The Thought Chronicles

Cheers! Kabul

2012-01-07T01:01:00.000-08:00

New subject, same students. Many of my old students are attending my new class; I guess they have missed me!
Graffiti on crumbling buildings with no plans for reconstruction.
Haven't I seen this guy somewhere before?

Being back in Kabul after a 4 month long hiatus is interesting. During this trip back, I have had many bouts of Deja Vu; the guards at my old apartment are the same, my driver is friends with my former driver, so he knows that I like to lift weights, the policeman at the gate at school remembers that I don't eat bread, so he didn't offer any to me when it was lunch time and I walked by (he offered chick pea soup instead), the old beggar lady in burqa outside of the grocery store told me she hasn't seen me in a longtime, the biting cold is still unbearable, the walk to Camp Eggers still haunts me, I can still smell the wood stoves burning across the street from my place, my students ask me how Chris is, and the azan (call to prayer) still shakes me from my slumber before dawn.

Through all of these encounters, I can't help but think that I am Norm and Kabul is my "Cheers."

For those of you who are too young to remember, "Cheers" was a television show in the 80's about a bar in Boston. Norm was a regular at the bar and whenever he walked into the place, everyone would yell his name "Norm!" to greet him.

The theme song to "Cheers" went like this:

Making your way in the world today takes everything you've got.
Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.
Wouldn't you like to get away?

Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name,
and they're always glad you came.

You wanna be where you can see,
our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows your name.

As funny as it may seem, I have been singing this song in my head ever since I got here. Though I didn't necessarily want to "get away" from the happy life that I live in the states, I did want to come back here to remember how wonderful my life really is. Just as I have written before, I think it is necessary for us to leave behind what we love in order to realize how amazing the things that we have are. So, I have gone away to Kabul to remember how lovely my life is in America.

It is ironic that the place I have to go where everybody knows my name is Kabul. Afghans are awesome like that. They have the best memories of any people I have ever known. If you tell an Afghan something, they most likely will never forget it. But you have to be careful, Afghans expect the same from you! I remember that one student told me how many siblings she had, and what all of their names were. She felt bad later on when I asked her again about her siblings and what their names were. Testing her, I asked if she remembered all of the things I had told her about my family, and she proceeded to repeat all of the information I had mentioned the week before. So this, it ends up, is the place in the world where everybody (who has met me!) remembers my name. Go figure!

And finally, here, everyone's troubles are the same. It is true, our troubles are all pretty similar in Kabul. From the poorest person on up, we are all cold, we all are hoping for clean air, clean water, and clean food, we are all hoping for peace. Though the foreigners here have all of these things outside of the country, temporarily they have to live alongside their Afghan counterparts and experience a fraction of their suffering. We all worry about suicide blasts, inclement weather, illegal checkpoints, and kidnappings. We all worry about money and time. We all go to sleep hoping to wake up to a better day tomorrow.

So, as I wander through these familiar streets, consistently being greeted by people whom I know, always seeing things I have seen before, I can't help but think: I am Norm and Kabul is my "Cheers."

Altitude Training

2011-12-05T13:21:00.000-08:00

View of the hills from Babur Gardens, Kabul.
Hanging out at Afghan Culture House, Kabul.

With the absence of oxygen, a human will die. But, strangely, with just a little oxygen the human body will become stronger.

Ever since the 1968 Olympics, which were held at about 7,000 feet altitude in Mexico City, Mexico, people have been curious about what competing at or training at altitude does to the body of an elite athlete. Many people were worried that the decrease in oxygen available at such heights would adversely affect the performance of endurance athletes, but that the thin air would cause less air resistance and help out anaerobic (sprint-oriented) athletes. The hypothesis was roughly true; many records fell at the shorter distances during those games.

After the Olympics though, the curiosity about altitude's affect on athletes did not fade. People began to realize that there are definite and measurable benefits to training at altitude and competing at sea level. While training at altitude, an athlete's red blood cells increase, VO2 max is heightened, and EPO also has been proven to increase. All of this means that an athlete's body adapts to working with less oxygen. When people who train and live at high altitudes return to sea level to compete, they are able to use the abundance of oxygen at lower altitudes to their advantage.

Though it happens slowly and for better or worse, an amazing characteristic that all humans possess is the ability to adapt to challenging circumstances.

In two weeks, I will be doing a little altitude training of my own; I will be returning to the beautiful, yet tumultuous city of Kabul, Afghanistan.

Returning to Afghanistan is altitude training at its finest. Not only will I be pushing my athletic limits in the thin air of this 6,000 meter high land, I will be navigating the politically tense and economically depressed reality of daily life in a city that has been at war for three decades now.

Why am I going back to Afghanistan when I have just recently returned from a 10-month long teaching fellowship there? The short answer is, to teach. I have been awarded a grant by the Department of State to return to the University to conduct a teacher training workshop.

Another answer is, How can I not?

How can I not return to a place that is in desperate need of education, when I have the skills to help, and the means to go there?

How can I not return to a country that is at war, partially due to the fact that an uneducated and illiterate majority were strong-armed and conned into believing that the Taliban would rule them with a fair and objective hand, when I know that the education I can offer them will chip away at the ignorance which has landed them in this situation?

How can I not return to a city that welcomed me with open arms, and asked me to be part of their family, part of their history, part of their lives as if I was their sister or daughter?

Being back in Kabul will be challenging. Not only will it be harder to breathe, but it will be harder to ignore the poverty and injustice that is rampant in that land. It will be a strain to feel the dust in my lungs, to see the bombed out buildings, to hear the widows begging for a cent or two, to listen to the sad stories of my friends. It will be a test of both the body and the spirit.

But I welcome this experience with an open heart and mind. Just as the absence of oxygen will make me a stronger athlete, so will the testing of my spirit make me a better person. Being with my friends in Kabul, living their lives, knowing their hardships and their happiness, reminds me why life is so special. Without challenges, how would we ever know how good life is; without adversity, how would we know how strong we are?

This is "altitude training" at its best. This is why I am returning to Afghanistan.

The Passage of Time

2011-10-19T21:19:00.001-07:00

Wondering where all of the time went; Carpinteria, CA (2011)
Sunset over Wadi Rum, Jordan (2007 with Global Majority)

Time is sneaky. One minute a watch breaks and the next minute you realize two months have gone by. One minute you are a ten year old girl riding a banana seat bike through the streets of a quiet neighborhood at dusk with your friend behind you grasping tightly to your shirt, and the next minute you are peeking through the curtains of an apartment building in downtown Kabul, wishing you were a ten year old boy flying a kite outside. One minute you are desperately hoping for the freedom you once had, the next minute you are remembering the endless hours of free time you loathed.

Time is sneaky like that. You never know when it is going to fly by or drag on.

If I have learned anything in my life, it is that I can't forget to cherish time because each moment is precious in its own way, then it is gone like the sweet smell of rain on newly wet pavement as it disappears in the afternoon sun.

Yes, time is sneaky.

Though I don't remember quite when it happened, both of my watches ceased to work shortly after I returned from my one month jaunt in Italy. Panicked, I quickly figured out how to set my alarm clock on my cell phone. Thinking I would get a new watch battery as soon as possible, I forgot about my watches and went on with my life.

Shortly after both of my watches broke, I competed in my first triathlon since being back in the states. The morning of the triathlon I woke up (to my cell phone alarm, of course) and realized I had no way of keeping track of my pace during the race. A little worried, I took a deep breath and decided that it did not matter; I would do my best to keep my pace above an 85% effort. Listening to my body would be my goal.

My body listened to the time, as it turns out.

Not only did I feel great during the triathlon, I managed to get a personal record in my 10 kilometer run at the end! After swimming 1600 meters in the ocean and biking 40 kilometers on the road, I ran the fastest 10k of my life (42:40). Instead of constantly glancing at my watch and feeling stressed about keeping pace, I just relaxed.

Time is funny like that, when you forget about it, it works in your favor. When you don't mind the passage of time, it seems to slow down.

On the other hand, as soon as I start to worry about time, it speeds up.

I have been back in the states for two months now, and I can't believe how the time has flown by. Each day I am busy with life here, going to one of three jobs, training for the Crossfit Games season, 2012, eating healthy, staying in touch with friends, enjoying the sun, ocean, and mountains of the central coast, spending time with Chris, trying to make time slow down.

Sometimes I worry that I will go to sleep one night, a young healthy 32 year old and wake up the next morning an older, healthy 72 year old. I worry that as the days pass by so quickly here, somehow time will sneak right away from me and I'll miss life.

Yes, time is funny like that. One minute you are sitting in a musty room in downtown Kabul, waiting for the sun to go down so you can justifiably go to sleep without feeling guilty for beating the sun to bed, the next moment you are frantically trying to complete work before the sun rises. One minute you are caged, stir crazy, going insane with so many empty days, the next minute you are glancing at a broken watch, wondering where the time went...

Secrets of Naples

2011-08-27T12:35:00.001-07:00

The cliff is in the foreground. It is the shorter one, but make no mistake, it was really high!
Why yes, I love to jump off of very high things!
Crowded much?

As the children chanted,"coward, coward, coward," and I watched with a disjointed glee as the last boy stood on the edge of the cliff, I floated on my back and gazed up at the sky. The boys treading in the water next to me stopped chanting and turned to give me multiple thumbs up...and then...with a, "VAFANCULO!" that echoed off of the cave wall, the final boy flew like a cursing angel through the hot Italian afternoon and, PLOP! landed right next to me in the crystal clear water. I watched his bubbles precede him as he kicked to the surface and listened to all of the other boys shouting with joy. They couldn't believe they just jumped off that cliff. I couldn't believe I just jumped off that cliff! So, together, we swam around to the other side of the rocks, climbed up the front, ran along the top of the cave and...wooosh! Plunged over the 20 meter tall cliff again!

This is one of the secrets of Naples. Cliff-jumping.

Upon entering Miseno Beach, also known as the NATO beach, a feeling of suffocation came over me. First of all, it was crowded. There were hundreds of people, umbrellas, beach loungers, ice cream and cafe stands, and pieces of trash. There was music blaring through the speakers (everywhere!); a samba line to the left, screaming parents slapping their kids to the right, an old hairy man in a thong speedo laying in front of me. It seemed as though I had entered a hell of my own making. An Italian beach.

Regardless, with my eagle eyes (okay, I am blind, but I heard the screams...), I scouted out some cliffs about 1000 meters out in the water; there were people jumping off of them! I'd have to swim to get there; everyone had paddled out there in boats. Gauging the distance, I knew I could get there pretty quickly, so I went for it. I swam straight out to sea towards the boat buoys, then I turned left towards the cliffs. As I got closer and closer, I could see that the front side of the cliff wasn't too high. A lot of teenagers were climbing up the face and jumping off the rocks, so I did the same. I didn't understand why I had heard screams all the way from the beach, because this 10 meter tall cliff was not currently producing any screams. Then, just as I thought, "okay, I have had enough," I looked up and saw that some boys were standing higher up on the rocks. Were they jumping off the back side?!

Without thinking much, I followed some speedo-clad Italian teens up the rocks. There were about 10 or 15 teenage boys standing on the edge of the cliff, peering over. I walked towards them and immediately got butterflies. There was a cave down there; it looked to be about 20-25 meters below us. All of the boys were looking over the side and muttering to each other in Italian. I looked over the side and lost my breath. I thought, "The water looks deep, so I probably won't hit the bottom if I jump." I walked away from the side of the cliff laughing nervously.

I reasoned with myself.

I couldn't jump! I just jumped off of some rocks on the Adriatic Coast a week before and hurt my ankle because the water was too shallow. Did I want to make it worse? I can't jump. Am I crazy? I don't know how deep the landing area is...I don't know how close I'll come to the rocks. I can't jump. None of the boys are jumping, they must know that it isn't deep enough down there. I could kill myself! I can't jump.

Then, the breeze blew through my hair, the sun shined down on my face, the boys stopped talking, and all I could hear was the water lapping against the cliffs.

I am free to do whatever I want; I am going to jump.

Breathing in deeply, eying the edge of the cliff, and looking towards the gap in between the boys standing in front of me, I started to sprint. As I got closer to the edge, I could see the cave below...then...air above me, water below me...I was flying! And screaming...loudly! I screamed that scream all the way out of my lungs, took another deep breath, thought about the lightness of my being at that moment and then..."crack!" I hit the water. I went deeper and deeeper, slower and slower, then the bottom greeted me; the sand was soft. I pushed off the bottom, broke the surface and screamed again. Looking skyward, I started giggling as boys were now plummeting over the cliff all at once. Boom, boom, boom!!! Three boys jumped right after me and joined me in the water.

We all looked up towards the cliff where the other boy remained. With a little coaxing, he too became an apparition, flailing through the air and eventually smacking down in the warm, wavy sea. Once all of us were in the water, we swam around, climbed the rocks, and jumped again.

After I had gotten my fill of the cliff, I swam blissfully back to the crowded beach. At that point, I didn't care about the chaos surrounding me. At that point, I was free.

Welcome to Naples

2011-08-07T08:00:00.000-07:00

Sunset over Naples
Just trying to fit in!
I am sweating with anticipation.
Neghombo Beach, Ischia Italy

Startled last night by an earth-shattering boom, I woke up smiling because I knew that I was not being stirred out of slumber by a possible Taliban attack or suicide bombing. Tossing my legs over the side of my bed onto the cool, clean tile of the apartment floor, I ambled over to the window and rolled up the garage-like shutter door and glanced over the water towards Naples proper. When I opened my sleepy eyes, I saw a fireworks display more elaborate than the fourth of July in any American town; apparently this is an everyday occurrence in this part of Southern Italy. With a sigh of satisfaction, I thought, "Welcome to Naples!"

The past few days have been an exercise in extreme opposites compared to my life about two and a half weeks ago. Here, it is strange to see a women covered by more than a stringy bikini on the beach, or wedge high heels, shorts (or a mini skirt) and a tank top in the city. Topless little girls ride their bikes in the street; their curly, sun-bleached hair blowing in the breeze, screaming with glee as they remove their feet from the pedals and let gravity take them where it may.

The grown-up ladies are strong, beautiful, and loud, and nobody gives them trouble about it. American women can take a lesson from the Neapolitan women, no matter what their shape or size, the women of Naples can all be seen letting it all hang out on the beaches. My friend Jess and I agreed that there are probably very few eating disorders and body image issues in this area. Why?

Reason one: the food is too good to care!

From amazingly rich, yet light pastries, every flavor of gelato your heart may desire, to "mozerella di buffala," the pizza, OH! the pizza!, amazingly smooth olive oil, and mouth-wateringly-cooked meat of all varieties, all of it is too good to resist. Combine that with the crispy fresh produce and juicy summer fruits and you would stop restricting your diet too.

Reason two: the beaches are too good to care!

As you can see by the picture above, it is absolutely beautiful here. The water is clear and warm; the fish curious; and the beaches clean. Though beach guards (or are they beach salesmen?) attempt to charge you for everything from your chair and umbrella to the sand where you put down your towel, being on a beach in the surrounding cities and islands near Naples is a little slice of heaven. There is no time to think about your butt rolling out of that thong bikini, you just slap on some tanning lotion (or oil?) and run for the sea, pizza in hand.

That is what I will be doing!

Bittersweet Afghanistan

2011-07-14T09:45:00.000-07:00

Night time has arrived and I am waiting to go home. For me, my time in Afghanistan has come to an end; after one week, I will leave this place. I will leave my chadars (head scarves) behind and slowly unfurl my American self again. Though the details of day to day life may fade, I will never forget my time here; Afghanistan, and especially my students, will always have a place in my heart.

One of the last things that I taught the students in my writing class (before their final exam last week) was the idea of oxymoron. We talked about the word "bittersweet," and I asked my students to tell me a situation in their lives which was bittersweet. This is what they said:

"I am about to be married. I am very happy that my family has found a suitable and good boy for me to marry, but I am afraid and sad to leave my own family behind when I must join his. Getting married is a happy change in a girl's life, but leaving her family is terrible. This is bittersweet."

"When I was very young my family moved to Pakistan to leave the country [Afghanistan] during the Taliban. I lived in Pakistan for 14 years. When we returned to Afghanistan, I had to leave all of my friends, my home, my city, and all of my favorite places in Pakistan behind; I had to make a new life here. I was coming back to my real home, but leaving my childhood forever. This was bittersweet."

And, unprompted, the head of the English department at my University said this at my going away party yesterday:

"Jaala Jan is leaving us. This is both a good and bad thing; it is a bittersweet moment because she will return to her home, but she will leave us. We have come to know Jaala Jan as one of us. Look, she is Afghan! She will remain in our hearts forever; we will always pray that she returns one day."

Leaving Afghanistan is bittersweet.

As I leave here, I will always remember both the good and the bad; I will always keep these memories with me:

...the call to prayer (azan)echoing in the background of life, almost always a constant reminder of the Muslim faith that guides the people and fills the air

...the clip clap of donkey and horse hooves on the streets; the bump of their carts wheeling over uneven ground, dumping potatoes and onions here and there

...helicopters interrupting class, shaking white board markers off of their trays

...Farhad Daria and Ahmad Zahir blaring on everyone's radio; playing over and over again in everyone's head

...4:45 am summer sunrises

...the smell of rotting garbage and rancid standing water lining the streets; the vision of the car wash boys dipping their towels in the sewers to give the cars a quick "bath"

...gravel in my beef

...a river choked by carelessness and trash

...the huge hearts and effervescent kindness of the people

...invitations for lunch; mantou, boolani, oshaq, kofta, kabobs, and gigantic naan

...Crossfit Camp Eggers; a little slice of America, the place where I found my heart and fell in love

...herds of goats stopping traffic

...Toyotas...everywhere

...cows getting gutted on the side of the road; a stump for a butcher's block; a strung-up sheep waiting for slaughter, staring at the severed head of another sheep lying by the gutter, blood flowing freely

...the sunset overshadowed by the brown dust of yet another wind storm

...70 Afs DVDs at Finest

...thinking every clap of thunder is a suicide bomb

...the view of T.V. hill obscured by my window; sitting in the prison of my apartment, wishing I was free

...burqas held tightly over eyes; women covered by men's insecurity

...darkly lined eyes, colorful make-up, and a stray tuft of hair peeking out from under a chadar; fabric tucked behind an ear, daring you to take a closer look

...policemen and soldiers roaming the streets; sentries without a clear purpose, weapons ready, always in danger

...mountains beyond mountains, holding secrets from decades of war that will never be revealed

...mud brick walls and houses, crumbling under the weight of corruption

...barbed wire strewn over everything; protecting nothing

...self immolation to end the suffering and imprisonment

...Rabia Balkhi's poems lamenting all women's sorrows; but dreams as well

...love stories written in secret, eyes glancing at each other from hundreds of meters away; sparks that will never start a fire, extinguished by an arrangement

...roses growing from every crack, fertilized by dust and hope

...mischievous smiles, ensuring that the future will be better than the past

And so, as the night becomes darker and I fall asleep, these are the things which will never be forgotten; this is Afghanistan to me.

Your Roots

2011-06-21T21:48:00.000-07:00

Let me be your roots.
Let me be your foundation; a stable jumping off point where adventure begins.
Let me be your roots.
Let me be your support system; something that gives you strength to be a better person when times are difficult.
Let me be your roots.
Let me be your comfort; a space where you never feel embarrassed, unsure, lonely, or afraid.
Let me be your roots.
Let me be your heart; something that provides you with drive and confidence to make another day the best one of your life.
Let me be your roots.
Let me be your family; a legacy of strength that carries on and on long after we have gone from this earth.
Let me be your roots.
Let me be your home; a place that you will always remember fondly; a place that will always be where you belong.

I will be your roots, as long as you let me.

From Heartbreak, a new Beginning

2011-06-15T04:09:00.001-07:00

Jaala and Candice the day before the competition.
End of 1000 meter run; event #1.
All of the female competitors after event #1.

It ended with a sweaty, tear-soaked face being peeled from a loving shoulder. It ended with disappointment that permeated bones deeply and made a girl tremble. It ended sitting on a chair, slowly removing lifting shoes at the urging or comforting words. It ended with a signature on a paper, consenting that crushed hopes were accepted. For me, Asia Crossfit Regionals ended with heartbreak, then fleeting realizations, truncated like an unfinished dream.

For the last couple of years, I have been dreaming about making the 2011 Crossfit Games. For the last ten months, I believed that this weekend at Regionals I would leave Okinawa triumphantly; I would have a smile on my face, a ticket to the Home Depot Center in my hand, and congratulatory high fives lingering on my fingertips. I would be victorious because I had won.

Unfortunately, Okinawa did not end in such a way. Regionals ended prematurely for me on the second event, a thruster ladder. In the weeks before Regionals I hadn't been very concerned about this event and admittedly only spent one training session praticing the lift according to the standard (no movement of the feet at the top of the thruster). In my basement in Afghanistan, I got more than 115 pounds over my head many times without moving my feet. I forgot about this event and moved on to practicing things which semed much more difficult.

The morning of the thruster event, after a hugely successful first event in which I did more handstand push-ups in 13 minutes and change than I had ever done at one time in my entire life, I got warmed up for the ladder. During the warm-up, I was having a hard time keeping my feet still. I worked my way up to the starting weight, 105 pounds, and failed a couple of times before I actually got it over my head without moving my feet. By that time, I was pretty shaky and nervous for the start of the event.

Ten minutes later, I was standing in line, waiting to get to the bar. I watched the first girls get the weight up easily, and then the third girl failed. I did not want to watch the next girl fail, so I turned my back to the bar and tried to focus. I thought to myself, "I just need to get this one lift and then I can shift my energy to the next day's events."

With the beep of the timer, I turned around and walked to the bar.

What was going through my head as I set my feet and my grip to do that thruster? On any given day, it would have been the following word, "easy." But for some reason, I let doubt creep in. The bar felt too light and thin; my hands seemed slippery, but I told myself to be aggressive. I power cleaned the weight easily, reset my feet, went into my squat and exploded into the thruster. I locked the weight out over my head and then...took a shuffling step forward.

Though the weight was still locked out over my head, the judge looked at me and said, "sorry."

I was so confused that I asked her if she was serious. I looked over at the 115-pound bar and started walking towards it. She told me I was done. I didn't comprehend her words. I looked at her face and realized I was done.

I walked straight towards the door and outside into the humid Okinawa afternoon. The heat took my breath away; the sun blinded me; confusion overcame me. I wanted to walk back inside and do the lift again. I did do it! I forgot why I was outside and turned to rush back inside to get to the next bar before the timer beeped again.

As I was about to turn around and run back inside, Chris walked outside and asked me what happened. I looked into his eyes, but couldn't say anything. My body felt cold and weak. I started to tremble. I shook my head and began to cry. I was shocked. If ever someone asked me what a broken heart feels like, it was at that moment that I knew the feeling. I was so sad I could not express what I was thinking.

I stood in the doorway to Crossfit Asia, mourning the loss of a dream I had work for tirelessly. I cried for all of the people who helped me along the way who I had probably just disappointed. I cried for all of the hard work I had put in, to then lose at such an early stage in the competition. I cried because I was angry that I had just done a thruster well, but because I moved my feet my dream was gone. I cried for being careless. I cried because I did not think about the standard much beforehand; I though it wasn't a big deal. I cried because this was my chance to make the Games; this was my chance to prove to everyone else that hard work does pay off...but I blew it. I cried because I knew I was better than the other girls, but now I would not be able to show it. I cried and cried.

When I finally got myself together, still shaken, I went back inside to congratulate the four girls who had made it through the first bar of the ladder. I desperately wished that I could go back in time and be one of them, but my time was over.

On the way back to the hotel, I asked Chris why this happened. I wondered aloud to him why, after all of the work I put in, did my dream end like this. He gently told me that my work was not wasted; that there is always a lesson in not achieveing goals. He said that it may be too early to know what that lesson is, but with time I would figure it out.

As my eyes welled up with tears once again, I believed that it would take a long time to find the positive in the events that had just unfolded. I had traveled thousands of miles and trained through countless challenges to make it here. I couldn't see through my sadness.

But quickly, through being a spectator at Regionals for the next two days, I started to understand that I did not fail; that my dream still remained even though I did not win Regionals.

I remembered that I had just come from a war-torn country where I had been training mostly by myself for the past ten months. I came from a time in my life when I was constantly sick, did not have access to clean air, clean water, or clean food, or any other outside factors that could have helped me to be a better crossfitter. Yet I came to Asia Regionals ready to compete with girls who had trained under more stable circumstances.

Though I did not make the Games, I know that I leave Okinawa, and I will eventually leave Afghanistan a better person. I must not forget that through training this year, I have gained a mental toughness that no one can take away from me. Through training this year I have realized that in America, we have resources at our disposal to become better athletes and better people everyday. When I return to the states, I intend to use those resources to become the best crossfitter and person that I can be. I will not be a spectator at any regional event again.

So, though the sting of failure still lingers in my heart, and all of those lessons that I should have learned from this weekend have not yet been realized, today I know that the end of Regionals is another beginning for me. Now I know that dreams never die, they just morph into something bigger and better; our dreams today become smaller parts of our larger dreams of tomorrow.

As the tears fade away, I see that the beautiful thing about today is that it is the beginning of a new dream. I just haven't figured out what it is yet!

Learning to Love Again

2011-05-30T10:56:00.000-07:00

Jaala checking to see if the last WOD killed Clint
Crossfit Camp Eggers crew
Push up during the Crossfit Games Open Sectionals

It happened quite suddenly, though I sensed it coming. The feelings that permeated my body caused sensations of warmth and euphoria. Those feelings were followed by a strong urge to vomit. I couldn't stand still. I jumped from one foot to the other and stared at the sky. Music blaring through my headphones, I tried to drown out the other worldly noises around and suppress the overwhelming feelings boiling up inside of me. I stood on my toes and grabbed for that which would set me free. Finally the moment arrived and everything became clear...today, I did a muscle up and realized that I have fallen back in love with Crossfit.

It has been a long journey to get here, but amidst jumping, screaming, hugging, and high fiving, I remembered what is so cool about crossfit. I remembered that crossfit provides a space for me to be free and challenged in my life. Within the confines of the gym, and under the open air of the sky, I can do anything. Today when I swung under the rings and dove through the top above them, today as I pressed myself into the air and screamed, I looked over at all of my friends and knew that I have come back to myself and this homecoming is thanks to crossfit.

As this unique type of love filled my heart I thought, "It is just in time! Thank goodness!"

In two weeks, I will be finished with Crossfit Asia Regionals and hopefully will be qualified to compete in the 2011 Crossfit Games. This is my dream.

Through almost ten months of training in Kabul, Afghanistan, through sickness, an unstable environment, lack of freedom, and sometimes unavoidable carbohydrate binges, I have somehow come back to being a crossfitter and it feels good!

As I train this last week here in Kabul with my fellow crossfitters at Camp Eggers, I anticipate that the weekend competing in Japan will be a proper culmination to a couple of years training; no matter what happens, I will be victorious because I will be doing something that I love, crossfit.

Wish me well, here I go!

The Ice Cream Man

2011-05-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

He leans back on one elbow, tanned face turned up towards the warming Kabul sun. A scarf flails in the wind behind him like a lonely flag on an empty horizon. His eyes are closed, but under his lids, those eyes dart back and forth scanning the street for potential customers. Jacket and pants full of holes hang on his gaunt frame, looking for a way to shirk the dirt they have collected from years of dust. The red box beneath him belts out "My Heart Will Go On." Celine helps lure sweets lovers into his lair. He hums happily along with the tune though he has heard it 1000 times before; he says it reminds him of happier times. Children sprint towards him, glee flowing from mouths, blue UNICEF book bags falling to the uneven ground, change jumping out of their hands, anticipation pouring from their eyes. Self-importantly, he rises from his elbow and grins at the children. He begins to sing over and over again, "ICE CREAM, ICE CREAM, Who wants ICE CREAM." Everyone does.

Did you know there are ice cream men in Kabul?

A Bridge, not a Barrier

2011-04-01T07:02:00.000-07:00

Winter Speaking course students.
Certificate ceremony for my winter Speaking course.

After wars have been fought, battles have been executed, people have died, land has been destroyed, and a generation of people have suffered through a surreal life, everything will end with a few people in power sitting down, drinking tea, talking, then deciding the future of a country. Peace will depend on negotiations made between victorious parties; Afghanistan's fate will be determined by a small group of people. Hopefully that group of people will not consist of those who have killed the most people, acquired the most weapons or money, or burnt the most schools. Hopefully that group will consist of the educated; the people who have a vision of a peaceful, equitable society. Hopefully that group will be my students.

But right now, Afghanistan faces some barriers in achieving my hopeful reality.

The first barrier is the American people and military.

Mentioning this is important. Americans who know nothing of the three decades of conflict in Afghanistan have decided that it is time to pull our troops out of the country. Popular opinion seeks to "bring our troops home;" to end our exorbitant military spending and to wash our hands of this place. This is a valid position. After all, who wants to be spending so much money in a Central Asian country roughly the size of Texas that has seemingly nothing to offer us? Who wants our military personnel dying each day for a lost cause? Who prefers to funnel billions of dollars into a place run by one of the most corrupt governments in the world? I don't.

But consider this: Disarming (by this, I mean not giving anyone here any more weapons) and educating the people of Afghanistan is in our interest. We are all, Americans and Afghans specifically, members of a global society and to allow any country to remain poor, underdeveloped, and uneducated poses a threat to not only the welfare of the people within this society, but to the rest of the world.

Poverty and conflict breed ignorance. When people are uneducated, they lack the ability to make decisions for themselves; to research issues, to read a newspaper, to simply sign their own name. Illiterate people cannot attend schools and will never learn the skills they need to build an economy, the infrastructure, to develop technology and industry, and to enhance and strengthen the education system. Illiteracy paves the way for discord. Bad people can tell an uneducated populace any kind of inaccurate information and the people will believe it because they don't have the ability to disprove it. Uneducated people anywhere is a threat to peace everywhere.

A key component in nation building is not wealth, but skills. Right now, a great deal of the billions of dollars we spend in Afghanistan contributes to the military presence here, not to the educating of people. Although there is a percentage of soldiers working in reconstruction teams and with the people, training them to do their jobs (most of the training is with the Afghan National Army and Afghan National Police), not enough is being done to enhance the Education system.

If the military really does leave, and we pull all of our money out of this place, a vacuum will be left where the security forces once were. Who knows what may fill this vacuum in the absence of education.

But there is hope.

At this point, America could be a bridge rather than a barrier.

At this point, America can make the decision to replace military spending with skilled professionals to train Afghans in teaching, business, engineering, medicine, and all other fields which support the development of a nation. I suggest that as we pull soldiers out, we replace them with educators; with people who can teach skills to the citizens of Afghanistan. I stand my ground when I say that ignorance and illiteracy are the biggest hurdles to peace in Afghanistan. If we as a capable, generous, developed nation gave Afghans education rather than money; if we as a free, hopeful people gave Afghans training rather than military occupation, everyone would be better off. Knowledge can never be taken away from someone, but money, goods, and weapons can all disappear.

Let us be a bridge rather than a barrier.

The following is a speech that my student wrote for an embassy event. He is a senior at my University and one of the people I hope ends up at the negotiating table when the war comes to an end.

In the name of God, the most merciful

In my own life, I have always thought about when I would find an opportunity to open my heart and present my people’s problems. Well a man must not be hopeless, because God is more kind than we think. Thank God now I have the opportunity.

Today I apologize, but I am going to spill the beans about my government regarding both education in general and higher education. As an Afghan citizen I must tell the truth. If the government of Afghanistan, the World’s Society and the people and government of the US do not focus on education in Afghanistan, especially on higher education, I believe that after three or four years Afghanistan will become a leaking nuclear reactor; a disaster which no one can do anything about it. Afghanistan’s opposition forces will increase, and at that time a hundred years of battle and war will ensue in Afghanistan. There will be no peace and no security in this country.

In the US there is NASA and in Europe there is ESA, they are both the results of education. But if there are suicide bombings, if there is violence,if there is burning schools, if there is killing innocent people and so forth, these are all the results of lack of education.

If today there is no peace in Afghanistan, it is for the lack of education, if the opposition groups burn schools, they don’t know, if Afghanistan is backward again and so forth, these are all the results of lack of education.

I want to say to the people of the US, the US government and to the World’s Society, if you want to bring peace to Afghanistan, if you want to finish the terrorists, if you want to achieve your goals, if you want to complete your responsibilities as a human being, then focusing on education is more effective than battles and wars.

We thank the World’s Society and the people and government of the US for their help in Afghanistan. Today we have schools, we have universities, we have teachers, and we see that cute and small children go to schools, young and fresh boys and girls go to universities, but I want to say please help us to expand education all over Afghanistan and build a new and desirable education system in this country. The education system here is more traditional, centralized, closed and ineffective; we need help.

Besides not having a better education system we have got many other challenges as well. The first challenge is lack of schools and universities. In this year almost 75,000 students couldn’t find the opportunity to study in universities. As the statistics predict, after three or four years the number of students who are not admitted to Universities will be 1 million students. 1 million young, powerful, educated, and brilliant students will be result less. Who can guarantee that they will not join the opposition forces? Who can guarantee that they will not join the violence? Thus, I request from the government of Afghanistan to spend the remaining of other ministry’s development budget on education and higher education. The 5 million which was spent on higher education this year was not enough. Besides this, I request that the US government and people as well as the World’s Society send us teachers instead of money. We need knowledge rather than dollars.

The second challenge today is that science, education, and technology are developing at the speed of a fast-running car, but Afghans are walking at the pace of an ant trying to catch that car. Still most of the people who live in rural areas which cover 65% of our population don’t know what a computer is. Thus, I request from the US government and people as well as the World’s Society to give us some scholarships, academic exchange programs to help us build the quality of our education system.

There are more than a hundred problems I can think of, but if all of them were presented now, we would need more than three hours just to list them. If I find an opportunity to help my people, my first work will be to change the education system as well as expanding education in Afghanistan. Thanks for your patience.

Kabul Break

2011-03-11T06:41:00.000-08:00

Empty, snowy Kabul Education University.
Visiting Babur Gardens, Kabul, with the new ELF Amy. Bullet holes still riddle the mosque.
The view of Kabul from Babur Gardens.
My Afghan friend's daughter making "Crossfit rings" soup.
The kids and me cooking in my kitchen, Kabul.

Night has fallen and I am no longer alone. Though my apartment is still cold and empty, new friends and activities have filled my life. Five months ago, I wrote of being imprisoned in my own home. Now, I still face the same challenge of not having freedom of movement; of not being able to make my own choices about many small things that we take for granted as citizens of a free and peaceful country, but in the space between the loneliness and wanting, life has grown around me.

After returning to Kabul from my trips to India and Nepal, reality slowed down like a slug on a cold winter morning. I returned to an empty University, a freezing apartment, unforgiving snow, friends gone on vacation, and not much to do but work out. My Kabul break had begun.

Fearing that boredom, loneliness, and quite possibly insanity may set in, I took to working out twice a day, writing letters home, studying Dari, and planning my semester. Though idle hands usually would cause much mischief in my seemingly unadulterated real life, here it just makes me fantasize about taking a long walk outside.

Thankfully, crossfitting and spending time with friends has filled my break time with much-needed socializing. During my winter break, I have spent time with students, entertained the new English Language Fellows by taking them to Babur Gardens and out for dinner (I know, it is a little crazy!), gone shopping for clothes in the local mall, attended lessons at Dari school, gone to my University to do some work and toughen up in my unheated office, cooked, spent time at Camp Eggers doing crossfit, and invited my Afghan friend's family over for lunch.

Surprisingly, life has been quite pleasant during this break time. I still find myself gazing out of my window towards Television Hill, wishing that I could throw off my chadar and bound up to the summit. Five months ago those peaks seemed thousands of miles away. Now, they are closer than ever.

Recently, I was invited to go and explore those hills. Though I won't be running to the top, when the time is right, friends will accompany me to one of the highest points in Kabul where I can look down on the city from a new perspective; when I arrive on the mountain, I will say my prayer of freedom, just like I promised so long ago. Only this time, I will say it not for myself, but for this humble city of Kabul. For now I know that anything is possible.

Only five months ago I felt as though I was alone, in prison. Now, the peaks of mountains are at my fingertips. If life here can blossom into a beautiful, friend-filled existence in such a short time, maybe the same can happen for the city itself. Only time will tell.

Being Kenny

2011-03-05T07:08:00.000-08:00

Clowning around with the Crossfit Himalaya crew in New Delhi, India.
Trying not to catch my dress on the wall on the way down; my basement gym, Kabul, Afghanistan.

As some of you know, I am trying to qualify for the 2011 Crossfit Games from my tiny basement gym here in Afghanistan. Last year, I was in the best shape of my life. I competed in the 2010 Southwest Regionals and planned to compete in the Games season in California this year too...I planned to get stronger, faster, and better at everything and throw down against California's best women to make it to the Home Depot Center. But life changed and I moved to Afghanistan.

Though I haven't stopped training, things are different here. My fitness level isn't the same, I don't have ideal facilities, working out and competing with others is fairly infrequent, and sustaining a good diet is challenging. I have had bronchitis, the flu, many colds, and a constant sore throat due to the air pollution. I've been harassed by men at the gym, had workouts interrupted due to civil unrest, and have not gotten to work out when traveling in the country because there was no place for a woman to do so. Sometimes I have thought that if I make the Games from the Asia Region, it would not be legit anyway because I am not competing with the best. But when thoughts like that come to my head, I remember Kenny.

Unless you swam on King Aquatics (then Highline Swim Club) in 1996, or you were from Seychelles (a small island nation off the east coast of Africa) and knew all about the sport of swimming 15 years ago, you wouldn't know who Kenny was. When I was 17, I was able to train with the only Olympian from Seychelles that year, a teenage boy with a smile bigger than the oceans he crossed to train with our team. After a couple of months with us, he would step on to the most elite sports stage in the entire world; he would compete in the 1996 Summer Olympics. We were all thrilled to meet him.

During Kenny's first workout with us, I was extremely confused. I had expected some super huge, strong, unbelievably fast guy to step on the deck and completely kill us in workouts. He was an Olympian for God's sake! But that didn't happen. Most of the girls, including me, could keep up with him on long freestyle sets. My best friend Julie could go head to head with him in butterfly and he was a good as the rest of our fast boys in middle distance freestyle, his event at the Games. Where was the super-human Olympian that I had expected?

Eventually, I found out that there were other standards for international competitors in making the Games. I remember watching the Olympic Trials for the United States that year and hearing the commentator mention that the top 8 finalists in almost every event at the American trials could have made Olympic teams in any other country in the world that year. But the US only would take two people per event because that is how they did it. No time standards (we didn't need them), just the fastest two people in each event. It was the hardest Olympic team to make in the entire Universe.

Hearing that Kenny could barely even make Senior National standards in the United States, I felt cheated that he got to go to the Olympics. I thought, "if only I lived in Madagascar or some other unknown country, then I could make it to the Olympics too!" I was selfish and did not see the true beauty in the situation. Although I was childishly jealous, I cheered for Kenny in his competitions and felt pride when we said goodbye to him as he left for Atlanta. I don't know how he actually did that year, but I will always remember how excited he was to be heading to Atlanta to compete.

Now I look back on what Kenny taught me with pride, and feel a sense of irony in the situation. I remember asking Kenny if he was nervous to go to the Olympics knowing that he couldn't compete with the Americans or Australians and had no hope of winning a medal (I was so optimistic, wasn't I?).

He told me something along the lines of this: "Jaala, I don't care about all of that. I came from a small African country that has a short history of competing in sports at the international level. I am the fastest in my country and have worked hard to make it this far. I will probably get last, but coming from where I did, I know that I deserve to be in Atlanta just as much as all of the other athletes there. Being an Olympian is not about winning a medal. It is about being the best you can be within your circumstances, representing what your country has to offer, loving the sport, and loving to compete."

As I prepare for the 2011 Games season, I laugh about Kenny, because that is who I am now. I'm being Kenny! No, I haven't made the Crossfit Games, the Olympics of my sport. But I know that if I do make the games this year, I will be competing for the love of my sport. This Games year, I have trained within the circumstances of the country in which I live. I have lost some of the strength I had months ago, but have gained a little perspective on what it means to be a crossfitter. If I do earn a spot in the 2011 Games, it is not for lack of training or luck; I will step on to that stage as a person who loves to compete and appreciates what it takes to make it there. I may not be able to compete with all of the badass, fittest women in the world, but in my heart I know that I will belong there just the same.

So bring on the games season! I am ready.

Reconciling with God

2011-02-19T07:22:00.000-08:00

I'm not angry at God anymore because this Indian chai was brought into my life...
...And the chai guy who made the creamy, spicy, heaven in my mouth...
...And the fact that I am an English teacher and get to travel the world meeting the neatest people ever (here it happens to be in Nepal)...

I used to be mad at God.

When I was a little younger, I wondered why God wouldn't get me the barbie doll I wanted or why this God wouldn't help me make Senior Nationals for swimming. I mulled over the fact that God decided to make me a not so tall or compellingly attractive person. I wondered why this almighty power couldn't keep my parents together, why this entity decided to make my sister's life so hard, and why this spiritual being couldn't stop children from starving in southeast Asia (I didn't know if this was true, but I always heard adults telling me to eat my food because the "starving children in Southeast Asia" didn't have it so easy).

Now, my anger at God for not paying attention to my needs has vanished. What has replaced this anger is a feeling that in this life, we must not be angry about what we don't have, but be grateful for what we do. Maybe this realization is comical or obvious for some people, but for yours truly, it is a beacon of hope that guides me through this life.

After having lived in Afghanistan for the last five months, my perspective on life has shifted dramatically. Before I arrived in the country, I was a self-centered, "me" focused person. Most of the things that I did were motivated by the idea that they could make my own life better.
I am not denying that, to a degree, everyone should do things that make them happy; that enhance their own lives. But while living in Kabul, I have realized that we cannot only be concerned with how our actions affect our own lives; we should also be aware of how our decisions affect others.

Has God been trying to tell me this all along?

Maybe God made it hard for me to get a barbie so that my mom had more money to pay our bills. It is possible that a higher power wouldn't help me make Senior Nationals for swimming because this entity was sending me a message to work harder; to appreciate my athletic success more deeply? I'm still not sure why God didn't make me taller, but I am thankful that my parents didn't stay together because if they did, I wouldn't have Cheril and her family or Jim and his family in my life now.

As for the bigger problems, like the starving children in southeast Asia, or the wars, genocides, natural disasters, or simply the fate that one is dealt...maybe these things all exist so that we will continue to improve ourselves as individuals, societies, and as a global population. If there was an absence of problems in our lives, then what would we strive for?

I once was angry with God. I mistrusted what the idea of a higher power represented; I saw the act of worshiping God as futile; as something that would lead to unfulfilled hopes. Now, I know that I was foolish to think these things.

I haven't suddenly found a certain religion, or been saved or anything like that. I have just realized that life is hard to explain, and believing that there is a higher power helping to show us that there is more to our waking moments than helping ourselves, puts things into perspective.

For example...
Each day I wonder why I am such a lucky person.
Why am I not a poor Afghan child selling chewing gum on the street?
Why am I not a Chinese factory girl, sewing the seams on to Nike shoes for less than a dollar a day?
Why have I been born into my life of constant privilege instead of being born into a yurt with no electricity or running water on a Mongolian plain somewhere?
Why has it taken me this long to ask these questions?

It may be silly to mention that this next quote comes from a book called, Eat, Pray, Love, but it does. Although this book is about one woman's pursuit to find her spiritual balance, while reading it, I realized that her life is my own turned inside out. And if her life is my life its your life too. We all can find pieces of ourselves in each other and this book helped me recognize that. This is one of the most important points that Ms. Gilbert, the author, mentions:

"God lives within you, as you."

What this means to me is that God has made you the person you are for a reason. Among other things, I am an American English teacher because I have the earthly ability to teach and learn from people. I'm God's educational tool and I respect that. And although I can't answer the very hard, sometimes disheartening and infuriating philosophical questions, at least I know this:

I used to be angry at God.
Now, I am happy that God didn't get angry at me for being angry at him, and that he let me experience the bliss that is "special street chai" in India.
Thanks God.

Respect them…then eat their brains

2011-02-14T07:30:00.000-08:00

Do you want some more brain curry? The lovely lady behind me does...
Old Delhi. I was too focused on smiling to actually get a picture of the howler monkeys. But they were there...
They are not dead, just well-fed.

As my friend Piyush and I emerged from the metro into the hazy New Delhi afternoon, I noticed a family of howler monkeys bounding along the power lines above the market. Thinking they were absolutely precious, I smiled and said, "Piyush, look! Monkeys!" Unexpectedly, Piyush let out a nervous laugh and said, "Don't worry, they won't hurt you...just SMILE." I said that I wasn't afraid, just excited to see monkeys. He stopped me mid-sentence and reminded me not to look them in the eyes. I glanced around and noticed that almost everyone was smiling as they passed under the howler monkeys. Did they know something I didn't? I wasn't about to find out, so I grinned and carried a healthy dose of fear with me as I silently tip-toed under the monkeys, hoping they didn't decide to sling something not so clean at me...

Although I had already been around for a day before the howler monkey episode, I felt like this was my true welcome to one of the most charming cities I have ever been to, hands down. If ever there was a destination where the people, animals, nature, architecture, and traffic were in perfect harmony while at the same time chaotic, this is the place. Tons of people intermingle with free roaming and well-fed street animals (and scary howler monkeys). I have decided that if I were to travel the path of reincarnation after this life ends, I'd like to come back to the world as a street animal (not a howler monkey...although they do get a lot of respect). It wouldn't be so bad to be a gentle and fat vegetarian canine, lazing about in the streets and on the sidewalks soaking up the sun.

The respect of animals here extends to everything on four legs. Even the cows and boars enjoy the kind and gentle hearts of the Indian people. Basically these animals, which would be caged and mistreated, then eaten, in the United States, rummage through the trash and discarded foodstuff of the city. Watching them, I couldn't help but wonder, is trash-fed beef which is free-range as healthy as grass fed beef?

As I was running a mile through the smoggy morning dew with my Himalaya Crossfit friends and pondering this conundrum, I crashed straight into a herd...uh...gaggle...maybe they could be considered a stampede...of pigs chowing down on last night's leftovers. Those pigs were so content that they barely even noticed me almost half-run into them as I tried to avoid getting run over by a motorcycle rickshaw. Silly pigs.

...But when the animals aren't roaming freely, the non-vegetarians of the city are eating their brains.

Yes, I said brains.

Today at lunch, Piyush took me to Karim's in Old Delhi, one of Time magazine's "Best Restaurants in Asia." I could tell this was a well-known place as it was bursting at the seams with foreigners and Indians alike. Excited for the curries, I decided I'd let my local pal choose; any Indian food seemed good to me. When Piyush asked me if I'd like kidneys, I half thought he was joking and said no.

He then mentioned that the brain curry was spectacular. Hesitant, but open to new culinary experiences, I asked him what it tasted like. He told me it was tender and chewy and that, "...eating soft tissue makes you smarter." Being as though I am sometimes the dullest tool in the shed, I agreed to try it. The best part of lunch was every time I took a bite of the tender vittles Piyush would ask, "Do you want some more brain curry?"

I may not have said yes to more helpings of the special curry, but I can tell you this much; I feel smarter already.

Drop by Drop

2011-02-12T04:10:00.000-08:00

The future teachers of Afghanistan!
One of my favorite "drops in the river;" a student receiving a certificate of completion at one of my courses.
More quality "drops..."

Some people are considered hopeless romantics. They go around wishing for silly things to occur like love at first sight, tulips to bloom in winter, music to actually burst through the sky to accompany them on their everyday tasks, and for world peace to blanket the globe. These people are considered romantics because all of these things could probably only happen in an ideal alter reality; they are considered hopeless because this reality may never occur. I am here to tell you, that if ever there was a time for hopeless romantics to grasp on to their otherwise defined as "idealistic notions," it is now.

Admittedly, I am one of these people. Lately I feel as though it is an appropriate time to explain why my chosen point of view is not hopeless, but HOPEFUL. Yes I am an idealist. Yes I believe that one person can be the catalyst for bigger things to happen. Many times people have told me, "it is so nice to be optimistic all of the time, but you are just one person and one person cannot change anything." Obviously, these people are not idealists. Obviously, they haven't read the news lately (Re: Egypt) or met my students in Kabul. Let me elaborate.

First off, hopeless romanticism (reckless idealism?) has just caused one of the longest standing Arab regimes to fall. If you hadn't noticed, President Mubarak of Egypt just stepped down because of mass protest by the people of Egypt. I'd like to wager a bet that all of those people didn't show up in Tahrir square 18 days ago because of a coincidence. No, I would presume that one person started a discussion with another person a few years back about how much they were dissatisfied with the oppressive regime. This discussion spread to many other people and, what do you know...a regime has now fallen.

Second, I get to work with the youth of Afghanistan, teachers in training, everyday. Amidst all of the governmental corruption, poverty, and war, my students show me daily how brightness can emerge from these desolate times. Not only do they discuss a future devoid of war and violence, but they do something about it. They are teaching their students how to be better people; they are eradicating the most destructive weapon in all of this country, illiteracy. All of my students know that they can't change the state of their country immediately. But what they do know is that by educating the people, one by one, they are building a better nation.

So what do the Egyptian people and my students have in common?

Not only do they both weave idealism into their world view, they know that one person can change things. This is how it happens, one person has a hopelessly romantic dream of a different reality, then they tell another person. The other person passes this idea on and then it moves through a population in this fashion. Pretty soon, a bunch of people believe in this once hopeless idea and it becomes a reality. It is that easy.

Last week, before I knew that the regime in Egypt would fall, I learned an Afghan proverb; it immediately became my favorite. It goes like this:

"Qatra, qatra darya mesha."
Drop by drop, a river is made.

Of course, this applies to both Egypt and Afghanistan. Twenty days ago nobody would have thought that President Mubarak would be out of office within the month. Now, because the people, who are all just drops in a huge river of humanity, have come together to protest his unforgiving regime, he is out.

Just like the Egyptian people, my students are drops in the river too. Little by little they are creating a mass movement; an educated populace that will eventually refuse to be ruled by warlords and a corrupt government. This educated populace will understand that religious fanaticism is not part of the Koran, and that Afghanistan can be both an Islamic and Democratic state. They will also realize that they are all Afghans, and that creating division among different nationalities is futile while trying to unite a people and build a stable country.

As I mentioned before, some people are considered hopeless romantics. They go around spreading their idealism like it is the cure for any ailment; a corrupt government, widespread poverty, war, insolence, and tulips not blooming in winter. The irony in this label is that these people are the drops in the river of change. They are romantic yes. As for hopeless, this is a misnomer placed on them by people who do not believe in the power of dreams. Because they (the unromantic) are hopeless.

We, on the other hand, believe that drop by drop, a river is made. So, the hopeless romantics carry on putting drops in the river wishing one day, that seemingly insignificant trickle may become a raging and powerful force to be reckoned with.

A Day in the Life of an ELF

2011-01-19T09:19:00.000-08:00

My new weights! And my less-new barbell in the background. Love them!
Teaching in the women's class.

...Not an ELF from the North Pole, an English Language Fellow in Afghanistan!

Tuesday was the kind of day that I never want to forget. I laughed, cried, was surprised, pushed out of my comfort zone, cooked, shopped, had a phone conversation in Dari, welcomed students home from their time as captives of the Taliban, talked about Martin Luther King, taught students very inappropriate slang, then listened to them use it, took a nap, had an allergic reaction to nuts, cooked again, and went to bed early . Yes, Tuesday was close to an ideal day for me; emotional, successful, challenging, relaxing...the only thing that was missing was the ocean and my friends back home!

0500
Woke up earlier than usual to finish my lesson plan for class.
I had done a lesson on Martin Luther King Junior with the women's class the day before and wanted to change some things before I did it with the men's class (this winter I am teaching an American Culture class; I have about 85 students and have split them into two sections--one male and one female--so the female students will feel more comfortable talking).

Before the first call to prayer, I had already fried an egg, eaten a cucumber, then sat down and finished planning. I practiced reading MLK's "I have a dream" speech a couple of times. If I had to read it, I wanted to do him proud.

0745
Off to school.
Morning traffic wasn't too bad, but I could see that all of the puddles were frozen into blocks of ice. Of course I wore inappropriately high heeled boots to school that morning. As soon as I got out of the car I slipped and skidded everywhere. Thanks to my coordination (yay crossfit!) I was able to make it to my office without breaking a hip.

1000
Somehow, before getting to Martin Luther King Jr., I found myself in the most uncomfortable of conversations with the "boys" (I call the men's class the "boys" even though they are 18-45 years old because their questions are so adorable and innocent).

Student: "Miss, what does chicken head mean?"
Me: (surprise immediately followed by hysterical laughter)
Me: (deep breath, more laughter)
The boys: (laughing a little at first, then uncontrollably because I couldn't stop laughing)
Me: "It means...it means...I am too embarrassed to say it!"
Boys: (laughter), "tell us PLEASE."
Me: "It means a couple of things...one, a girl with bad hair. Two, a girl (or a boy) who has a lot of boyfriends (or girlfriends)."
Boys: (More laughter followed by many absurd attempts at using the word in a sentence, which I cannot bring myself to repeat here)

On the heels of the "chicken head" discussion, I had to gather my wits and read the, "I Have a Dream" speech to the boys. Turns out they loved it and clapped when I was finished as if I had written it myself.

I told them MLK did it much better than me.

Now they are working on their own, "I Have a Dream" speeches about Afghanistan.

1145
One of my former students, who was kidnapped by the Taliban at the end of the fall semester, appeared beside me as I was walking out of class.

I almost forgot where I was (Kabul) and moved to hug him. But I didn't. I shook his hand (in the courtyard!) and stopped when I realized people were staring.

My student grinned widely and said, "Miss, I have returned from being captured!"

I swallowed my tears and told him to come to my office to chat. As I poured a bag of raisins and nuts on the table for him to snack on while we talked, I noticed how dark his skin had gotten and that he seemed a little skinnier. He quickly ate ALL of the raisins (about half a pound). My heart broke. But then it immediately sewed itself back together when he smiled so innocently and said, "It is nice to be back, I love raisins."

1225
I called my driver to ask him where he was and to change my plans. In Dari. AND he understood me!

1230
Finally, I was able to withdraw enough money from the bank to buy weight plates for my new barbell. I bought a few different sizes of plates, threw them in the back of the car and excitedly rode home while my driver bemusedly asked me what I was going to do with those weights. I tried to tell him that I was going to lift them, but I didn't know the verb "to lift" so I told him I was going "to put them in the gym and play with them." That seemed to satisfy his curiosity. I could barely wait until my workout a few hours later when I would be able to test them out...

1330
...But first I ate and took a nap. I had an ordinary lunch, chicken, veggies, and a handful of nuts. I went to sleep pretty quickly, but distinctly remember itching my face as I drifted off.

1430
Woke up an hour later with my eyes swollen shut. Did I suddenly become allergic to something?
Even though I could barely open my eyes, there was no way I was going to NOT do crossfit (with a new barbell and plates waiting, who could resist?!). I washed my face, took some Benadryl, put my glasses on, and rushed down to my gym.

The doorman was startled by the sight of my face.

He asked if I was okay. I told him I ate too many almonds. He laughed. I told him I was going to the gym now. He laughed even harder.

1800
Baked some more chicken and veggies.
Listened to Garth Brooks.
The swelling subsided and I could open my eyes again.

1900
Practiced Dari, worked on a lesson plan for the next day.

2100
Went to bed in my new leg-warmers (thanks Heather!). Snuggled up with a good book, Eat, Pray, Love, thanked God for another fun-filled and (relatively) safe day in Kabul, then fell asleep reading and itching my eyes (I know this because I woke up for school the next morning with my book under the covers and my eyes swollen again!)

Another day in the life of an ELF.

Opening the Second Act

2011-01-13T07:41:00.000-08:00

Wintry walk with a friend.
The second-hand store; calm before the storm.
A light sheen of snow's first visit to my neighborhood.
A friend's son anxiously stares out the window as the snow falls.

It blew in swiftly and playfully. Tiny flecks dotted the morning sky and then disappeared like shooting starts fleetingly lighting the night. Burqas billowed in the wind and then relaxed on women's frames; droopy curtains covering aching hearts. Dog's howling ceased; silence dominated as the storm gathered its strength. Then, all at once, the snow poured from the sky. I pressed my face to the window, along with the children in the room, and excitedly shouted, "It's barfing!" Winter has finally found Kabul.

If my time here were an opera, this would be the opening to the second act. The close to the first act would be my return from the land of holiness and intoxicating Middle Eastern love swiftly followed by the echoing blasts of IEDs haunting a temporary oasis in war. The name of the opera would be Tangled Contradictions because the tumult here has never been strong enough to enshrine the grace of this place.

As the snow of the second act begins to fall, lovely ladies would be dancing around the stage flinging their chadars in the air, singing of the winter fluff blanketing mountain's craggy slopes. The aria would sound like my own breath filling a basement gym, weights clanking on the floor, a melodic, yet intrusive mullah blasting through loud speakers, beckoning the people to come and pray, oil popping in a too-hot pan ready to fry the next couple of eggs, horns honking rhythmically, students sweetly calling, "teacher, teacher," a Chopin piano solo bursting out of a phone, Farhad Dariya accompanying me through the congested streets, a nervous heartbeat filling my chest as I choose my next Dari words, cold seeping into my bones slyly yet gradually.

Ever so suddenly, snow has fluttered in to Kabul; the second act has begun.

The Good Things about Being Back in Kabul...

2011-01-07T03:38:00.000-08:00

Hadi and his adorable sisters.
Lunchtime!
Where the magic of language acquisition takes place...the closer to the wood stove I am, the more Dari I can speak.
The view of Kabul from inside of my lungs...Really, Kabul on a rather dust-filled afternoon (Darulaman Palace in the background).

There are a few good things about being back in Kabul...

First, the best thing about being back in Kabul is seeing my students again. As soon as I returned to the city, a few of my students visited me at my house and brought over a Christmas tree! Better than a real tree, I will have this plastic reminder of their love for the duration of my stay here. At the ELF house it'll be Christmas until our fellowship is over. Sparkling lights and a stocking dangling form our space heater will remind us of the spirit of the season even after it passes.

Today, the thoughtfulness of my students continued. In the morning they, along with their uncle, picked me up at my apartment. We drove past Darulaman Palace and bumped along some new (but unpaved) roads towards one of their family's homes. Upon arrival in the "suburbs" we sat around drinking tea and talking about school and life. I noticed that there were no mud-brick structures in this part of town. My student told me that the building codes said that there could be no such construction in this neighborhood; they were trying to keep it nicer-looking than other parts of town.

After playing a couple of games of cards, we made our way to another room for lunch. The food consisted of the steadfast qabali palaw (rice with raisins and carrots), naan bread, and a variety of meats and vegetables. Absent of family members other than children, an uncle, and a cousin, I asked where the rest of the family was. My students told me that there were other guests in a different part of the house. I was both impressed by the mother's ability to host two "sets" of guest at the same time, and honored that I was invited during another family event. This just goes to show how utterly amazing Afghans are. Being hospitable and welcoming is definitely one of their strong suits.

The second good thing about being back in Kabul is learning Dari. Although, upon returning to Dari class I realized that I had forgotten most of what I had learned in the last 4 months, I was still happy to be back in the humble school. I sat next to the wood-burning stove with my teacher and constructed a sentence about how much I didn't like potatoes. I used the Arabic word for potato, "batata," and when my teacher corrected me with the proper word in Dari, "kechalu," I thanked her and assured her that, "lo," I would not make that mistake again. She laughed and asked what "lo" meant. I realized I had told her no in Hebrew.

The last good thing about being back in Kabul is that I am returning healthier (minus my lung infection) and to a relatively cleaner city. I think there was some mass trash pick-up while I was gone. Each day last week as I drove through the newly clean streets, I wondered where all of the trash went...then I saw the river. The Kabul River doubles as the dump. Unfortunately. Also, the air is much thicker with pollution, so I can't help but think that the trash has been burned somewhere and it is all actually particles in the air now. But I am digressing from my optimism.

So, you see, there are some good things about being back in Kabul. In a few days I will start my winter class. Yes, I actually do teach here. More on that soon...

Middle East Part 2: Good Luck or Nice People?

2011-01-02T05:45:00.000-08:00

Dinner with my nice friends, Sam, Hannah, Walter, Elad, and Emily at Mahane Yehuda Market in Jerusalem.
My super nice gal pal, Urieb at work at the Welfare Association in Ramallah, Palestine.
The nicest Medicine Man ever, at Mahane Yehuda Market in Jerusalem.

I often wonder how I always manage to get to where I intend to go. For one, I have a terrible sense of direction. When using a map for navigation, I must turn it in the actual direction that I am traveling. If I ask people for directions, I need to write down every word that they say or I won't remember. And forget about telling me something like, "head east at the intersection." I know which direction I am heading in a city only if there is a mountain range or an ocean that I can see at all times. So, it comes as a shock when, traveling in countries where I don't know the language beyond, "Hello, where is the bathroom?" I manage to make it to my destination every time. I wonder, is it good luck or nice people? You be the judge...

East Jerusalem

It was my last day in Jerusalem, so I decided to take my time. Only a few days before I had gone to the hospital and discovered I had a sweet lung infection, so I had been taking it easy. I figured that catching the bus back to Amman could wait until later in the morning. I packed slowly, drank some coffee and sat in the sun on Hannah and Ben's balcony.

Around 12:30, Ben drove me to East Jerusalem. Little did I know, it was too late. My friend Mahmoud walked me over to the bus station (he owns a store close to there) and we noticed that there were no more buses to the border. He spoke with the bus company owner and the owner said that I had missed the last bus which had left at 1:00pm (it was 1:15), but I could take a taxi for 200 shekels. Being as I had saved 30 shekels for a bus and 160 shekels for the exit tax, the taxi wasn't an option.

Mahmoud spoke with the bus company owner and then told me I could wait and see if more people showed up late for the bus. If enough people came to fill a bus, I would be in luck, otherwise I'd have to take a taxi. I decided to wait for other stragglers.

While waiting, the bus company owner brought me Arab coffee, entertained me with all sorts of fun Arab pop music and told me stories about buses. And from what I could understand, he kept on calling his friends and asking if they knew anyone that needed to take a bus to the border. He was rounding up people for my bus!

A couple of hours later, there were enough people to fill the bus and go to the border. But there was a catch. The owner told me that since it was a special bus, the fare would be 50 shekels. As I said before, I had specifically saved just enough for the original fare and the exit tax, so I didn't have the money.

I smiled and told the bus company owner of my situation. Although he didn't look too happy, he seemed amused. I decided to go through my huge (cute!) purse and see if there were any stray shekels. It turned out that I had 39 shekels to give him. He accepted the money and sent me away with some ground Arab coffee, which is ironic because the amount of coffee that he gave me probably would cost more than 39 shekels anyway. Basically, I was off to the border only a couple of hours later than I had planned with a kilo of free coffee. Success.

Tel Aviv

It was my second night in Tel Aviv and the plan was to meet Elad at the Israel Museum for a photo exhibit after he got off of work. He had already told me which bus to take from his house, how long the ride should be, and where to get off. It sounded like a hassle-free jaunt, so I put on my high heeled boots (I wouldn't be walking much, right?) and headed out into the warm Tel Aviv night.

Standing at the bus stop, looking at the time table (which I couldn't read anyway since it was in Hebrew), I started to get butterflies. Just as I was questioning Elad's advice, the #25 bus pulled up. I stepped on to the bus and asked the driver if this bus went to the Israel Museum. He shouted, "No! Get on the #41 (or some other number I don't remember at this point)." And thrust my shiny shekels back into my hand. I pleaded, "But my friend told me this is the right bus." He laughed, "Your friend was wrong. Good luck." I was standing at the bus stop again.

I waited a few minutes for the #41 to come around. When it did, I got on and sat next to the nicest looking Israeli soldier girl I could find. She moved her gun aside and smiled. I asked her if this bus would go by the Israel Museum. She told me that it indeed, did not, but she would take me to the correct bus. At the next stop she walked me to another bus stop and told me to wait for the #75 (or some other number that I, again, don't remember at this point).

I waited alone for 30 minutes. My feet started to hurt. A dog almost urinated on me. The bus came.

I got on the bus and asked the driver where the bus was going. He quickly shut the bus door, took my shekels and yelled in my face, "NO ENGLISH!" I sat down and hoped to see the Israel Museum at some point in the next week.

As luck (or a nice person?) would have it, I sat next to a Filipino English-speaking girl who was going to the museum as well.

Only a few minutes later, a short walk and a map turned just the right way, I had made it to my destination!

Amman, Jordan

I somehow made it back to Jordan so that I could catch my plane to Dubai, then on to Kabul. It was a rainy morning and Abeer's little brother was supposed to drop me at the airport, or so I thought. As we pulled into a parking lot which was most definitely not the airport I realized that...yes...it was another bus stop. Amer assured me that the bus was fast and I had nothing to worry about.

I got on the bus, paid my fare, and waved goodbye to Amer. Then I sat on the bus and waited for it to fill with people (of course). When the bus was full we started to move through the city towards the airport road. I didn't figure for the severe city traffic though, and I found myself stuck on the bus for over an hour.

At about 9:20am, the bus left me off at the terminal. My plane was scheduled to leave at 10:00am and I still had to go through security, check-in, and customs. I got to the security line which was about a mile long. Standing there, I felt hopeless. Just then, a ticket agent started to shout, "Dubai! Anyone going to Dubai?" Thankfully, I waved my hand and he came right to get me. I shot to the front of the security line, then I was on to the ticket counter.

At the ticket counter, the agent frowned and told me they had sold my seat. My heart sank. At that point I realized that I really wanted to get back to Kabul, but I may not EVER get there. Then the same ticket agent who had ushered me through security said something to the other agent in Arabic. They spoke to each other for a second and then the female agent said, "Sorry, but the last seat available is in first class. Will you forgive us and let us seat you there at no extra cost?"

I stomped my foot and shouted, "No! I will not take a seat in your bourgeois first class cabin with all of the good food and wonderful service!" Actually, I smiled and took the ticket.

So it turns out I didn't miss my flight. First class on the way to Dubai was a great end to a nice trip. And the food was good too!

Middle East Part 1: Not Just a Fashion Statement

2010-12-25T04:53:00.000-08:00

Palestinian bus station in East Jerusalem; many hijabs, not much hair.

Two weeks away from Kabul and my teeth a few shades darker from exorbitant amounts of Arab coffee, my time here has almost come to an end. Some may find it hard to believe that I have found comfort in being in the Middle East at this time of the year. Although this is a very complex place, with an intractable conflict always looming in the periphery (and sometimes staring you in the face), each time I come here I remember what it means to appreciate life and the people in it.

Besides that, visiting this place is always an eye-opening and educational experience. I am continually reassured that traveling and living among people who are different than myself is the best way to learn about other cultures. Especially in the Middle East, where seeing is really believing, there is no other way to get to the bottom of things than to be here.

Because so much has happened in the past two weeks, I will tell you about it in parts.
Let's Begin.

The Hijabis
Amman, Jordan and Hebron, West Bank

Where has all of the hair gone?

The first thing I noticed when I arrived in Amman was an explosion of hijabis...

Before going on, let me first explain what a hijabi is. A hijabi is a Muslim girl or woman who covers her hair with a head scarf, whereas, the hijab is the actual scarf. Hijabi is a term applied to women in the Arab world; the head scarf is called different things in different languages but in all Islamic countries the idea which hijab represents, modesty, is the same.

...The last time I was in Amman (more than two years ago), there were far less woman wearing the head scarf. The feeling in the city was that of a liberal and fashionable place. I distinctly remember waltzing around in tight jeans, short sleeves, hair blowing in the wind and not sticking out one bit. Now, it seems as though the women going uncovered in the city has declined. Granted this is not based on statistical analysis, but this hypothesis is based on piercing eyes and a palpable feeling of "otherness" as I walked through the city which once neither scorned, nor much cared about my flowing free locks.

Maybe I just hadn't noticed all of the women walking around in hijab a few years ago? Even if this was so, I definitely felt a little less inconspicuous with my hair down this time around. Nevertheless, I tried to pass my feelings off as being less culturally sensitive and aware of reality last time I visited Jordan...

But then I went to Hebron, Palestine.

I was the only woman in the entire city older than pre-pubescent age not wearing a hijab. I felt as though I had just taken a service taxi from East Jerusalem to Kabul. I stepped out of the car and was instantly the most exposed lady. Wearing a long winter coat, jeans, and a scarf (around my neck) had me entirely covered besides my face and hair. Don't tell that to the conservative Muslims wandering the streets though.

As I walked by what looked like a church (it was a mosque of course), a sheik emerged and began talking firmly to the friend I was with. Here is a rough translation, "You should fear God because your fiance is walking around uncovered." Observation #1: The holy man assumed that I was my friend's fiance because I was walking with him and he was of the opposite sex. Observation #2: Basically he was accusing my good Muslim friend of being a bad Muslim.

More than two years ago, I had worn the same clothes in Hebron which I had worn in Amman and got not one scolding from a holy man. This time around, I was dressed much more conservatively and was berated by a random sheik within my first hour of arriving.

So what does it all mean?

First off, in the places I encountered in the Middle East on this trip, there is a shift towards religious conservatism as evidenced by the way women are dressing. More simply put, Islam is back.

Yes, yes, this may be a bold, blanket statement, but consider this: Just over two years ago, when much of the Arab world was in love with the idea of Americans electing a black President, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan had not necessarily fallen into disfavor, and the peace process between Israel and Palestine still had hope, both Jordan and Palestine were tending towards social liberalism. By social liberalism I mean that Arabs in these countries were trying to separate their politics from Islam; they believed that the state (or their future state) had a role in improving social issues, human rights, the quality of education, and tending to their economic needs.

Now, almost three years later, things have changed. The peace process seems hopeless and non-existent. The western world, United States included, has shown to be ineffective in and sometimes detrimental to establishing peace between the Palestinians and Israelis. In fact, most of the west has turned their back on the Middle East completely and kept their diplomatic ties with Israel strong.

Because Arabs have not found answers to their problems in a western brand of liberalism which had promised for so long to bring solutions, they are turning away from it completely. A shift towards religious conservatism, and putting more faith in religion, is an understandable reaction to decades of disappointment and broken promises on the behalf of Western, socially liberal countries.

Although it may merely be seen as a fashion statement by some, I believe that the explosion of the hijab is a physical, visible manifestation of a shift in thinking in the Arab world. I was here in 2007 after years of hearing the US vs. THEM argument. At that time, I scoffed at this idea. Upon visiting this part of the world I saw that many people did not believe that they were so different from the "other" the west had labeled themselves as. I met people from all sides who believed in democracy and the peace process and willingly accepted that the US had a role in that process.

Now, I can both see and feel a chasm opening. Don't shirk this change in fashion off as a rebellious teenager getting a piercing. It probably won't pass.

Photo Montage

2010-12-23T01:28:00.001-08:00

The Western Wall in the foreground, Dome of the Rock in the background; Old city, Jerusalem
Sitting on the Old City Wall, Jerusalem
Protest focused on illegal settlements in the West Bank.
Sheik Jarrah, East Jerusalem

A Broken Dam

2010-12-04T07:11:00.000-08:00

Darul-Aman Palace in western Kabul. Once the "house of peace," now a bombed-out remnant of the past.

A dam broke here. Not one which holds back and harnesses the power of a rushing river, but one that holds in the atrocities of war. Strained smiles have faded into mouths forming stories that I wish weren't true. Are they true? Only those who witnessed them firsthand can ever know.

This week, I am not a teacher but a vessel. My friends and students; colleagues and mentors all have started to fill my consciousness with recollections of their collective past. The stories pass through their lips and flow into me; holding them in my memory is much easier than living them, I imagine.

But at night I think about what happened here. I wonder how people did these things to each other. How does this happen? And how does it end?

This week a dam broke. Casual conversation over tea turned into a report on the crimes of war. These are the things I remember. I haven't identified any ethnic groups or tribes or political parties because I don't want to perpetuate the prejudices about each group of people.

So, loud like the torrent of water rushing through that which once held it back, here is what I have been told:

"They massacred us. They still discriminate against us everyday. Have you ever been to one of their houses? They are dirty and treat their women badly. The war is over, but they are still dogs."

"They tortured and raped women. They murdered children and had no regard for civilian life. They hated us and still do."

"I heard that they warmed a metal rod in a fire and then plunged it through the ribs of a thief. They got him wet, electrocuted him, and then pulled his fingernails off. I saw his nails on the street."

"You see, you don't know this, but in this very room, when they left there were naked female bodies found stacked up against the walls. They had raped and killed them. There were even some still alive and they told of the horrors, which I cannot mention; the things those girls saw with their own eyes will never be forgotten."

"I remember taking my friend to watch a public execution. He didn't want to go, and either did I, but I felt we needed to know what was happening. A man had apparently stolen from someone important. We sat quickly and watched. They took a big sword and tried to cut him in half. It didn't work, so they sort of sawed him in half. I can still hear the screams. My friend pulled me away and scolded me for taking him. He was crying. I didn't say anything."

"She was walking down the street in her burqa when they took her. They forced her to marry a much older man because they knew she was a good, single, girl. Good single girls were often forced to marry important men. Later, she was able to divorce him, but many of us believe the divorce was a curse. After she remarried a younger man, they never had children. Some say it is her fault for divorcing. I say it is their fault for ruining her life."

"When I saw helicopters flying through the sky, I knew they had gained ground in the hills. Helicopters couldn't fly if the enemy was still in control because they would have been shot down. You hear helicopters and think of war. I hear helicopters and think of peace and the absence of stinger missiles."

"They were good. We were most secure when they were in control. Everyone says that they treated women inhumanely, but that is not true. They didn't let women go to school for their own safety. There was fighting and if your sister or daughter or mother was killed, it would be your own fault. Also, many young women were forcibly married to much older men if they were found walking in the street. But it was safer when they were in control."

The dam has broken. What stories will the flowing water bring tomorrow?

The Day After Thanksgiving

2010-11-27T06:16:00.000-08:00

I think we were laughing at my Dari skills, or lack thereof.
The "day after Thanksgiving" feast. Can you find the pizza?
Chapatis, oshaq, and little meat burgers...
The family. I have about five pictures before this one. After each picture we took, they called another family member to join. I think this is almost everyone...
One of the classrooms at the little English school.

Noticeably devoid of Black Friday, football, beer, and leftovers, the day after Thanksgiving in Kabul was interesting. No, no, it wasn't apocalyptic like The Day After Tomorrow. There was no global warming, tidal waves, or ensuing ice age...just a nice afternoon eating lunch and discussing the future of Afghanistan with my students.

In the late morning, I traveled to western Kabul, home to three of my students, and shared a feast with one student's family. Upon arriving at the home, I was ushered into the sitting room to have tea and candy with all of the men; the women were in the kitchen cooking, but because I was a guest and a foreigner, I was an honorary man.

Waiting for lunch to arrive, I worried about how to sit on the mats on the ground without offending anyone. I thought, "Should I sit crossed legged or put my legs to the side?" "Is it bad to face the soles of my feet towards anyone?" I looked around the room at everyone, but because there were no women, I didn't know who to copy. I settled with sitting crossed legged and immediately regretted not being more flexible as my feet promptly fell asleep.

Lunch was overwhelming, delicious, and interesting all at once. First the mother brought out chapatis; huge flat, round pieces of bread. If I weren't there, everyone would have used this bread to eat with. They would tear a piece off and use their right hand lined with a piece of chapati to grab the rest of the food. But because they wanted me to feel comfortable, they brought out spoons and forks. After the bread came the oshaq, shallot filled dumplings in sour cream sauce. There was also a bowl of cooked wheat with oil on top, fruit, cookies, and meat. Uncharacteristic of a typical meal, I gathered, was the pizza placed in front of me. In addition to the utensils, they thought the pizza may make me feel more comfortable.

After we had sufficiently stuffed ourselves, we took some pictures and headed for the school where my students teach.

At the school, we met the other teachers. We all sat gathered around an ancient wood-burning stove, talking about music, professional teaching organizations, running a business and graduating from high school. I admired the smooth mud-brick walls and realized that most of the teachers in the room were still high school students themselves, save for the three teachers who were currently students at my university.

Unlike American high school and college students who have time to study, play sports, socialize, and be teenagers; these Afghan high school and college students are trying to make life better for their own people. Each day they attend school as students, then spend a great majority of the afternoon teaching English to people of all ages. After they finish teaching for the night, they go home and study their own lessons to prepare for the next day. Instead of worrying about fashion, pop culture, social life, or entertainment, these high school and college kids are concerned with how to re-build their country and educate their people after decades of war. And they don't just theorize and discuss ideas on how to solve their problems; they take action.

When asked if it is difficult to be both a student and a teacher, one of the boys said, "Teaching the English language to my people is important. English is an international language and having the skill [to speak] in the language will solve many problems for them. It may be difficult to work a lot, but I like to do it because of the result."

The other two boys who help run the school told me that they love teaching; that it is challenging and interesting. They believe that not only are they teaching language, but they are also teaching about the cultures in which English is spoken. "Learning to think in a different language is like becoming a new person," one of the boys said. And as they teach people to think in new ways, they are breaking down the barriers of misunderstanding. They believe that as they break down these barriers, life will get better for everyone.

Fortunately, the day after Thanksgiving I was reminded of a couple of things that I can give thanks for this year. Although I am thousands of miles away from all of the people whom I love, I have this amazing chance to learn about a culture that we, as Americans, know little about. For these ten months of my life, I am lucky enough to be able to eat oshaq with Afghans in their homes, talk about education with the future leaders of Afghanistan, and actually have a direct impact on their impressions of Americans. I get to live the reality of Kabul and see the truth with my own eyes. If I do nothing here besides drink tea and make friends, I have succeeded in building a bridge between Afghans and Americans. And that is something to be thankful for.

Sacrifice

2010-11-16T00:27:00.000-08:00

Heading out to dinner in my Eid finest.
The blue mosque in Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan. People will perform Eid prayers en-mass here today.
A potential sacrifice? Most likely.

A low damp heaving sound pulled me out of my afternoon slumber. The bronze light of dusk was fading, but when I opened my eyes I could see my breath intermingling with the thousands of dust particles clinging to the air. I followed the sound to my kitchen. With each wheeze, the noise became slower, less intense. Trying to get closer to outside without being seen, I climbed onto my cold marble counter top and pressed my ear to the fan vent above my stove which opened into the courtyard. Heaving and wheezing turned to a soft, drawn-out whimper. Then there was silence. In my building, on the dying breath of a cow, the Eid-al-Qurban celebration had commenced.

About 4,000 years ago today, Abraham and his son Ishmael walked towards a stone platform atop a hill and prepared for the ultimate sacrifice. Having had re-occurring dreams of sacrificing his son for God, Abraham believed that this was a message and the action must be carried out to show his obedience and submission to the higher power.

Asking the consent of his son (who was a teenager at the time), Abraham hoped that his boy would have the maturity to also submit to the will of God. When the question was posed, Ishmael did not hesitate; he immediately accepted his fate and said he would lay patiently under his father's knife.

When the two men arrived at the place of sacrifice, and were preparing for the ceremony, God intervened. Instead of taking Abraham's son, a ram would be sacrificed. Because Abraham and Ishmael were willing to submit to God's will, they were spared.

In Kabul today, and in all other Muslim countries, it is officially Eid-al-Qurban (Eid-al-Adha in Arabic-speaking countries), the celebration of sacrifice. Like the family in the courtyard behind my house, after the Eid prayer, many more families will slaughter lambs, sheep, cows, and some camels in order to honor the memory of Abraham and Ishmael.

The practice of slaughtering animals is only one way that Muslims celebrate sacrifice on this special day. Mullahs will give sermons about being kind and accepting of all humans; they will talk about the importance of spreading wealth among the poor and sharing food with the hungry (if families slaughter a sheep or lamb it is divided into three parts; 1/3 for the slaughterer, 1/3 for their family and friends, and 1/3 for the poor. In the case of a cow, the meat is distributed to seven families). People will also exchange sweets and buy gifts, particularly new clothes, to show their appreciation for those close to them. They will gather with their loved ones and remember how and why they sacrifice in life; they will tell each other, "Eid mubarek," (Happy Eid)!

Although we do not have a particular holiday in the United States to celebrate sacrifice (although lent is pretty close), each one of us makes sacrifices everyday. We give up things or go without comforts with the intention of gaining something for that sacrifice in the end. In American culture, we have come to know sacrifice as a bloodless example of self-discipline. In sacrificing some things, we become better people. And in becoming better people, we hope that we can make society a better place in which to exist. Whether you make a small sacrifice, like giving up candy to spare you teeth and save your health, or you make a large sacrifice like leaving your family and friends to serve in the Military in a volatile country, all of the sacrifices we make are important and interrelated.

So, later this week, as I tip-toe through the blood and carcasses of the sacrificed animals of Kabul, I will remember all of my friends and family who make sacrifices everyday. You all make the world a better place. Thank you!

I Heart Herat

2010-11-12T05:46:00.000-08:00

A tiled tower at the tomb of Queen Goharshad.
A wonderful mix of old and new; a bombed-out Russian tank, Jaala and Fatema in chador, and a new, shiny apartment building.
Standing on the edge of the tomb of Queen Goharshad; Aqila and Jaala clowning in front of the ancient minarets.
Alexander the Great's Citadel.
Looking out of the Citadel into the old city.
Local Heratis using the taxi to its fullest.
Lovely, clean, tree-lined road in Herat.

I love Herat too much.

I love it so much that I would drop everything to return to its blend of old and new; ancient and contemporary. I would don a chador and sell all of my belongings to walk along its clean wide avenues, munching on Iranian candy and cream puffs. I love it so much, my heart skips a beat when I think about the juicy secrets that could be revealed in the crumbling minarets, the damp, dark tombs, the restored Citadel of Alexander the Great, and the intricately tiled Friday mosque. I would return to the city just to inhale the smell of the well-stocked book stores and to wander through the stylish mall. I find myself out of breath thinking about the smooth, kind Persian the locals speak there; it soothes my ears like warm honey coating a sore throat. I lose my head recalling the temperate, crisp air and the softness of twilight shining through the sturdy branches of thousands of pine trees. I can't imagine anything more comforting than a Herati smile. It is embarrassing trying to write about the place; I feel as though I am revealing the details of a sordid romantic affair. Suffice to say it is my new favorite place in Afghanistan. Before I left, I was already making plans to return. No wonder my computer tries to change Herat to Heart each time I type the name of this magical city...

I do, I do...♥ Herat!

Safe in Mazar

2010-11-08T06:47:00.000-08:00

ISAF troops walking by our plane, probably admiring my cute pink carry-on bag, at the Mazar airport.
A guy hanging by his house in the mountains outside of Mazar.
In my typical hiking gear; a walk in the mountains outside of Mazar.
A lady standing outside of her house in Mazar.
Friday market in Mazar.
Traffic jam in Mazar. The donkey cart cut us off. What an ass.

Mazar-e-Sharif is a couple hundred miles northwest of Kabul but seems like a world away. Five days ago, I squeezed myself and my cute pink carry-on into a Balmoral Beech 1900c, also known as the smallest passenger plane in the history of mankind, and flew over the Hindu Kush mountain range to one of the safest places in Afghanistan. You see, although Mazar was one of the first cities to fall to the Taliban, it was also the first city to kick the Taliban out in 2001. It was the center of Ahmed Shah Massoud's Northern Alliance, the good guys in the fight against the Taliban. Because they have suffered so much tumult (seemingly more than the rest of the country) at the hands of invaders, they refuse to allow the Taliban to gain control of the area again. This makes for a really safe neighborhood. I was looking forward to enjoying the security of this city.

But first I had to get there.

Landing in Mazar-e-Sharif was an eye-opener. There is one airstrip in all of the city, so Embassy Air, commercial airlines, and military all use the same airport. As our tiny plane landed, so did a couple of C-130s and another really big plane (sorry dad, don't know the name of the big one). My colleague Tara and I disembarked in our fancy, "Afghan city girl" work clothes with our stylish luggage and handbags. Needless to say, we were out of place. We were standing in the dust among hundreds of ISAF (International Security Assistance Forces) troops, being buzzed by F-16s and bombarded with questions by private security people patrolling the airport.

I quickly scanned the area for the civilian car which should have been waiting for us. My inspection turned up...nothing. Not knowing where to go, what to do, or who to look for, I deployed my Dari.

I walked towards a security guard and said, "Ma motorwan nadarum." "I don't have a driver."
He said, "Motorwan kuj as?" "Where is your driver?"
I said, "Na me famum." "I don't know."
He pointed at an embassy vehicle and said, "Un jos." "There."
I said, "Tashakor." "Thanks."

I knew it wasn't my car, but I had used up all of my Dari so I walked over to the embassy guy. I explained to him my situation and he kindly offered to drive me to the front gate. At the front gate he deposited me and Tara in a United Nations (UN) vehicle to take us to our guest house.

Halfway into the city we realized we were in the wrong car. The driver kept on asking us question about our UN project (you all know I am not with the UN), so we asked him who he was. When we didn't recognize his name, we decided to call our guest house to tell them about our plight. When we got someone on the line, we gave the phone to the UN driver. Turns out that the owner of our guest house and the UN driver were old buddies, so the UN driver dropped us at our guest house, no problem. After talking with the guest house owner, the driver laughed and said, "Mazar is a safe place. Everyone knows each other here." Apparently true.

The rest of our trip went swimmingly. Thankfully, all of our contacts were in the right place at the right time.

The first day in town, we took a trip into the mountains with a local American teacher. We drove along bumpy gravel roads until we couldn't drive anymore. Then, we parked and started walking along a dryish river bed. After a few minutes, we arrived at an idyllic mountain village. Glancing around, we decided we had had enough walking and headed back to the car. On the way back down the river, I took time to look up. I couldn't believe that people lived in these mountains. Not only was the terrain unforgiving, but the rock faces in this little canyon put El Capitan in Yosemite to shame. It was a rock-climber's dream. Beautiful, craggy, untouched. I thanked the Gods for letting me exist in this canyon, at this time, in the Northern most corner of Afghanistan and hoped that there were no landmines (as always).

The next few days were full of meetings and tours of the city. Besides being a very safe place, Mazar is also a bit more conservative than Kabul. Burqas and traditional clothes abound. It is rare to see an uncovered woman (one in normal clothes and a head scarf). As an exception to this rule though, we did see a more liberal style of dress at the University. The city is poorer and less crowded than Kabul too. Most of the buildings were made of mud brick and there were only a few buildings that were taller than two stories. The roads were wider and less congested. Kids played soccer in the streets as the sun set. It felt like summer...except for the biting cold at night.

All in all, Mazar was beautiful and friendly. But I am glad that I live in Kabul. Being surrounded by the mountains, honking horns, and people from everywhere, makes my heart race. When I was away from Kabul I missed it; I felt lonely in the solitude and calmness of Mazar's plateau.

Tomorrow I will travel even farther west to Herat. I am looking forward to experiencing yet another, different city. What adventures lie ahead? Who knows, but I hear Herat is famous for its sweets. Uh oh.

Perfect Special Juice and the Invisible Hope

2010-11-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

There is a good chance these students are writing poetry...
Post-mantou, greasy, chubby cheeks (at my school)

Being a language teacher, and a person who is generally titillated (yes, I know my life is almost too exciting) by language and culture, teaching and living in Afghanistan is more than interesting. In a place where learning and using English is the new trend, mistakes are bound to occur. In addition to encountering the occasional mistakes, each day I also experience comedic misunderstandings which can be attributed to both language and culture.

Waiting for Mantou

Today, one of my students was due to bring me and a few other professors lunch. She had promised that she would cook mantou, a traditional Afghan dish of beef-filled dumplings over sour cream, covered in tomato sauce, beans, and cilantro. Her arrival time would be 11:30 so that we would have plenty of time to enjoy its bounty before our afternoon classes started at 1:00.

Around 12:00, three other professors and myself gathered in the department head's office, waiting for the mantou. We stared at each other uncomfortably for a minute or two and then I (accidentally) broke the ice by making a mistake in Dari. I turned to the most senior professor in the room and, trying to impress him with my language skills, offered him water.

I said, "Shuma tambol astayn?" "Are you stupid?" Everyone else in the room looked over at me with wide eyes. I quickly realized that I had confused the words for stupid "tambol," and thirsty, "tushna." But it was too late. The other professors were already hysterically laughing at me and joking with the eldest.

They didn't stop giggling and snorting until the mantou arrived promptly at 12:55, almost an hour and a half late. The lateness of the mantou was no problem though, the professors stayed and enjoyed the feast leaving around 1:15, or so, for their classes. Here, food is more important than arriving on time...always.

Bumper Stickers, Signs, and an Address

Most of the cars in Kabul are high-mileage, old, used Toyotas. There are many reasons why bumper stickers grace the windows of most of these cars, one being that the owners would like to distinguish their car from all of the others. Another reason is that the car came to them via some other country that couldn't sell it, with the bumper sticker(s) already affixed to them.

Here are some of the bumper stickers that I saw tonight:

"Don I cry girl I will be back" (I have made no mistakes, this is what it said)
"Surf Danger" (written around an LA Raiders' logo)
"Into the nature"
"Mikkie in Car" (with a Micky Mouse character next to the words)
"My fifth grader is an Honors Student at Woodrow Wilson Elementary"
"My Toyota is Fabulous"

Signage is almost as absurd. You would think that with many near-fluent English speakers in Kabul that business owners would get someone to proof-read before posting their billboard. I asked a friend why people print signs that don't make sense and he kind of chuckled and said, "Nobody cares what it says. The owner just wants to give an impression that they know English as to show that they are [upper] class."

Here are some upper-class signs:
Beauty Puler
Hajib's Mechaniacal Place

And my favorite (with no mistakes, but it is awesome nonetheless):
Perfect Restaurant
Inside of Perfect Restaurant there were signs for Super Ice Cream and Perfect Special Juice.
Perfect.

And another piece of authentic language from my cabinet...this is the address printed on our kilo of flour (quiet your paleo minds friends, YES I have flour in my cabinet!):
[name of a square] opposite to city computer center
Near [name of a mosque]
Kabul, Afghanistan

The Invisible Boy

After reading Shel Silverstein's poem "Invisible Boy" to the class, I had the students write their own poems about something invisible. We had a discussion about metaphors and allusions and I encouraged the students to write a poem as if they were drawing a picture. They were to use words like a paintbrush. Here is a poem that a student gave to me today. To me, this is the picture of many young Afghans today; to the rest of the world they ARE invisible...

To my teacher Jaala

I'm an invisible boy
In an invisible ship
Sailing along the invisible sea
To find the invisible God

I'm an invisible student
With an invisible teacher
Who taught me this invisible poem
Now I thank her with an invisible gift

I'm an invisible person
In an invisible part of the world
Living with many invisible limitations
Having no invisible freedom
Ever the right of invisible living
I wish to the invisible God
To show me the invisible right way

I'm an invisible poor boy
Born in an invisible country
Suffering a lot of invisible sorrows
Stranded against life's invisible narrowness
I started working at invisible places
When I was an invisible eight year old
But I didn't lose my invisible hope
I believe in my invisible liberty
I believe in my invisible future

Barf and Limericks

2010-10-25T09:32:00.000-07:00

I was observing this KEU graduate teach English at a high school in Kabul. Future limerick writers? I think so!

In my office preparing for the limerick lesson...my serious face soon turned to a giggly one, don't worry!

This is a very un-poetic post, but it is information that needs to be divulged because it is just too good to be kept to myself...

Barf
A few weeks ago my driver mentioned that winter was coming. He told me that with winter we would have a bunch of "barf." I tried not to giggle too much and asked him what barf was.
He said, "snow!" "Don't you love barf Jaala zhan (dearest Jaala)?"
I told him that I loved snow, but not barf. He laughed and said, "Snow is barf!"
I decided to explain that barf, in English, is something entirely different. I made gagging noises and mimicked barfing. He looked at me in the rear view mirror like I was crazy. I figured he didn't understand what I was saying, so I stopped my fake barfing and shifted my attention to the one-legged beggar outside my window.

Fast forward to today, a few weeks later.
On our way home from school, traffic was thick with afternoon commuters. The usual beggars roamed through the parked cars; homeless children offered burning vats of incense to ward off the evil eye, and workers sat atop a ton of apples on the truck in front of us. As traffic started to move more quickly, a different truck, packed with a family in the back, cut us off. My driver started to yell things in Dari at the truck when suddenly, a girl in the back started to vomit what looked like a pound of rice over the side.

As the puke hit our windshield, my driver ever so eloquently yelled, "She is BARFING on my car!" "Who is going to pay for this?"

He did understand my gagging and mimicking vocabulary lesson after all. God bless.

Limericks
Because my students mostly teach children, and limericks are an easy and fun form of poetry, I decided to teach my students about limericks today. Turns out that limericks are really hard, even for almost fluent teachers of English as a foreign language. Here is the best limerick of all that my students wrote today:

I had a nice bag.
It was black like part of our flag.
I lost it in the bazaar,
Near Kandahar.
What a silly gag!

Once again, God bless.

The Roaming Gazelle

2010-10-21T10:35:00.000-07:00

Villagers in Paghman.
No scarf, no shoes, no problem (!) at the Kabul River in Paghman Mountains.

Silly mountain sheep blocking my way to Paghman.
Clear air at 8000 feet in Paghman.
The road to Paghman.
Qargha Lake and a lonely jet ski.

My wish came true.

I am no longer a caged bird, but a roaming gazelle. Okay, I am not really a gazelle. I am just a simple (dramatic) American girl in Afghan clothes who has been admitted to a little-known world; the world of Afghanistan, circa now.

Initially, I thought I would be stuck in my house too much. Now, when I get home after a long day I feel like pressing my hot body to the concrete walls and melting in to their forgiving coolness. My apartment has become my home, and I like it. Now back to the roaming...

Two days ago I showed up at school and my department chair said, "Lets go on a trip!"

I didn't quite understand what he meant so I asked him, with much sophistication,"Uh, when?"

He smiled and said, "Today, now!"

I asked him where we were going and he told me that first we would go to Paghman Mountains, then to Qargha Lake. He might as well have told me we were going to Mars, because I had no idea where either of these places were. I felt a tinge of adrenaline at the prospect of getting out into the wilderness, so I agreed to go on the mini field trip.

As we gathered our things in the office and made our way towards the car, I hurriedly called my security people and told them I was going on a day trip to the mountains with some teachers and students from my school. They gave me their blessing and said, "Have fun, beware of land mines!" Great advice.

A few minutes later, three teachers, two students, and about twenty pounds of apples piled into the car. We sped through the late morning dust and thick pollution of the Kabul Valley and into the clear air of Paghman Mountains.

On the outskirts of Kabul, we passed a huge refugee camp. There were tents and homes made from cloth, cardboard, remnants of building materials, and mud-brick. Thousands of refugees from Helmand province made this acre or so of land their new place of dwelling. I rolled down my window, looked at the camp and asked my students if the refugees may be able to return to Helmand soon. One of the girls said, "It is not likely, the situation is not good there." I mentioned that the poverty was so sad, I wished it didn't have to be like this. My department head said, "You can't blame the people for their poverty. They have lived through 30 years of war." I didn't know how to respond to his statement, so I just looked out the window and tried to hold myself together.

After passing the refugee camp, my department chair slammed on the brakes rather suddenly and stopped the car on the highway. He declared that we were running low on gas and proceeded to lay on his horn for a good 15 seconds. There were no buildings or signs in sight, so I wondered what he was doing. Then from nowhere, a man came running towards us with a 5 gallon jug of petrol. Hoping he also didn't have a match in his pocket, I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes. A few minutes later, the side of the car and the "gas guy" soaked in stinky fuel, we were on the road again, cruising towards nature still in one piece.

About 45 minutes later, now northwest of the city, we ambled along a rocky, tree-lined road towards higher ground. I liked everything about being in the wilderness. People on the road walked with a little less purpose and smiled more. The goats and sheep were happier and seemed not to be stressed about our little dirty Toyota Corolla invading their space. I didn't miss the sounds we had left behind, the merchants yelling, cars honking, the drum of construction, helicopters constantly cutting through the air interrupting the rhythm of the day. The wind blew in my face and my scarf fell off. My students told me to leave it alone, so I freed my hair as well and let the breeze carry me away.

Eventually, we couldn't drive up the mountain anymore. Huge boulders and the river blocked the road, so we parked, paid a local boy to watch the car, and walked towards the river. Remembering the security people's advice, I hesitantly took a few steps forward. I thought to myself, "How can I be aware of landmines? What should I look for?" As if he could read my mind, my department chair mentioned the he used to work for an organization that specialized in land mine awareness. Of course he did! I grinned and told him that he could go first; I would follow.

The rest of the afternoon was magical. Gradually feeling more comfortable in our surroundings, I bounded across the river and climbed up a scree face. I played on the rocks as if I were a five year old again. My department head joined me and we threw rocks at the river. The students took pictures and ate apples as the afternoon winds blew the turning leaves off their branches.

Parting WAS such sweet sorrow. I wanted to build a house on the river and stay there forever. But it was time to return to the city. On the way back, as if I wasn't happy enough standing in the river and running through the hills, we stopped at a lake for lunch! At Qargha Lake, usually busy with Friday picnickers, we sat in the rose garden and ate lamb kabobs. Some men paddled around in plastic boats, laughing and splashing each other. A lone jet ski waited to be taken out into the water.

Our return to the city came swiftly. Soon enough we were back in the traffic of Kabul. Thankful that my wish of getting outside came true so quickly, I smiled and put my scarf back on. On the outside I was covered again, but on the inside I was free.

Education is Peace...and You are our Grand Teacher!

2010-10-14T08:16:00.000-07:00

Students at my University.
School girls walking through the hill-houses in Kabul. In the distance is a large cemetery.

It was a grain of sand in a mountainous dune, a drop of water in an ocean of pleasantries. But it was more than enough to satisfy my curiosity and quell my frustration.

During my second meeting with the Chancellor of my University, after hours of small talk and a truck load of raisins, chick peas, and tongue-scorching tea, I thought we would never talk about education. My prediction was that it would probably take ten of these meetings to begin talking about the business of educating teachers; of building training programs and developing the Master's of Teaching program at the University so that future generations of teachers could have access to higher education on their own soil. Frustrated, I thought that my time here may be over before I had the confidence of the Chancellor to go ahead with my project. Regardless of my fear, I was enjoying the chit chat when, ever so suddenly, the chancellor took in a labored breath and said the following:

"Peace depends on this University. With education, there is no war. The enemy knows this; they burn schools and kill teachers to take the foundations of peace away. But here we build our future everyday. Piece by piece we are re-building our nation from the ground up. Each teacher that works here knows this; each student who passes through these doors knows this. Peace depends on this University. We welcome you and hope you also realize this."

Suddenly my concerns didn't seem so urgent.

The remainder of our conversation was one of the best I have had since arriving in Afghanistan. We talked about how important education is in nation-building, and why this Teacher's College in particular was so important in this task. We discussed how educating women was the most important piece of this puzzle, because they would raise the future leaders, scholars, and politicians. At the Teacher's College, we were in the business of turning out the people who would teach the new generation how to be good people. Although most of our talk was lofty and wishful, it seemed to me that the Chancellor's heart was in the right place and that I had his blessing to go forth and teach. I was in good company. Thank Allah.

Our meeting ended because I had to go to introduce a guest from the United States (the English Language Specialist (ELS), a visiting scholar from University of Southern California who will conduct teacher-training workshops this week) to my students.

When we arrived at my class my students were off-the-wall excited to be meeting another American. I introduced the ELS as one of my teachers (for simplicity's sake). Immediately, a boy in my class raised his hand to speak. He said, rather enthusiastically to the guest, "So you are our grand teacher!"

I love Afghanistan.

Mistaken Afghan

2010-10-06T06:30:00.000-07:00

By now, this is a familiar refrain:
"Wow, you really look Afghan. You know, you are one of us. Just don't talk and no one will ever know you are American. Are you really American?"

Usually, this is a very good thing for me. At crowded intersections the beggar children walk right on by my car. Men never glance twice (unless I am feeling a little bold and look at them). The occasional shady character doesn't slow down when passing me on the sidewalk. Both teachers and students greet me in Dari at my University and treat me like any other professor. But today proved to be a little problematic...and comedic, of course.

At the gate to my University, the guards decided that my car couldn't drive inside to drop me off. So, I jumped out of my safe vehicle into the chaos that is the main thoroughfare outside of the entrance to my school. When I tried to walk through the pedestrian gate, one guard singled me out and stopped me.

He said, "Blah blah blah (in Dari)."
I said, "Shoma Ingleesi gap mezanayn?" (Do you speak English?)
He said, "Ne, blah blah blah." (No, a bunch of stuff in Dari)
I said, "Na me famam." (I don't understand)
He said, "Shoma Dari ro mezanayn." (You are speaking Dari.)
I said, "Bale, na me famam." (yes, I don't understand.)
He said, "Blah Blah blah!" (A bunch of stuff in Dari)
I said, "Sobh ba khayer." (Good morning.)

Having almost exhausted my Dari, the guard finally realized I was not Afghan. He gave me a confused look. I shrugged and took out my passport. He laughed and said, "Be bakshayn," (Sorry), and waved me through the entrance.

Besides the guard interrogation, on a "regular" day, my life looks like this:

I wake up and go down to the basement gym in my apartment to wrestle with the dumbbells, try not to smash my fingers in the process, and do some crossfit. After completing my workout, I return to my apartment to load up on protein; one hard boiled egg. Add some cucumbers and I feel 20% full. I clean myself up, throw on my chadar (head scarf) and eye-liner and it is off to work.

The ride to my University is always interesting. Depending on the morning, we could be stuck in the worst traffic ever, Office Space style, with donkey carts, motorcycles occupied by entire families, and one-legged men non-nonchalantly cruising by. Other mornings we are weaving in and out of boulders placed strategically in the road to slow people like us down, barely missing women in burqas fleeing taxis and buses speeding through the dawn. Arriving safely at the school is always a blessing.

At work, I observe teachers, work with them on teaching skills and lesson planning, team-teach a class, hold office hours, talk to students, and eat lunch with other professors. Lunch is usually some Afghan food; the most typical of which is a gigantic piece of naan bread and kobli palaw (rice with carrots and raisins). My paleo-fed body cries tears of grains as I smile, say "tashakor" (thank you), and eat the inflammation-inducing food (which actually tastes FANTASTIC).

Home is a welcome relief to a hot, sweaty day full of confusion, chaos, and language learning. First I let my hair down, take off many layers of clothes, and turn on some American music. I have a snack, check my e-mail (our Internet connection is pretty reliable) and relax. Sometimes I will go back down to the gym and run backwards on the treadmill (it only goes 5 miles an hour, so running backwards offers a little more of a challenge) or ride the bike.

Dinner is usually as paleo as I can make it with local veggies (soaked in bleach-water for 45 minutes so I don't get hepatitis) and some type of meat besides eggs.

At night I often drift quickly into a deep dreamless sleep...Last night though, I had my first dream.

What did I dream of?

The ocean.

The Common...and Uncommon in Kabul

2010-10-03T10:20:00.001-07:00

Another week has gone by. Last week I wrote about Kabul in hiding; this week I will write about Kabul unveiling itself. Little by little I am learning more about this place. I wonder when I will shed a tear for these people and their stories? I asked an Afghan friend of mine why she thinks it is that I haven't cried yet while gazing upon the remnants of a once thriving city; she whispered, as if someone was listening to us, "There aren't many tears left in Kabul. "

This is the story of one woman in Kabul during the Taliban regime, but it could easily be the story of thousands of women; unfortunately her situation was common among the population.

Last weekend, my dear friend* (DF) told me that during the reign of the Taliban, for six years, she had to stay inside of her home. Although she had just started teaching, her career would be put on hold indefinitely. The government paid her teaching salary so that she would not complain. Day-to-day, DF took care of the house with the other women in her family; she did the cleaning, cooking, and child rearing. When she ventured out to go shopping, she donned a burqa and took a male relative to accompany her in her business.

However, the walls of her home could not contain her determined mind. As soon as all of her daily home duties were completed, DF hit the books. She diligently studied the English language, hoping that when she was released from house arrest that she could catch up with the men at the University where she had once worked as a professor. While she was relegated to her home, most of her male colleagues remained in their teaching positions at the University. Although the men retained their jobs, they were all required to teach religious studies. While DF studied English, the men filled their time with teaching a subject that was not their expertise.

DF said, "When I returned to the University, most of the men were afraid that my English skills would now be better than their own." It is clear that the time DF spent studying has given her a leg up, but in a curious way. Was the six years inside, studying English worth the time that she was removed from a regular daily life? Upon asking DF, she grins at me and hands me more naan bread. This question remains unanswered.

Now, after the regime has fallen, women are experiencing a little more freedom. Women have gone back to work and are generally allowed to venture outside of the house. Don't be mistaken though; a majority of women are still at home most of the time, taking care of all of the duties endemic to running a household. All women cover their hair and continue to dress modestly. Many women still wear the burqa.

But once again, in a sea of difficult, heart-wrenching, common stories it is evident that none of these are truly common. Though the thread of house arrest runs stealthily through the lives of all women in Afghanistan during those years, each one dealt with their fate in uncommon ways.

A good example of the spirit of the Afghan women is exemplified in the featured documentary, Kabul at Work (Click on the title to be directed to the film, it is about 20 minutes long). This film features four people, two of which are women; one is a general in the Afghan Army, the other is a Taekwondo champion (the attached picture is of Sarah Jamal an Iranian champ, not the woman featured in the video). I found that in watching this documentary each person is uncommon within the common framework of war and hardship. This is yet another beautiful fact about the common in Kabul. Nothing is as it seems.

*Dear Friend, or DF, is a pseudonym. Actual names of people and places are not used to protect the identities and to ensure the safety of the locals whom I live and work with.

Kabul in Hiding

2010-09-25T02:53:00.000-07:00

I am in my apartment alone; it is quiet save for the honking horns, men talking, and occasional call to prayer. The brown light of the afternoon peeks through my opaque windows. Mountains on the horizon beckon to me; I wish I could bound into the the afternoon heat and run up to the radio towers that grace the hills. I would say a little prayer of freedom and gaze upon this broken city with eyes wide open. But for now, I inhale the dusty inside air and tell a story of hiding...

I am one of the lucky ones and so are you. Although this lock down is only temporarily my life, for most people here it is all they know. I have been an honorary Afghan woman for the past five days and I can barely imagine what this life looks like permanently. Venturing outside of the cool concrete walls of my apartment complex only can happen when I am going to work or a meeting. At that time, I must be with a guard and a driver. I haven't experienced a day on campus as a professor yet, but I imagine this is where I, along with the students and other professors, find daily freedom of movement and thought. I wonder if Maya Angelou was speaking of Afghans when she wrote "I know why the caged bird sings?" Here, I think everyone is a caged bird.

There are holes everywhere. Bullet holes still litter most of the older, taller buildings in town. It is evident that they have been patched, but with cement and spackling that cannot stand up to weathering; most of the patch work is crumbling anyway. Potholes are the roads. My driver mentioned that the roads were nicely paved before the Taliban came and ruined everything. Now, on the side streets there are remnants of concrete, but for the most part dust and dirt have engulfed the once-smooth thoroughfares. Bricks and cinder blocks have been piled into the biggest of craters, constant reminders of a tumultuous reality.

But if you look closely enough, there is life hiding everywhere, trying to fill the holes which 30 years of war has left.

Indigo silhouettes of women tip toe through mud in their high heels; although burqas hide their faces, their shoes give away their spirit.

An old man whistles a sweet song as he ambles along my road. He smiles broadly at me as I try to hide the fact that I just took a picture of him through the only open window on my stairwell. I blush.

Across from my building, on the roof, I notice boys congregating with kites as the sun sets behind black hawks buzzing through the dusk.

I enjoy my first "Afghan-style" meal out in the secluded garden of Sufi Restaurant. Who knew that this lush garden with trees, flowers, fireside tables, and traditional Afghan music existed among all of this dust a rubble?

Upon first glance, Kabul is a dusty, desolate place...But slowly, I am discovering that the real Kabul is in hiding, waiting to emerge from this dark time. There is no way, with the heart and spirit of the Afghan people, it won't. Just as the sun rises anew each day, I have faith that Kabul, and Afghanistan, will emerge from this long night soon enough.

The Final Supper and...lift off!

2010-09-19T22:10:00.000-07:00

The twelve disciples would have loved this supper much more than the last one they attended. Absent of bread and wine, we indulged in paleo goodness instead. Wild caught salmon drizzled in coconut, lemon, cilantro sauce with a side of asparagus, mashed cauliflower and tomato and cashew gravy was the main course. Later on, our night cap was gluten free muffins with cashew butter frosting, fresh strawberries and coconut ice cream. Yes, yes, I will remember my final supper in America fondly. My dear friends and colleagues from Santa Barbara City College, Marit (along with her husband Eric and daughter Evelina) and Gail sent me off with a nice taste in my mouth! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

With that yummy send-off behind me, tomorrow I am heading for Afghanistan. It will take almost two days to get there with a one night layover in Dubai (which I am looking forward to). I will arrive in Kabul on the heels of the parliamentary elections. Although all of the reports you have probably read in the news have been of Taliban kidnappings of candidates and random violence against civilians coupled with a low voter turnout, there is a bright side to this. There were just free elections in Afghanistan in which many women voted AND were candidates (386 ran for office, to be exact)! What an amazing time it is for me to be arriving in the country. Starting in a few days, I will get to be part of the nation-building that has been underway in Afghanistan for the past few years. Although I know it will be challenging, I am looking forward to all of the unknowns and interesting experiences that are about to come my way.

About to go

2010-09-13T14:33:00.001-07:00

One week and counting...

My new official leaving date for Afghanistan is Monday, September 20th. Due to a travel blackout (I don't quite know what a travel blackout is, but I am probably safer not arriving during said blackout), I have to wait a little longer to start my journey to the land of...mountains? I guess I will be able to better complete that sentence once I am actually in Kabul.
So, what does one do to prepare for a teaching fellowship in Afghanistan?
Search online for clothes to wear there, of course. See above.

One week and counting...

Considering Possibilities

2010-07-27T13:34:00.000-07:00

Recently, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine about my expectations for my teaching fellowship in Afghanistan. He asked, "are you ready to die there?"
I was taken aback by this question because I hadn't considered the possibility. Yes, I am going to a war zone. Yes, I am going in the capacity of an educator, without the protection of arms or bunkers or body armor. Yes, I am aware that the Taliban likes to kill and/or kidnap people who find it necessary to educate women. But still, I hadn't really considered the possibility that I may die there. After all, people live there! They are making a life everyday in the very city that I am about to move to. I imagine that I will make a life for myself there too, granted it will be of a short duration, but I imagine myself as part of my community, teaching teachers and students, learning about the culture, speaking the language, and making friends.
I think my friend was just as surprised when I answered, "Yes."
Although it may seem selfish to some that I am willing to die while teaching abroad, I still am. My family and close friends understand that teaching, and teaching those that need an education most, is my passion. I would rather die doing something that I was meant to do, something that makes me feel alive and useful, than die stagnant and unhappy. For me, living is doing things for others that matter; it is making a difference by contributing something positive to the world; it is making each day important and remembering that the world is bigger than ourselves. I don't know who said it, but these words always ring true in my head, "All of us are going to die, but many of us never get the chance to really LIVE." I teach, I do crossfit, I paddle, I volunteer my time so that I can live.

From the Classroom

2010-07-19T13:48:00.001-07:00

We are from…

(From the perspective of students in my Spring 2010 ESL 134, writing 5 class. Written By: Justine, Vitaliy, Alejandro, Karlo, Carla, Yong Bo, Ziqing, Kai, Yean Su, Shi Yang, Mytrinh, Runlan, Luiz, Milton, Il Kweon, Daniel, Ji Yeon, Cuong, Amber, Itsuki, Pu Xiao, Maria, Joaquin, Edgar, Koyuki, Daycy)

An imaginary and uncertain world,

Where the streets have ups and downs,

Where illusion can be the hope,

To overcome the next day.

The end of the world,

The land of kiwis and beautiful nature,

A little island in a big ocean,

beautiful sunsets and endless beaches.

The boundlessness of the Qingzang plateau,

The deepness of the East China Sea,

The surging of the Yangzi River,

The constancy of Taishan Mountain.

A country on the other side of the world,

as flat as a pancake,

A small country that feels so big,

Where there are more bikes than people.

A place shaped like an "s,"

Green immense fields,

Ranks of straight bamboo,

Ancient pagodas,

Fragrant frankincense.

The biggest city in the world,

With the most extensive population,

At night it looks like a mirror reflecting the stars in the sky.

A new land,

Where wine can be turned to gold,

And the elders can see,

Just like they aren't old.

A place that is touched by the Atlantic Ocean,

Where the sun sets between the "Two Brothers" mountains,

And people clap saying goodbye to the day.

A place where things can appear out of nowhere,

I am not lying, I used to live there!

Sitting on the bank, shiny sky over the river.

Looking for the stars.

Watching the current.

Feeling the Earth.

We are from…

A world of yellow,

The yellow of paddy fields,

Where the farmers worked hard together,

a long time ago when my country hadn't developed yet.

A simple and mellow life,

A valley full of sadness,

A valley of two nationalities,

Sad and happy faces.

Beautiful nights like butterflies,

Where love is pure and sincere like silk.

We are from…

Interminable weekend parties,

Where the dance floor was the universe itself,

Wearing black pants, a black t-shirt, and black shoes,

Always believing I was the king of the night.

Friday nights in front of her house,

With flowers, asking her

How to make her happy

A place where hearts can be destroyed

So easy like a flower.

Red and extreme hot food,

Sweet and spicy,

Full of memory,

How can I forget those spicy foods from my hometown?

We are from…

Every morning waking to the sound of cold wind,

Hands were cold when I touched the water,

I felt my feet freezing walking in the snowy grass everyday.

We are from…

Sounds breaking feelings,

Parties all night,

Sad noises and tears falling.

Quiet indifference,

stars of neon lights.

We are from…

Chatter like a sparrow,

Bronzed by the sunshine,

Hide and seek wherever you are,

Until darkness fell.

We are from…

Complex things and happy memories

buildings and cars like a monster,

monsters that are dark,

monsters that roar,

monsters that paint the sky gray.

Going to the night club with my friends and classmates,

singing and dancing,

meeting new people,

going home at 4am.

We are from…

A place where peace was not common those days,

R-15's were the loudest crying sound,

But I didn't mind,

Because I have peace on the inside.

We are from…

Happiness and sadness,

Past and present,

Dreams of a bright future.

On the horizon, there is hope.

We are from…

Not wanting to show our sad, drawn faces,

Longing, to see our homes again.

But for now…

we are from here.

Rethink Afghanistan

2010-07-13T13:50:00.001-07:00

Rethink Afghanistan

"Mountains can never reach each other, despite their bigness. But humans can."

–Afghan proverb

"Education is a long-term solution to fanaticism."

–Colonel Christopher Kolenda, U.S. Army

Less than two days after I had been offered a teaching fellowship in Afghanistan, I walked by a huge banner on the Santa Barbara City College campus that read: "RETHINK AFGHANISTN!"

It was nearing the end of the 72-hour grace period in which I would need to accept or decline the fellowship I had been offered by Georgetown University (administered by the U.S. Department of State). I had been weighing all of the positives and negatives since receiving the offer. Here is a peek into my thought process: positive—living in, and beginning to understand, a place that very few non-military Americans would ever experience; negative: suicide bombers; positive: learning Dari (a language closely related to Farsi which is an official language of Afghanistan); negative: being kidnapped by the Taliban; positive: participating in nation building by teaching; negative: living in a hooch (bomb shelter); positive: lamb kabobs.

As you may have guessed, when I walked by the sign "RETHINK AFGHANISTAN," I yelled back, "I haven't stopped thinking about it for 48 hours!" The Vietnam vets sitting next to the sign shouted "Right on sister!" I smiled and continued the walk to my office.

Later on that same day, I accepted the teaching fellowship.

As poetic justice has it, I will be moving to Kabul, Afghanistan on September 11, 2010. My fellowship will last a school year (10 months). Officially, I will be known as a Senior English Language Fellow (ELF) (yes, go ahead and make all of the elf jokes you would like to for the next year!) with the U.S. Department of State. The funding for the fellowship is provided by Georgetown University. My job is threefold: to teach English at Kabul Education University, to develop a Masters in Teaching program at said University, and to observe the students (teachers) from KEU teaching at their schools and help them develop English curriculum and improve upon their teaching methods.

Now, before being extremely worried about me, I hope that you will also rethink Afghanistan. Let me explain.

I, just like you, have read countless reports and articles about what is going on in Afghanistan for the last nine plus years. The images I have in my mind of Afghanistan are of a war-torn country trampled on by occupying forces. It is a place where violence occurs everyday and the allies are losing a battle that is more complex than they know. Among the rubble and mish mash of this war and occupation exists a people, the Afghans, who are trying to carve out a semblance of life in an increasingly unsafe reality run by a corrupt government which the occupying forces have put into place. It is a mess, and an ugly one.

You most certainly are thinking: why are you going to Afghanistan? What do you think YOU can do to make a difference?

Consider what Malalai Joya, a woman and the youngest member of Afghan Parliament recently said: "Today the soil of Afghanistan is full of land mines, bullets, and bombs—when what we really need is an invasion of hospitals, clinics, and schools for boys and girls."

I have long believed that through education, nations are built. If I can help one teacher educate his/her students in a more effective way, or I can show one Afghan that the American people (me for the time being) supports them and believes in their ability to get their own nation back on track, then I think that I have contributed something positive.

Nations are not built quickly; they are built piece by piece and across decades, even centuries. Nations are constructed by many individuals making small changes that they believe in, and then asking others around them to make small changes too. As Margaret Mead once said, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." Hopefully I can contribute some of my own knowledge and love to the citizens of Afghanistan who are forging a better future for their country.

What is more important, in the long run, is that I am going there to learn what it is really like for the Afghan people. I will try my best to listen to the true stories of the people that I meet, because through all of these stories we can all get a better picture of what it is like to live in Afghanistan at this time; through listening to the stories of the people we can walk in their shoes for a moment. If we can walk in the shoes of those less fortunate than ourselves, we may begin to wish for them to have shoes similar to our own.

And so I will go, day by day, rethinking Afghanistan each step of the way.

On the next page...

2010-05-29T16:19:00.000-07:00

You are

A heart on my mirror etched in steam

The beginning of an earlier dream

The smell of mountains after the rain

Relief to an enduring pain

A whisper in the indigo night

Calmness enveloping me without a fight

The ocean; purifying and deep

A dream awake and asleep

You are

DNF-Did not fail

2010-05-17T14:53:00.000-07:00

DNF-Did Not Fail

A week has passed since crossfit Southwest Regionals. Some of you may already know; I didn't win. Actually, I didn't even finish in the top half of the women. Officially, I DNF'ed (did not finish) 3 of the 4 events; I was a couple of rungs from the bottom of the ladder, the second fiddle, THE biggest loser. If I were a mediocre college football player my red shirt would have been taken away.

The irony in all of this is that I couldn't be happier with my performance. Last weekend I pushed my body to its limits and triumphed over...myself. All log carrying and tire flipping aside, it was the best competition of my life! Here is a re-cap.

DNF #1=The most terrifying, and then fun, WOD ever

*5 rounds of:
2 muscle ups
10 power cleans at 85#
200 meter run

*must be completed in under 15 minutes

When I saw this WOD on the games site I gulped and cried on the inside (maybe on the outside too). Circa three days before the competition I had never done one muscle-up in my life. I knew I had to get at least one under my belt before the competition so I set out practicing. Bruised wrists and sad faces mixed with some frustration later, I got one muscle up--it was Thursday, two days before the event. I immediately tried another one and couldn't repeat the move. I was officially terrified.

Come event time I was nervous but focused. There was no option for me but to do muscle ups and do them well--I would need to get ten (!) done to complete the workout.

Before the event I didn't practice the move. I didn't want to feel what failing was like, so I swung my arms around, clapped a bunch of chalk on my hands and stared the rings down. As the start drew near, I could see the Crossfit Ventura (CFV) crew standing by the sidelines along with my vociferous mother. At that moment, looking at my friends, before the clock started, I remembered that I love crossfit for the people and the community and that the competition was icing on the cake. Happiness suddenly enveloped me and I felt like giving hugs all around. Since I didn't really have time for multiple hugs, I just ran over and laid one on my mom. That was enough. I ran back to the rings for what felt like my impending doom.

When the clock started I wasn't ready for a muscle up. I thought about what I should do, hung on the rings, kipped and missed. I repeated this for about three minutes and then told myself to cut the BS and just do the muscle-up. So I did.

I found myself on top of the rings, locked out, grinning. I wanted to stay up there forever.

After that first muscle-up in the WOD, the next ones weren't so bad. I ended up doing most of the WOD, finishing 4 rounds plus one more muscle up in 15 minutes.

I couldn't believe I had just done 9 muscle ups (and a bunch of cleans and running)! I will never forget how good that felt.

For days after this WOD I repeatedly jerked myself awake dreaming of doing muscle up after muscle up. The last dream I had I was doing 30 for time. I can't wait to do this for real now.

On to the next...

DNF #2=A heavy WOD

In less than 7 minutes:
20 Clean and Jerks @115#
40 Burpees over a parallette

The scene: me and two Valley Crossfit amazons putting heavy stuff over our heads. Them=20 clean and jerks (C&J) unbroken, 40 burpees fast. Me=4 (very broken) C&J and 39 burpees labored.

This workout seemed insurmountable at first, but apparently competition pushes me to do things I never though possible before. My previous C&J personal record (PR) before the competition was 100 pounds. 115# 4 times was awesome. 39 burpees after that was even more awesome.

I almost felt as if nothing could get better than 9 muscle ups, but doing those C&Js and then getting hugs from Rebecca Voight and Katie Hogan added to the sheer amazingness of the day.

DNF #3=AKA, "This WOD was over my head"

In less than 20 minutes:
1000 meter row
30 overhead squats @85#
1200 meter run

For some reason, after Saturday, this WOD didn't seem very tough. I thought that I would get through the row and overhead squats and then kill it on the run. I planned on passing everyone on the track and just smoking it. Of course I underestimated how hard the OHS would be.

The row went by quickly. I pulled at a pretty easy pace as to not burn myself out for the overhead squats. Running to the overhead squats, I planned to do 6 sets of 5. I did 2 and dropped the bar on my head on my third rep. Laying on the ground I knew this was about to be a fight.

It was.

When it was all said and done, I cleaned, jerked, snatch balanced and overhead squatted 85# 25 times. I never got to the run.

At the end of the workout I couldn't believe it, but for the third time in two days I thought that I had just completed the best workout of my life. Even if I didn't REALLY complete it.

All in all, Regionals put some fire back into my mind. I realized that placing and winning didn't matter much to me; that the effort I put into each workout was what really counted. And, being as I almost got last, I figure there is nowhere to go but up. So make some room amazons, you may see me (not spectating!) at the games in 2011!

If you want to see some video, look here:

http://live.crossfit.com/

The drop down menu is on the left and you need to choose from that...here are some approximate times:

May 8th 13:44-14:44 I am doing some muscle ups at minute 1:20-2:37 and then there is an interview with me at minute 11:10

May 9th 10:55-11:55 Event starts at 28:19 and you can click for the next 20 minutes on various points but I know there is some video of the overhead squats at the end around 43:50

May 8th 16:44-17:44 26:54 is the beginning of the C&J heat and it goes until 33:53

I am...

2010-04-09T14:32:00.001-07:00

I am...not that girl from the blog last week.

It was recently brought to my attention that my latest blog "Where has the fun gone?" was not me. A little too negative and self pitying, I agree. Usually weary of letting negative thoughts seep into my mind, I had a moment of weakness and let 'em flow. But now, in my own Jedi mind trick reversal I've erased those thoughts from my blog physically and my world completely. There is no longer time to think anything but good thoughts as the big dance, the Crossfit Games Southwest Regional competition, is only 29 days away. From here on out it is time to kick ass (my own and everyone else's too).

I am...rested.

Taking the past five days (plus one more!) off has given me time to recenter and balance myself in a way that I haven't been able to do for quite some time. I have gotten back in the ocean, spent time with close friends, gotten a massage, organized my files and balanced my checkbook (yes, I STILL do this!), and relaxed. I have realized that rest is necessary in physical and mental recovery (duh) and I am grateful that my coaches (Colin and Huff) supported me in this temporary hiatus.

I am...strong.

Holy crap! I nonchalantly snatched 65# while demonstrating form to a newer athlete as I was coaching two days ago. In the not so recent past I couldn't even snatch a PVC pipe properly. Yeah me.

I am...ready.

During a visit to a local affiliate (CPC) this afternoon, I got butterflies upon witnessing 1-rep max thrusters. I wanted to pick up a barbell and yell my head off while thrusting 135# into the ceiling. I saw myself in a stadium with the bright lights shining down, the soft track underneath me and the cool steel in my hands. The bar was light and I was fast. I was killing whatever that imaginary WOD was.

I am...thankful.

Heart full of happiness, head full of positivity, days full of sun and a breezy ocean; life is good. I am thankful that I have qualified for Regionals and that I get to represent Crossfit Ventura as a strong and healthy, fully capable athlete. With every limb and muscle; every ounce of sweat and will, nothing will be spared. I will triumph.

I am...BACK.

Watch. Out.

The Road to Ratatouille

2010-03-23T19:49:00.000-07:00

Lisa doing some quality cutting of vegetables with the kids.

A Day of Volunteering and not Cutting my Thumbs Off

On the road to ratatouille (not the movie, the actual dish!), teaching kids how to use knives and make healthy food choices was my calling recently. Let me explain...

For the past 6 months, the new members of the Junior League of Santa Barbara have been preparing for our new member project: "Kids in the Kitchen." Although I was not a huge part of the planning process (I secured food donations) I was looking forward to a day of helping out my community by educating children and their families about healthy living.

Last weekend, the actual event went off without a hitch. In the morning a fellow crossfitter (Lisa Engel from Cross fit Pacific Coast) and I showed up to Franklin Elementary (the site of the event) to prep the food for the day. We mostly joked and talked and tried not to cut our thumbs off. After the prep work was done, we were assigned to the cutting detail. We would both be supervising children with knives while they helped us cut veggies to put into the ratatouille (the dish of choice). Good news; we all made it out, children included, unscathed with enough vegetables for our fine dish!

Overall, the day went well and our community appreciated our efforts to bring them information about healthy living. Not only did we cook an amazing ratatouille that everyone enjoyed, but the children and their families also came away with information about physical fitness courtesy of the YMCA and suggestions about good nutrition and ideas on how to prevent diabetes from the Santa Barbara and Ventura departments of public health.

What could be better than two crossfitters, volunteerism, knives, and good food? Not much.
Here is the recipe that we used for the ratatouille (for you crossfitters, this is PALEO! minus the white beans):
*courtesy of Chef Andrea Martin of s'Cool Food

Ratatouille (makes 8 hearty portions)
2 tablespoons of olive oil
2 medium onions diced
3 cloves of fresh garlic chopped
1 eggplant, 1/2 inch diced
1 red bell pepper, 1/4 inch diced
1 yellow bell pepper, 1/4 inch diced
1 orange pepper, 1/4 inch diced
2 small zucchinis, 1/2 inch diced
2 small yellow squash, 1/2 inch diced
2 tablespoons of fresh rosemary, chopped
2 pounds roma/plum tomatoes, peeled and chopped
1 cup of dry white beans, soaked and pre-cooked (reserve two cups cooking liquid)
1 bunch of kale (was and tear into two inch pieces)
1/4 cup of fresh basil leaves, roughly chopped
2 tablespoons of sea salt to taste
1 teaspoon of pepper

1. Heat oil in heavy bottom stockpot over a low-medium heat. Add onions and garlic and saute until tender, about 5 minutes.
2. Add eggplant and continue cooking, stirring occasionally. When eggplant is lightly browned and tender, remove from the pot.
3. Add a little more olive oil and saute peppers until slightly tender, about 5 minutes.
4. Add zucchini, squash, and rosemary to the pepper mixture in the pot and continue sauteing until tender.
5. Add tomatoes, beans and bean cooking liquid, and the eggplant. Bring up to a boil and turn down to a simmer. Season with salt and pepper.
6. Simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
7. Finish by adding the kale and cook until tender (about 5 minutes).
8. Add basil just before serving.

A moment in time

2010-03-16T17:39:00.001-07:00

All I was thinking: "I can do this."

These overhead squats were heavier than 65#! Well, maybe not, but they felt like it...

The end. That is what a person looks like after the final 800 meter run at Sectionals.

95# Thrusters in the Stadium Chipper were my nemesis. I thought screaming really loudly might make them lighter (it did!).

A moment in time

I took a deep breath. Silence enveloped me in the darkness. Cement scraping my back, legs above, ground below, pressing all of my life into the pavement, I slowly raised myself hoping that my arms would be locked out at the end of the effort. Desperately I wanted to hear the judge say "6!" I only had 25 seconds left before my dream of making Regionals would come to an end...

This weekend, I participated in the Southern California Sectionals Crossfit Games Qualifier. Placing among the top twenty women would advance me to the Southwest Regional Crossfit Games Qualifier in May. My goal was to do just that, place in the top twenty.

As I participated in the first part of the second event, a year of crosfitting and a life of being an athlete flashed through my mind. It was no near-death experience, but when a dream that is so big in one's life is almost deferred, strange things go through one's mind.

I had been thinking about this workout for every waking second of my life since the events were posted. I would have to complete 4 rounds of 9 95# squat cleans and 6 handstand push-ups (to one ab mat) under 15 minutes. If I couldn't do this I could "tap out" and do regular push-ups instead, but would be automatically ranked under the girls who could complete the workout as prescribed (with the handstand push-ups). Going round and round in my mind, I decided that there would be no tapping out. Either I'd complete the workout as it should be done or get a score of DNF and not be in the running for Regionals.

The event began. The first round was tough, but I completed it in 3:45. This was the exact pace I needed to be at for each round if I wanted to go exactly 15 minutes. I needed to go faster. The second round was a blur, but I was happy that I had not failed any handstand push ups at that point. Going in to the third round my arms started to feel weak and my squat cleans were getting messy. During that round I think I failed on two handstand push ups and lost some precious time.

Then, the final round arrived. It was ugly. My squat cleans had turned into fierce power cleans/ upright rows combined with a front squat. After completing 9 of the yuckiest squat cleans of my life, I sprinted to the handstand push-up area. I did 4 handstand push ups, one at a time. On my fifth one, my feet came away from the wall and my arms gave out. I failed and would have to do it again. I looked at the clock and noticed I only had about 45 seconds left. I hurriedly shook my arms and tried for #5 one more time. I succeeded. Then I glanced at the clock again. With one handstand push-up to go, I noticed that I had about 25 seconds left. I told myself I could do it and then...

Before I kicked up into my "final" handstand, I looked to my right and saw all of my friends cheering wildly for me. I saw people who I had sweat, cried, and pushed beyond my limits with, standing there willing me to finish that handstand push-up. I could see my pain on their faces. When I kicked my legs up against the wall I thought, " I love these people and I love what crossfit has done for my life. I'm going to get this f'ing handstand push-up right now and make myself and all of these people proud at this moment in time."

So I did.

After the final handstand push up, I frantically asked my judge the time. He smiled and said 14:47.

It ended up, after 2 days and 3 ridiculously brutal events, that I earned 9th place overall at sectionals. I achieved what I set out to do and that was, and still is, a very satisfying feeling.

Today I am going on my second rest day. I can barely walk, my quads are on fire, and I am not very hungry. Last night I slept for a solid ten hours and actually dreamt for the first time in 6 months. What did I dream of? You guessed it, regionals (and Jolie Gentry was driving around looking for waterfalls with me!). Even though I am wiped out and sore, I am desperately missing the gym. I miss my friends and I miss working out there. I can't wait to get back into CFV and lift some heavy stuff. Regionals is in 53 days and will be more brutal and intense than Sectionals, but all I can think right now is, BRING IT ON!

A Year Later

2010-02-22T19:34:00.000-08:00

OGs --My original crossfit family! I love you all at CFV!
(L to R: Mitch, Kat, Martha, Colin, Jenna, Benny, Matt L. me, Brandon)

Level 1 Cert., February 2010, Matt M., Faith, Corey and Jaala learning from the best!

CFV Affiliate Challenge, October 2009

The ladies of CFV (L to R) Lindsay, Jeannine, Brittney, Katie, Fatih, Lisa, me

The beginning...finishing on-ramp with Alex M (February 2009).

In the End...

In the end, there was no after action review, no test, no evaluation, no final WOD. Instead, there were hugs, great people, and a bold statement that will always stick with me. As our Level 1 Crossfit Trainer Certification came to an end, Todd (one of the instructors) said, "Now go out and change the world." Nobody laughed. Every body's eyes gave their hearts away; we believed we could.

Flashback to exactly a year before that moment when Todd told us to change the world...

...It was my first workout at Crossfit Ventura. I had come to crossfit with a lingering injury; a torn rotator cuff from years before that had never healed. In addition to the torn rotator cuff, I brought with me a broken heart and a broken spirit. I was going through a tough time in my marriage and had just had a miscarriage. In addition to being out of shape physically, I was out of shape mentally. I arrived the day after completing my "on ramp" (introductory course) to crossfit scared and insecure about what may come up in my first workout. It turns out I came on our first ever "benchmark make-up day." My choices were Helen, filthy fifty, and 5k run. Still babying my body and mind, I chose 5k run. It was a strength of mine and I didn't quite get the idea of crossfit yet (to attack weaknesses in order to be good at everything).

Although I did great on the 5k, I don't really remember the details of the run itself. What I do remember is all of the people that were there helping me along and joking with me to make me feel at home...Upon finishing the 5k, I remember everyone who had done Helen waiting at the end and cheering loudly for me and the other runners. I remember Dave, still hungover from his bachelor party the night before, doing the filthy fifty (it was a choice!) through sweat and pain. I remember Mitch high-fiving me and Jenna and Jenny giving me big hugs. I remember Huff jumping up and down and yelling with a huge smile on his face. I remember thinking how badass Katie Bann was after hearing about her huge PR on Helen and how sweet of a person Faith was as she cheered on everyone while PR'ing on the filthy fifty (at the same time). I remember doing the humpty dance with Jeannine. I remember telling Colin that he had beat CJ on the board to grab the #1 Helen spot (I later found out that CJ is Colin, duh). That morning, I realized that I was not only joining a gym, but a community of awesome people. Crossfit couldn't have arrived in my life at a better time.

Come July, my old self was emerging again. I was competitive, confident, and my shoulder was feeling better every day. That month, after I attended the 2009 crossfit games, my goals concerning crossfit shifted. Now I wasn't just doing crossfit to get my life back in order, Crossfit had become my sport; I was doing it with competition in mind. Each day I worked out after the crossfit games, I envisioned myself as a participant at those games one day. I had gone from being worried about my shoulder and insecure about lifting weight to attacking my weaknesses and killing workouts where my strengths were involved. I was eating strict paleo, getting PRs regularly, and loving the sheer exhaustion I felt at the end of each workout. I couldn't get enough. Crossfit had made me into an athlete again.

But...Just as I was hitting my stride...life changed again. Early in the fall, after I had an amazing experience at my first ever crossfit competition, my husband and I filed for divorce. My diet fell apart and loneliness crept in. Promptly, I moved out of my old life and into a new, very challenging one. I found a roommate, a second job, and lost virtually all of my free time.

But the thing that remained constant was crossfit.

Feeling low, I could come in to crossfit any day and get encouragement, hugs, and my ass kicked (in a good way). Each day I left crossfit I knew that regardless of what my goals were or how my life was going I had found a group of friends that would always be there to lift me up.

As time wore on, I realized that the best thing I had gotten from crossfit, hands down, was a wonderful community. After the workouts are over and the paleo foods are eaten, it's the people that make crossfit great; it's the people that heal broken bodies and hearts and crossfit is the bridge that brings these people together. As I made my way back to normalcy, it occured to me that being a crossfit coach, and helping guide all of my friends and members of the crossfit community to better lives would complete the healing process for me and enrich my own life for years to come. Late in the fall, I decided that it was time to pay back all of the people who had supported me; I would become a crossfit coach.

So, a year after my first ever crossfit workout, I found myself among the great crossfitters, Pat Barber, Jolie Gentry, Jason Kalipha, and Josh Everett, studying the fundamentals of crossfit. I found myself learning from the best crosfitters, how to be the best coach. And, to top it all off, besides learning coaching skills from the best, the best were coaching me! I was lucky enough to have those crossfit legends teaching me how to do muscle-ups. Muscle-ups! A year before this weekend I could barely even hang on the pull-up bar without my shoulder feeling extremely painful. On Sunday afternoon however, I practiced this gymnastics move with the most famous crossfit eyes focused on me, willing me to get on top of those rings and lock my arms out. Unfortunately, I attempted about ten muscle ups and failed at every one. But remember when I said that in life, "close is more than enough?"

This is true for those missed muscle-ups as well.

Each muscle-up that I missed, another famous crossfitter or instructor approached me and gave me advice. Kalipha told me to get more aggressive. Jolie showed me how to keep my arms in tight, and gave me tape for my wrists. Todd said, "trace your sternum and pretend like you are elbowing someone behind you." Pat proclaimed, "just do it, you are strong enough, just DO IT!" Others looked on and cheered. Every time I missed one, people gave me more advice and assured me that I was so, so, SO close. With all of that support and encouragement, I felt like I got a muscle-up anyway. The fact that I missed does not weigh heavy on my mind, because in the process of missing so many times, my crossfit community grew.

Alas, in the end, why did we (the coaches in training) all believe that we could change the world when Todd suggested this bold action? I think we all felt this way because of the inspiring people who surrounded us. In the end, we all believed we could do anything because we were a part of this amazing network of strong, healthy, intelligent people; crossfitters.

So to all of my people in the crossfit universe...thanks for a wonderful first year! Lets continue to change the world, one crossfitter at a time.

Gearing up for Sectionals: The OPT Challenge

2010-01-25T12:07:00.000-08:00

I was happy because I was done with 50 chest to bar pull-ups and 50 burpees; I wasn't smiling as I tried to take a shower an hour later (top). The workouts and our results (bottom).

Gearing up for Sectionals

Competition has paid me a visit and I can't shake it. At night I wake up after falling from the rings in my dreams, doing muscle-ups like they were nothing. Videos of crossfit women, games competitors, Olympic lifters, and badass athletes stream on my MAC for inspiration. My toolbar bookmarks are crossfit affiliates, Robb Wolf, crossfit blogs, world news, crossfit games, and the Daily Show (gotta have some humor). My goals are taped to the wall by my door so I can physically see them each morning. Today, the countdown on my calendar is at 47 days until sectionals. It is almost too much time to wait, yet I want more time to get stronger before I see Drake Stadium.

Saturday was a good test as I gear up for Sectionals. Come high noon at Crossfit Ventura, six local crossfitters, Colin Jenkins, Matt Major, Traver Boehm, Craig Wobig, Mindith Rahmat, and I competed in the "OPT" James Fitzgerald Online Challenge. James Fitzgerald, winner of the inaugural crossfit games and a super-cool Canadian chap, programmed the workouts. This was the third "challenge" in a series of (3-4). We were to complete 3 workouts, programmed by OPT, within a five hour time limit, submit videos of ourselves completing the workouts to his website for review, and then wait to be compared to other crossfitters from all over the US and Canada.

The day went better than I thought it would. The first event was 3 attempts at 15 reps of the maximum weight that you could do for overhead squats. The standard for women was 65% of body weight. For me that standard would be 80#. Being as I had never done any lift at 15 reps before, it was hard to gauge where to start. I ended up succeeding at 60# on my third attempt. In the wide spectrum of things, strength is my biggest weakness and compared to other women this is not an impressive number. However, only about seven months ago I was using a PVC pipe with 5 pounds hanging from it for overhead squats. Thus, I am stoked about 60#.

Post-lifting, the day got interesting. The next event was the following: Complete a 2000 meter row and do as many double unders as possible in 10 minutes. The standard for women was 8:00 on the row. My previous best time was 8:02.9. For this event I focused as best I could on keeping a good pace and attempting to meet the standard. For those of you that don't know, I think crossfit HQ guy, Tony Budding, said it best when describing the rower: "this is a machine that is very effective in absolutely wrecking human beings." With 500 meters left to row, I could hear this refrain in my mind (too much crossfit games t.v.!). Closing my eyes, I pulled, grunted, and SCREAMED my way to the end of 2k. I finished at 7:51.5. But I wasn't done. I half-crawled and limped to my rope and somehow completed 55 double-unders before 10 minutes had expired. Ouch.

An hour later, Mindith and I started the last event: 50 chest to bar pull-ups and 50 burpees as fast as possible. This workout terrified me. The last time I did a pull-up workout was not pretty. 100 regular kipping pull-ups (just chin over the bar) for time took me 12:30; I can still remember how much that workout destroyed me mentally. The women's standard for this workout was 8 minutes. My goal was to complete it in under 20 minutes. Before the clock started, I warmed up with 3 chest to bar pull-ups. It was hard. The clock started. Somehow though, through blood, bruised chests, and screams, Mindith and I pull-upped and burpeed our way to sub-8 minute times. Mindith did her final burpee around 7:10, and, thank God for everyone counting, I completed the workout at 7:39.

Just six weeks away from sectionals and I am already visualizing myself doing MY best at Drake Stadium. Saturday gave me a little confidence. The weekend made me believe that I may have a chance to make Regionals if I give it my all at UCLA. But there is still so much work to be done. Each day I will try to lift more, use better form, and be a better version of me. Sectionals, here I come!

I'll be the Judge of That!

2010-01-18T15:15:00.000-08:00

I am not usually the type that judges people all day, but this weekend that was my task. Judging did not entail what to, or not to wear, although there was quite a bit of fashion to be had; what I was responsible for was counting reps and making sure athletes who were competing in the Crossfit Ventura affiliate team challenge were adhering to standards.

Although I was a little disappointed to not be participating as an athlete, I was looking forward to seeing my friends compete. But with the responsibility of judging came nervousness and anxiousness; I didn't want to be too serious and make anyone feel jilted. Contrary to what I predicted, I was quickly reminded of why I love coaching/ being on the spectator side of a competition so much.

"Judging" gradually deteriorated into an encounter with heart, humor (bunches!), and humanity. As the day progressed, my nervousness faded to excitement and at the onset of each event I began to think how fun it was to, for once, not be competing. By the end of the day I was having such a spectacular time that I told a fellow crossfitter that if we ever had a competition like this again, "I'd be the judge of that!"

Some favorite memories:
Ben's national anthem...CRAP...take two.
Team Shenanigans and their uniforms. Well played Shenanigans!
The red shorts. Thanks Crossley.
Team handstands. Colin judging the handstands. Enough said.
Team muscles ups. Great job CPC; I don't think I have ever laughed as hard as when I saw Kate being thrown into the air by Fielding and Baker...until I saw Hogans in the helmet!
Hogans' helmet.
The camaraderie and cheering.
Paradiso's team name: "Clock Blockers." Brilliant.
Dogs wrestling.
Seeing old friends (shout out to Stephanie and Lynette!).
Amber's adorable children.
BJ's Brewery with CFV and the pzookie.

Thanks for putting on another awesome event CFV!

Open Mic

2010-01-07T16:37:00.001-08:00

Open microphone (mic) night at the local coffee shop may be worse to experience than karaoke with drunken strangers. But, alas, here I go subjecting you to my own open mic. I know it is a little new age and eccentric, but writing poetry is a little chocolate for my consciousness. Endure. Enjoy.

In a Breath

Inhale…

It is still winter.

The sun dips low beyond the horizon and falls off into the opaque grayness of the Pacific Ocean.

I rush to catch it, but miss once again knowing that night is creeping in.

Darkness feeds my cynicism and sneaks into my heart.

Still as the great white before the feast, I scan the blackness for an opening.

Where can I run to and hide?

Who will show me the way?

Which way am I going?

Clambering for help, I reach for a shred of light.

Fingertips extended, hoping for a break from confusion and longing

I see it

A glittering sliver of shimmer in the distance

Rushing now, breath shortening, legs tiring

Reaching exhaustion

Anticipation mounting

It is here

I touch silvery salvation

Is it a hiding place?

Is it morning?

Is it light?

Is it someone to help?

Clear, smooth, forgiving, but also reflective and knowing…

It is…

a mirror.

It is me.

Exhale.

The Coming of the Games

2010-01-02T22:04:00.000-08:00

Crossfit Ventura crew with CrossFit founder Caoch Greg Galssman
(L to R: Jaala, Brandon Brooks, Coach Glassman, Matt Major, Faith Reynado, Colin Jenkins, Bill Huffman)

The Coming of the Games

In July of 2009, I, along with many of my friends from crossfit Ventura, attended the Crossfit Games in Aromas, California. On the dusty hill where the events took place, we witnessed amazing feats of athleticism, strength, determination, and heart. Seeing mothers dead lift over 350 pounds, women who have survived cancer sprint through the hills with sandbags on their shoulders and drive stakes into the ground with sledgehammer in hand and fiery vigor in their eyes, men put weight over their heads far exceeding what they weigh themselves, and all of the competitors doing event after event in extreme heat only to get personal bests on lifts in the end--was amazing. Coming away from the games with anything but a feeling of inspiration was impossible; after seeing what those athletes were capable of, I got a glimmer of hope in my mind that one day I would compete as well.

Almost seven months later, here I am preparing for the first test to see if I have what it takes to make it to the games (Sectionals, March 13/14 at UCLA). Although it is a long shot, although I am not as big, strong, or fast as many of the women who have competed in past games, I am still going for it. Although it seems crazy to put my body through the training necessary to be successful, I am going for it. Although it may be uncomfortable to train alone, to eat clean most of the time, and to be so focused on this goal, I am going for it.

With all of these factors stacked against me, what is it that draws me to compete in the games?

Quite simply, it is the feeling I get each day I do crossfit. I love the competitive spirit it has revived in me; a spirit that I have been missing since my swimming days. Being a crossfitter for the past ten months has transformed me as a person; I now feel as though no goal is out of my reach (crossfit AND life in general) and to shoot for something as high and lofty as the crossfit games, although failure is almost eminent, makes my heart race. And though I may not achieve that which I set out to do, ultimately I will achieve many things along the way which will make me a better crossfitter and person anyway. I am excited to see what happens...

So, when the games arrive in July of 2010 I will be there. Whether I am a competitor or as a spectator, the coming of the games will be spectacular once again!

Friends and Family

2009-12-26T11:06:00.000-08:00

Friends and Family

I love the holidays.

Although the holidays we celebrate are specific in their own right and culturally relative, no matter which holiday it is, I love that these days and weeks are a time to remember that which we are thankful for; that which we live for.

First, I am thankful for my family.
I am thankful that my mother brought me into this world and continually buys me chocolate even though I am trying not to eat it.
I am thankful for my father and stepmother Cheril. They know, fundamentally, who I am and never waiver in supporting my decisions and dreams no matter what they may be.
I am thankful for my brother and Aubrey being real with me, but I miss Timmy farting bare-butted in my face.
I am thankful for my sister. Melissa makes me laugh almost everyday, she also knows what I feel and feels it too.
I am thankful for Grandpa Leon being his amazing, athletic, and old (he'll be 98 in March!), wise self.

I am thankful for my friends.
I am thankful for Julie being me friend since I was a kid and, even though she has known my crazy ass for over 20 years, she is still my friend!
I am thankful for Cara. She is my heart turned inside out.
I am thankful for Rob. I have become a better and more responsible person since I have known him. I look up to him and hope that someday I am as wise as he is.
I am thankful for Traver, Eric, and River. Without them, I wouldn't understand that the zombie apocalypse is something I must prepare for, and that watching football on Sundays is integral in relaxation.
I am thankful for Aron explaining the difference between Chicago and the Beegees although I still can't see it.
I am thankful for the Crossfit Ventura community. You ALL have brought me back to life; each day I am inspired and in awe at what you all accomplish.
I am thankful for Nick and Melanie for supporting me and being my surrogate family when I have been misplaced. I am also thankful that Melanie and I are the same size, have the same daily uniform (jeans, tank top and zip-up sweatshirts) and can freely exchange clothes. I am also thankful for what Nick said earlier today:
"When I get sad, I stop being sad and be awesome instead."

Without my family and friends I would not be who I am. Without you, life wouldn't be so sweet.
Thank you for being in my life and happy holidays!

What are you thankful for?

I am from

2009-11-21T22:55:00.000-08:00

Jaala weaving during Peace Corps Micronesia's swearing-in ceremony, 2003

Of Yesterday...

Sifting through my belongings as I move into the future, I have had the curious opportunity to revisit my past. Last night, as I dipped my hands into Peace Corps memories, I found this gem. Written on September 11, 2003, it was noted on the crumpled piece of paper that this poem occupied:

"Dedicated to Micro 70s: as we adapt to a new culture, do not forget where we came from."

I read this aloud to all of the trainees in Peace Corps Micronesia two years after the 9/11 tragedy and over a year and a half after I had moved away from the United States to become a Peace Corps volunteer. So without further adieu...

I am from

I am from...
a humble beginning and a complex past,
a deep green blanket of trees
where the rain pours non-stop
and umbrellas are a mosaic in the sky.

I am from...
skinned knees and freeze tag,
bike crashes and pickle ball;
Garbage Pail Kids and baseball with the boys,
wishing I was one of the boys
and struggling to emerge as a woman.

I am from...
late night dancing
with flowers pinned to lapels
and corsages on wrists;
fancy dresses and butterflies
lingering on and on
until that first kiss.

I am from...
millions of miles back and forth, back and forth,
frothy foam in my face,
swimming away from it all
tears filling my goggles
pain telling me I'm alive.

I am from...
The Sound of Music,
Chopin channeled through my mother into my heart,
jazz weeping from my fingertips,
rhythm and blues repeating every one's story,
Billy Holiday blaring on the record player;
her pain, ours in another time.

I am from...
a mixed family
a mixed-up family
a strong family
a strongly opinionated family
my family.

I am from...
decades of strong women,
rice and beans, sopapillas,
salsa dancing, hair braiding,
curls and koolaid.

I am from...
Lakota, Illahee, Sacajawea
Snohomish, Puyallup, Issaquah
and all of the other natives that time forgot.

I am from...
Democratic, capitalistic
corporate, religious, political
FREEDOM
a mess of meditations, a maze of signs
and symbols being held in protest;
a beautiful traffic jam of ideas.

I am from...
nervousness and anticipation,
opportunity and experience;
a new world.

I am from...
a solitary dream
that turned out to be more

I am from America.

Without Winter

2009-11-12T23:52:00.001-08:00

Without winter

Without winter, how would we ever know that there is a summer?

Without cool, crisp, clear starry-skied nights, how would we remember that soon enough, the night will be shorter and comfortable, that there will be campfires, sand between our toes and short shorts to be worn?

If we didn't partake in hot cocoa in November, how would we realize that in a few short months we will be pounding iced chai after a strenuous beach day?

Without snow angels, traipsing through the mountains on a long snow-shoe hike with friends, skiing at Mammoth, and cuddling by the fire, would we understand that paddling, bikinis, basking in the sun, and back country hikes were just around the corner?

If never a toe was cold, never a cheek rosy, boots weren't wet, and winter was not stubborn, would we still appreciate the sand cradling our bodies while the California sun tans our faces?

Although winter is my least favorite season, I am fortunate for its existence because, without winter, I would never know how much I love summer. Enduring winter to experience the beauty of summer and to fall in love with the season anew each year makes my stomach flip. However, lately, I have had to remind myself that winter will indeed end. Recently, as winter has slowly descended on Santa Barbara, it has also wiggled its way into my personal life.

I realized winter's oppressive presence just a few days ago while sipping my warm chai latte. Not only was I freezing, but I was also overly melancholy that morning. The night previous, I nonchalantly told a friend that my life was "hard" lately. Expecting sympathy and questions of inquiry, comforting words and advice, my friend offered me a reality check. He said, simply, "How is your life hard?"

At first I was angry. How could he not understand that my life is hard right now? Was he insensitive, clueless even? But then, as I twisted that question around in my head and began to reflect on my seemingly hard life, I realized I was not giving reality due credit. So, I took a knee (metaphorically speaking) and asked myself that same question, how is your life hard right now? I promised myself I would answer clearly and honestly. This was my response.

Asking how my life has been hard really made me think about whether it is truly hard or not. The answer to that one would be a resounding no, it isn't really hard. It is not hard for many reason that I shall, from this second forward, remember each day I wake.

I am not poor.

Unlike almost half of the world I do not struggle each day to find food; I am not starving or malnourished, I have electricity and plumbing. I have a warm home and a place to sleep and think.

I am not unemployed.

In fact, I am lucky enough to have two jobs. When 12% of Americans are unemployed, I wake up each day with the awesome responsibility of teaching language to our future citizens and leaders. At one of the most beautiful city college campuses in the United States, I interact with students from all over the world, make friends, drink chai lattes, and bask in the sunshine. Hugs abound. Smiles are common. In addition to teaching, I also get to serve food at a family-owned restaurant and meet all kinds of interesting people each night. I am humbled by the mopping of floors and the cleaning of toilets; I know that hard work will make me stronger and I am fortunate that I am able to do it.

I am not sick.

I have no chronic illnesses; I haven't had a cold or the flu for as long as I can remember. I do not need any prescription drugs or painkillers. I go to the dentist and eye doctor regularly and can afford it because I am lucky enough to have good health insurance.

I have loyal and supportive friends and I am in physically awesome shape.

The community that surrounds me lifts me up when I am low; they encourage me through hard times, feed me, educate me, and reason with me.

I eat clean food and breathe clean air.

Living in California I have access to fresh produce all year. The air is sweet and unpolluted, the food tasty and local. The farmers are friendly and generous.

I can volunteer.

Although life is busy, I volunteer with three wonderful groups. I travel the world teaching non-violent conflict resolution, build community in Santa Barbara through service with like-minded women, and design teacher-training workshops for local ESL teachers.

I have a million options as far as what I can do with my life. I am free to choose, free to live, free to move.

I realize these things each day and take the following as a grain of salt…

What my life IS right now is tiring, conflicting, WIDE OPEN and sometimes lonely. In addition to the aforementioned, I am going through a divorce. Although the end of my marriage is a choice and it is what I want, it is still difficult and a bit heart wrenching to go through the process. There is no way to quantify how difficult it is; suffice to say it is difficult. Dismantling the last five years of my existence and salvaging what remains of an integral relationship that will always be a part of me, is an exploration of rock bottom.

But without hard times, how would I ever know that good times will follow?

So I take each day as it comes with the knowledge that although winter has hit hard and strong, all at once, summer will soon be here. Loneliness will fade and the hardness will soften. One day I will wake up, a new person like all of the days before, but this time, summer will have arrived.

Two Months and Crazy

2009-10-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

Two Months and Crazy

I must admit, I have gone a little crazy.

It has been over two months (almost three) that I have been eating Paleo and strange things continue to happen; new behaviors continue to emerge.

When I originally decided to eat like this (meat, fish, nuts, seeds, fruits and veggies only), I thought that it would be a neat experiment for a month. However, my life quickly changed (see previous post) and I have continued on this trajectory for much longer than I intended because it works for me.

First, my progression as an athlete has not halted. Although I have now lost about 13 pounds, my strength continues to increase. For example, I have improved 32 pounds on my thruster in the last four months (now my PR is 100#). The 34 second drop on my 5k since the last time I ran it at crossfit in April is also notable (now my PR is 20:26). My deadlift continues to increase (5 rep max has gone up 15 pounds to 190#).

Second, although I did SUPER strict Paleo for the first 30 days, I have surprisingly allowed myself to cheat once in a while. Take for example the day I ate ten chocolate chip cookies at Crossfit Ventura. Or the time I put almost half a stick of butter on a tiny piece of bread. And the night I bought two gourmet cupcakes, asked for extra frosting, then ate both of the cupcakes (along with the frosting) in my car on the way home. Or the afternoon I ate half a pack of gum...oh yes, I do mean EAT! I tend to swallow gum accidentally and the excitement that engulfed me upon ingesting so much sugar via gum caused many mis-chews.

And now to the strange...
I get monster headaches after eating any amount of sugar, so when I eat sugar I go BIG. The headache isn't going to hurt less if I eat less (I have experimented, trust me).

Dizziness overcomes me when I drink caffeine. I have found that this has not cured my addiction to soy chai lattes though. I have remedied this by taking the time to practice handstands and forward rolls after ingesting caffeine. These things make me dizzy independent of caffeine, so it goes along with the same concept as the sugar and headaches...I am already dizzy so why not get as dizzy as possible?

My eyes get blurry when I go off Paleo. I know I will not be able to see as well if I do ingest artificial sugar or complex carbohydrates, so I tend to indulge in sugar-laden luxuries in safe environments like moving cars (of which I am driving).

I once ate an entire jar of almond butter in a 24 hour period and promptly could not swallow for almost another 24 hours.

So folks, I am still doing Paleo and it still rocks. If you were wondering :).

The View From The Cave

2009-09-07T20:50:00.000-07:00

The Revelation

About two months ago, I heard a low murmur run through my gym about a diet challenge. Friends were talking about trying to eat like cave men and women for 30 days. Quickly, I decided that I would not participate. I figured my diet was near perfect anyway. I was eating in the zone, consuming all natural, organic foods, I ingested a good portion of grains and soy products and I barely ate red meat. According to the United States Food and Drug Administration I had an exemplary diet. I laughed and shrugged them off.

As the challenge approached though, I was caving. By the time my pals were about to start eating in the Garden of Eden (i.e. consuming only fruits and vegetables, meat, fowl and fish, and nuts and seeds), I had read a couple of books on the subject (Dr. Gundry's Diet Evolution by: Steven R. Gundry and Paleo Diet by Loren Cordain) and browsed some interesting websites (http://www.byersgetsdiesel.com/, http://www.earth360.com/diet_paleodiet_balzer.html , http://www.marksdailyapple.com/, http://robbwolf.com/).

Upon review of these books, websites, and consideration of many other scholarly opinions, I came to the conclusion that the food I had been so confidently consuming would eventually end my life prematurely. Besides, hunting mastodons and out-sprinting saber-toothed tigers sounded fun. I needed to join my ancestors and fellow crossfitters in the cave.

Those Who Came Before Us

Before I begin to tell you about my month eating a Paleolithic (aka Paleo) style diet, let me first explain the reasoning behind this idea. Our Paleolithic ancestors (from millions of years ago) ate whole, natural foods and animals. Modern diseases like cancer, arthritis, diabetes, and all other inflammatory ailments were non-existent. Those at the base of our family tree got all of the vitamins and nourishment they needed from these unrefined forms of food. Cave men and women did not eat things like grains (sorghum), beans (including peanuts), and potatoes because they didn't know how to cook them; in their raw state these foods were poisonous.

Then, 10,000 year ago at the advent of the Neolithic Age, people figured out how to cook these foods; caloric intake doubled and the glycemic load (sugar levels) of their diets sky-rocketed. They discovered that cooking these once poisonous foods removed most of the toxins, but what they weren't aware of was the fact that the alteration of other characteristics, including the degradation of nutrients and enhancement of sugar, was also a side effect of heating these foods. Regardless, the people of the caves loved these foods because they could store them in their raw state for long periods of time and cook them when needed; those foods also provided quick energy when ingested. Our species was hooked.

Jump to modern day. Today, grains and refined sugars make up a large portion of our diet. These grains and sugars stimulate insulin production in our bodies and we crave more. We eat more. Excess sugar in our bodies stimulates cell growth. We eat more. Our joints become inflamed. We eat more. We develop bad inflammatory diseases. Drug companies profit from all of the ailments caused by our superfluous sugar consumption. They advertise drugs to help us feel better. We take them with our morning bagel and sugary coffee. We continue to eat more.

We are eating ourselves to an early grave.

The Experiment

I decided I would stop ruining my life with food. I would join my gym friends and eat Paleo for 30 days. My body would be a test tube. I would not stray. I would swing from vine to vine and spear some fish. To my surprise, quickly my world was rocked.

It started after only a week or so when I noticed that I didn't feel full, tired, or sluggish after meals. Then, during the second week of my clean-eating experiment, one of my friends complimented on my glowing skin and vibrant teeth. As time went on, it became obvious that I had gotten stronger (I was doing strict negative pull-ups weighted!) and faster (my 1000-meter row time went from 4:00 minutes to 3:46). Eventually I realized that I hadn't had a headache for 16 days. Excitement was setting in; I was very enthusiastic about Paleo. Then I noticed my eyesight had been blurry for a week.

The day before I started eating Paleo I went to my yearly check-up at the eye doctor. He measured my eyes, looked around my ocular cavity and determined that my prescription was basically the same as the previous year. That was good news since my eyes had gotten about .25 worse every year since I was twelve years old. Thus, it came as a shock when, only three weeks later, double vision consumed me. I changed my contacts thinking they were merely dirty. After I had gone through three new pairs in just a few days, I called the eye doctor. We made an appointment for another check-up the next week.

I stumbled into the eye doctor's office a few days later (almost 20 days into my Paleo challenge). Describing the symptoms to my doctor, I also threw in the fact that I had removed all refined foods, sugars, salts, etc. from my diet. Time went by as the doctor experimented with different lenses and looked into my eyes.

Suddenly, the doctor blurted out,

"Your eyesight has improved .25 in each eye…this is amazing."

He told me that the inflammation in my eyes, which had been getting progressively worse for 18 years, had actually reversed. In three short weeks my vision had improved. The doctor speculated that it was due to my diet.

Saved

Now, here I sit today, finished with my Paleo challenge.

Besides my vision improving, here is what else has happened in 30 days:

I have lost 7 pounds (I wasn't big to start with; from 128 to 121).

My body fat percentage has gone down 5% (18 to 13).

My back squat went up 20 pounds (115-135).

I snatched and squatted weight overhead for the first time (53#).

I can discuss the glycemic index of most foods.

My kipping pull-up total went from 13-20.

I dropped 7 seconds on my 800 meter run (2:46-2:39).

I know the difference between the Paleolithic Era and the Neolithic Age.

My body temperature has gone down a degree (97.5 degrees Fahrenheit).

I have fallen in love with raw, unsalted, crunchy almond butter.

Although my body still craves sugar, and grains (I had been eating those foods for 30 years!), I will now only stray occasionally. I like my new way of life and will continue to eat cleanly until I die a death not related to what I put into my mouth. The view from the cave is good.