fire, but we got a discount and had an adventure. We both learned that worst case scenarios are never as dire as they seem and that humor and flexibility can make a crappy situation into a fun, positive experience.

  AHA 2012 will definitely go down as one of the better road trips we've ever had, not because things went perfectly and smoothly, but because we made the best out of every ridiculous, problematic moment and allowed ourselves to enjoy the ride rather than encumbering ourselves with unnecessary worry and frustration.