The Long Way Home: Part I

Sometimes I feel like an immigrant in my own native America. I use an extra "u" in "humour" and "neighbour" and only realize the error of my ways when Word makes an angry, red squiggle line.

I answer in Celsius when someone asks the temperature, just to be shot a disappointed look.

I say, "eh," at the end of a statement and am predictably and mercilessly mocked for it.

I crave poutine after a solid Saturday night on the town and settle with a sigh for ordinary fries.

For all intents and purposes, I make a half-decent Canadian, but alas, I left before swearing oath to Queen and Country.

It wasn't so long ago I was struggling to spell like they do, tell temperature like they do and make proper use of their sing-song affirmation at the end of a sentence.

"Did I get it right this time, eh?"

I even warmed to watching ice hockey...for fun.

Seven winters. That's how I count my time in Canada. So my chronology is a little macabre, but for 26 years my blood ran warm in the mild Fahrenheit temperatures of Oklahoma. Not even a puffy Canada Goose down, fur-lined jacket could stem my disdain for a season that seemed to drag on out of spite.

When I explained to an American customs agent that I was entering the border to stay this time, she greeted me with an enthusiastic "welcome home!" but my heart was betwixt. Home, I realized in an instant, was just a backwards glance over my shoulder. What lay ahead was something I loved, but barely recognized.


To be continued...

POTUS takes a potshot at Americans

President Barack Obama's staff took to his official Twitter account Friday evening to remind "severe conservatives" that despite the Supreme Court challenge to the Affordable Healthcare Act, Obamacare is here to stay.

The reaction to the President's message was met with both favour and fury, with one Twitter user describing the tweet as giving "the presidential finger."

It just all felt so very...un-presidential. 

With the annual Conservative Political Action Conference underway in Washington, one of the largest gatherings for conservative politicos in the States, the timing of the tweet seemed targeted at killing the Republican revival buzz.

The President is no stranger to social media, and was successful at using it as part of his strategy to mobilize support among the younger voting base in both the 2008 and 2012 elections. It's the perfect platform for rapidly spreading clever partisan ideas. With over 28 million followers, Team Obama owns Twitter and uses it effectively. But as we saw on Friday, sometimes they can act like real trolls.

The President's tweet was aimed at "severe conservatives trying to roll back progress," but who are they? 

According to recent Rasmussen polling, 48% of Americans disapprove of Obamacare, with only 45% in favour of the reforms. 

Obama is a loving leader to the less than half of Americans that agree with his healthcare policy. The other half become the butt of his vindictive Twitter jokes. 

With divide and conquer politics such as this, you can sympathize with the citizens of nearly 20 states that have petitioned to secede from the Union in a desperate attempt to have their frustrations with the White House heard. 

Posting snarky social media messages is a nani-nani-boo-boo brand of leadership you might expect from an insecure authoritarian, not the leader of the Free World. 

In the firestorm of comments that followed the President's tweet, I half-expected a retraction or an admission that perhaps the tweet was dismissive to those that respect the Office of the President, but don't always agree with its politics. How naive. Apologies aren't for those that hold a second and final term. 

And hey, the graphic paired with the tweet looked slick. So get on board, America. This is the new progressive. 

Of montages and mothers

When the television network I work for put out a call to staff to send in photos of their moms to air as a tribute on Mother's Day, I didn't realize how difficult such a simple task would be. I had one print photo from my graduation day and that was about it.

I franticly emailed a few friends and family members to see if they had any on stock. The fact that I even had to do that depressed me greatly. I had plenty of photos taken with my dad and brothers and sisters, but hardly any with my mom. I resolved in that moment to take more pictures with my mother while I'm still blessed to have her on this earth.

Perhaps I sound a touch on the melodramatic side, but living so far from home for the last several years, pictures with family mean more to me than they ever have before. I need something to hold onto that affirms, "yes, we're family and we've shared memories together."

Luckily, my dad came through and sent me a low resolution photo taken from his iPhone.

This photograph represents one of the proudest days of my life (and one of the coldest nights in Canada I can remember). The documentary I had poured my heart and soul and sanity into for the last several months was making its premier in Calgary. I told my parents how much it would mean to have them there for such an important day.

I knew it was a long shot. It was sort of last minute and it was the middle of the week during the school year. Someone would have to watch my younger siblings. The flight from Oklahoma City to Calgary would be expensive, but they didn't even blink. Despite the fact that my mom is an organized planner still on mom-watch and absolutely abhors cold temperatures, she said she wouldn't miss it for the world.

And I needed her there. I was so nervous at something so personal being displayed on a massive theatre screen before several hundred strangers. With dad on my left and mom on my right, I held my mother's hand in a sweaty death grip. She squeezed back just as fierce.

I watched her watching the film. She cried at the parts I had cried at, laughed at the scenes I had laughed at in post-production, and smiled the proudest smile I've ever seen her smile over me. Yes, I needed her there desperately.

As the oldest of seven kids, it's easy to get lost in the sea of activities and accomplishments of my other siblings. Growing up, I felt I didn't have her approval on much, and over the years our relationship has been fraught with a sometimes tense dynamic.

When she was 19 years old, she married my dad and inherited me and my brother from his previous marriage. When I was 8 years old, she made the tremendously symbolic and important gesture of adopting me, and even then my insecurity failed me constantly as I doubted her love and acceptance of me as one of her own.

She sacrificed much to raise me and my brother at the time. Her youth, time alone with a new husband, and even her career. When she met my dad, she was enrolled in television broadcasting at a local college. I still find it funny that I ended up on the same path she wasn't able to finish so many years ago.

More than anything, I wish I could be home celebrating this Mother's Day with her. She likes the simple things on days like this. To be surrounded by her children in church, for her family to be at peace with each other and not bickering like we often do, and rest from her household chores.

That's why the small gesture of honoring her in my own small way was so important. I wanted the world to know that my lack of Kodak moments with her is not a reflection of my love and admiration for her. That I am a success because of her love for me. And while my mom may not have given birth to me, she has certainly given me life. No television montage on Mother's Day will ever be enough to honour that sacred gift.

So many years later, Mom finally makes her national television debut.

The People in the Arena

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

— Theodore Roosevelt

And this is why I have all the time in the world for those brave enough to make an informed opinion without fear of reprisal. Long live editorialized news.

The Miss Saigons of Dufferin Mall

I was determined to not go back if I could help it. The last time I was at that cheap nail salon I left in a rage and threatened to call the Better Business Bureau. I remember my dad using that threat on sleazy salesmen growing up and thought it might work on the nail artists who charged me extra for a pedicure because I refused to pay in cash.

Alas, their late business hours, convenience to my house, and competitive prices sent me crawling back in shame with my nail fashion emergency.

You know the place. Where everyone's name is "Tammi" and they call you "honey" and double-check five times to make sure you don't want bio-gel on your nails even though you've politely declined seven times. The kind of place littered with decaying fashion magazines and scrupulous disinfecting habits, where they twitter about in their native Asian tongue, doing half-ass jobs on a foot massage, but you still love it because it's the most attention your poor feet have received in months.

A calendar hung on the wall with a Vietnamese woman dressed as Miss Saigon. A tacky reminder of home, I thought.

I was soaking my nails in polish remover when I received a phone call I had to take from work. I needed my television host to tape a quick hit and directed him and the camera man on what we needed to do. A few minutes later I received another phone call on my personal cell I had to take. "Tammi" appeared shocked I had two phones. How could anyone be so busy they needed two phones. By that time two Tammi's had joined in.

"What you do for work? Why you need so many phone?" they demanded.

I explained the television news business doesn't stop, especially for a producer, and why it's important to separate business from work, even if it's placebic in its desired effect. By now I was surrounded by three small Vietnamese women curious about the television industry and mistaking me for some kind of hot shot.

In their very broken English, they asked me about the news of the day, what I thought about Obama, Middle East tensions, and pop culture all the while my nails were receiving a top coat. Only half the time did I understand what they were saying, but it felt like we were having some kind of cultural breakthrough and the sins of the past were forgotten on both our parts.

One woman in particular seemed to appreciate how demanding my job could be and then stunned me with a sincere question.

"You think our job hard?" she asked. What she was really asking is if I thought my job was more important than theirs.

My mind raced through a decade of cheap nail salon experiences and the storage shed of quiet judgment I had built.

"Yes. Yes, I do," I replied.

She pushed further. "How?"

"Well, for starters," I said, "you mess with all sorts of nasty feet, hunching your back all day, listening to privileged white women drone on about their white women problems. You have to pretend to care. You have to laugh at their unfunny jokes and smile through their patronizing tones."

At this point I was sure I had lost them. But I hadn't. They laughed in surprise at how much I seemed to understand and I watched their defenses completely melt. We spoke some more about bad news going on in the world. When it was time to pay, they didn't fuss over the fact I used a debit card and they didn't over-charge me.

The oldest Tammi said, "maybe next time you tell us good news."

I immediately started to rummage through my purse, as delicately as I could (my nails were still drying from the polish), for my personal phone. There was a photo from a newspaper I had seen earlier that had melted all my work stress away, albeit briefly, and I wanted to share that photo with them in the hopes that it would set their work world right too.

They waited patiently as I impatiently waited for the wireless signal to download the photograph of a young Afghan girl, awkwardly and proudly holding a lamb in her arms. It was truly a picture of innocence.

The Tammi's crowded together to squint at my phone's small screen. They coo'd over the picture in Vietnamese. Then the oldest Tammi said in English, "she peaceful."

Yes. She peaceful indeed.

Of hearts and homes

Before I forget and not post anything for another few months, I have to describe two very different experiences I had with homeless people in Toronto recently, a city estimated to have up to 10,000 youth and adults living on the streets each night. It's a shocking statistic and while it's a reality here in Canada and sometimes even more severely abroad, I never get used to it. My face often remains stoic walking by those passed out on a subway vent with bare feet exposed, but my heart always, always twinges.

On Saturday night I sat chatting joyfully next to a friend on the subway home. I got to sleep in that day and I got to see a movie that made me laugh, cry and be inspired. Life was simple but perfect in those moments. My reverie ended when I realized the man sitting on the floor of the subway train wasn't sitting there because there weren't any seats available, but because he was so hammered and/or high he couldn't even make it to a seat.

He was friendly though and in the mood to talk to every passenger. I admit I smiled patronizingly at his alcohol-induced loquaciousness, but when he began to say things like, "I have a place to stay tonight if I want to, I just choose not to go home," my heart sank. He wanted to prove to us that he wasn't a bum of circumstances. That he was a man in control of his own life. I openly cried for him. Not out of pity, but out of an understanding heart that knows a little bit what it's like to hang so desperately onto shredding pieces of your pride.

On Sunday night I swooped into a parking spot at my local drug store with my red convertible, still hanging onto its Okie plates. A man stood by the store entrance asking for spare change. I answered honestly that I had no change, and it being night, and me being a single woman, I felt no guilt in not reaching into my purse, although I did say I was sorry I couldn't help.

He replied, "Ma'am, do not feel sorry. It's okay."

I could tell he was sober by the way he spoke to me. His eyes were clear in his polite reprimand. I was struck by his sincerity and almost believed he wouldn't use the money at the liquor store a block away.

As I left, I smiled when I passed him. He must've noticed my Oklahoma plates and my car that doesn't fit into the winter scenes here, because he yelled out laughing, "welcome to Canada!"

He made my night and I can't articulate why.

Welcome to Canada indeed. And to my new residence of Toronto. Where the roof-less are often more friendly than the 3 million covered by roofs. 

Give me liberty or...

This blog is woefully neglected. But better this blog than my life as lots of changes been happenin' over the past few months.

Friends describe me now as a woman liberated, but freedom always comes at a cost as sometimes it seems you trade in one set of chains for another.

I'm still smiling--with an authenticity--and a hope that this new path I'm forging in Canada is not for anyone else but myself.

However, if anyone else finds their life benefiting from my existence in the True North Strong and Free, well then, that's just gravy. 

America the Beautiful

It's been nearly a month since the 10th anniversary of 9/11. The World Trade Center memorial has been unveiled and the poignant speeches have all been spoken. By now, the survivors and families of victims have made the dizzying rounds on the media circuit, and with soundbites and sentiments packaged, the international networks and local news crews have packed up and left. What remains are fizzed out leftovers of American nationalism and the steady wave of NYC tourists curious about the gaping holes in the southern tip of that busy island.

I was tempted to indulge in my own mourning and remembrance of 9/11 in a sappy blog, but I didn't think I could add any more to the pundits already postulating on the significance of that day. I had some stuff to say, but I couldn't justify using 9/11 for a spike in blog readership if tagged properly.

And so 10 years and one month later, the timeliness of the news hook is delayed, but I still remember. And it still hurts. And I still can't figure out why physically being on American soil on the date of the anniversary mattered, but as it turns out, it mattered very much indeed. 

I had just flown in for a quick visit home and was tickled happy to be sitting at the table surrounded by all of six of my siblings and their significant others. These moments are rare and I relished it, and my dad's perfectly grilled steak, with sweet satisfaction. When my dad said he had an announcement to make, all eyes moved towards the head of the table. Forks clinked loudly on emptying plates and I think I may have nervously joked, "who's pregnant now?" 

Taking advantage of our presence on the eve of 9/11, Dad he said he wanted to take a vote about what to do with the American flag on our family's property. Do we do as the rest of the nation and lower it to half mast in symbolic mourning, or do we leave it up in defiance of proper protocol? 

It was unanimous. 

In honour of the nearly 3,000 victims, we voted to leave it raised, letting it fly proud and free. 

On the morning of September 11th, I attended church with my family. I was restless, and sometimes, tradition brings comfort. 

You couldn't deny the heaviness in the air and I wondered how my home pastor would tie in the anniversary of the attacks with a sermon. As much as I believe him to be a sincere man of God, I blanched at the thought of him trying to politicize such a day or manipulate our emotions for the purposes of "the Kingdom." He introduced the worship team for a special song and as they started into the old classic, "America the Beautiful," I started to bristle with my new-found Canadian cynicism. 

In the end, my humanity won out and I could help but weep at the 200-year-old hymn, turned patriotic song. Singing in solidarity with my fellow Americans in my parents' church felt right and I couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Looking down the aisle, I saw ripe tears falling on several of my family members' faces. It was visceral and healing at the same time. 

This September 11, 2011, Ground Zero found its way all across America. From the gutted out financial district of Manhattan, to the church pews of Oklahomans, who remember the violence of terror all too well themselves. 

When we came to the line in the lyrics, "thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears," my voice caught in my throat and I wondered if the writer of that old poem knew how poignant her words would one day become. How prophetic even. Because even through my wet obscurity, America had never looked more beautiful. 

The flag on my parents' property at sunset

Tippin' another sacred cow

He's adored, revered, highly sought after, and one day I'm sure he'll be enshrined as Canada's first nationally televised hipster. I even find him quite likeable most days. But today, he's ass-backwards wrong.

I'm talking about Greek media god, George Stroumboulopoulos. 

Today on CBC's website, he gave a touching eulogy on the gradual fase out of the classic Cuban car as Cuba has lifted the 50 year old ban on private car sales. Seriously. He's mourning the death of one of the symbols of Cuban communism, when the rest of freedom lovers are celebrating. 

Newsflash classic car lovers (myself included) and Mr. Strombo: there is nothing nostalgic about communism. When Castro decides to let people decide for themselves what car they want to drive, we dance in the streets, not romanticize a dictatorship. 

Cue the pitchforks as I dodge the angry village people of Strombo Land. 

Prose for the mayor of Santo Stefano di Sessiano

He asked me, in perfect Italian, to write a poem about his beloved village. I replied, in broken English and with wine on my lips, that I would. What lies beneath is the patchwork of words I started over a year and a half ago and finished tonight. I'll never be satisfied with it and I can only hope for an Italian translator to make the poem more romantic than I ever could.

Ancient Bella,

Your cracks reveal stories, not age

Seducing the stranger, demanding his fidelity

Though your bones ache from the weight of mortals past

Mother-duty shoulders in silence

Shrugging off shifting earth, the span of time

The mountains raise in buttress support

as salute to your beauty

The burghers hold your secrets,

and the watchtower waits

Curious passerby riveted by your idyllic mystery

journey through medieval maze,

morphing as they pass

Glances backward, scenes of shattered glass

Santo Stefano,

holy ground for the wandering heart, 

you remain an aching memory.

Oklahoma

“Wide open spaces, friendly faces. Subtle twangs and simple things. Southern fried, dignified. Lovin’ hard, lovin’ long. Uncomplicated, syncopated like a good ole country song.”

Some sacred cows are meant to be slain

Sun Media recently published my column on "Cuba: A Pretend Paradise."

After reading about the regime's most recent form of censorship, conducting a phone interview with someone connected to the underground in Cuba, and getting into a heated exchange with some of my own friends who believe me to be a naive embargoed American on the subject, I felt compelled to write. A certain righteous indignation led me. I felt I owed it to the 600,000 Canadians who travel there every year in blind ignorance that life is sunny on the beaches, and to the Cuban people, whose voice has been silenced.

I braced for the hate mail for having stepped on thousands of Canadians' toes. But a surprising thing (or not so surprising) happened. The comment section has been flooded with "gracias" from former Cubans who have fled, and some who still remain. 

My contact who asked to be left nameless, sent me dozens of links to my article appearing on Cuban news, blogs and websites. It would appear the people of Cuba are grateful for those who can afford the freedom to speak out against status quo in their country.

And so Canada, I didn't write a snappy column for your reading pleasure on a Thursday afternoon.

Turns out, I didn't even write it to satisfy my own ambition.

This was for you, Cuba. 

Below is a small collection of their responses:

Fred
As one of hundreds of thousands of us who managed to escape the Castro brothers totalitarian hell hole, i would like to give a wholehearted THANK YOU ! to the Toronto Sun for telling it like it actually is. It is really good to hear an honest and clear voice from Canada.

Cary Montero
Excellent articule and coments. Cuba is a prision where cubans are treated like slaves. I am glad finally a newspaper decide to express the reality of Cuba. Thank you.

Lori Diaz
Agradeciendo este excelente artículo donde el autor refleja la cruda realidad que padece el pueblo cubano.

En este mismo hemisferio hay un pueque padece padece una tiranía por 52 años a manos de un grupo de pandilleros que secuestraron el poder.

Miles de cubanos han arriesgado y perdido sus vidas tratando de escapar de la isla de donde antes de 1959 ninguno de sus ciudadanos quería emigrar.

Gracias por alertar a los ciudadanos canadienses, personas cultas y amantes de la libertad, para que no se hagan cómplices de este régimen. Todos los recursos económicos van a parar a los bolsillos de los represores del pueblo cubano.

Gracias nuevamente

English translation

Thanks for this excellent article where the author reflects the harsh reality endured by the Cuban people.

In this hemisphere there is a tyranny pueque have suffered for 52 years at the hands of a group of gangsters who kidnapped power.

Thousands of Cubans have risked and lost their lives trying to escape the island before 1959 where any of its citizens wanted to emigrate.

Please alert Canadians, educated people and lovers of liberty, not to become complicit in this regime. All financial resources goes to the pockets of the oppressors of the Cuban people.

Thanks again

CHPP
Thank you. You don't know what this kind of articles means for us.

Courtesy: www.fotoreflection.com

Journalism junkies unite

For those friends and family who feel I'm ignoring them or can't understand why I'm not making co-ed ultimate frisbee games, Buck and Does, get togethers for great-grandmothers and other extracurricular fun a priority anymore, it doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kickin' contest these days. It's hard to articulate what it takes to produce a one-hour daily talk show for a spankin' new national news network, with the added pressure to daily increase ratings and disprove critics' assertions you don't belong in the rat race that is media, but here's a brilliant snippet from a veteran that knows it very well:

These stories will appear on the 6 o’clock segment of the show. But that’s only part of it. I also have to prepare 30-second voice-overs for both these stories, for the 5 o’clock segment of the show.

I swallow hard, glance at the clock (it’s already 2:30pm—two and a half hours to airtime.) I’m hungry, and my bladder is sending out worrying signals. But I’ll eat and piss later. There’s work to do.

I take a quick look at the last item on my agenda ( the third story.) No big deal. It’s a story that will be fed in from CHEK-TV in Victoria by 5:15pm for a quick turnaround into our 5:30 show. It’s labeled “Hot Dog”, about a police dog left in an SUV for three hours. One of the “shocking treatment of animals” stories. It sounds straightforward. I have a 17-minute window to make sure the story is in our computer, and to write the intro for it, and to insert the proper "super" information. No problem. (I can hear you laughing. Haha. Maybe you know what’s coming.)

The next two hours are a blur. I work my way furiously through seven voice-overs while the other writers, editors, producers and reporters enjoy lunch and toilet breaks. By 5 o’clock, I stretch, take a much-needed visit to the urinal and congratulate myself. I tell myself I’ve done pretty well for the new kid on the block. Just need to wrap up one more voice-over, then tackle the “Hot Dog” story, and my workday will be done. Another $230 in the bank, and I’d proven something to myself.

So yeah. I'm doing well to take time to pee these days too. Friends and family, gimme your grace along the way. At the end of the day, but mostly on the weekends when I have a second to breathe, I still remember what matters most in life. It's Saturday, my work Blackberry keeps flashing more incoming, but I'm heading out to my deck with a good book on a great summer day.

Top 5 things you should know when takin' the GO

1. The train's departure time is like God, no discriminator of persons. 

It does not care how action-movie-like your car's slide into a parking spot was, or how fast you ran in three inch heels whilst whipping a 10-pound wheel bag behind you to the train platform, or how hard you bang on the cruel closing of the doors in your face. It will leave you in its on time departure dust.

2. It is acceptable to finish putting on your face in front of complete strangers.

Making the trek from Hamilton to Toronto forces you to leave your home to catch the train at an ungodly hour, so you're lucky enough to remember to put your underwear and deodorant on at pre-dawn hours, let alone finishing a proper make-up job. While my new position no longer has me in front of the camera these days, I refuse to give into the crazed over-worked producer look. I still like to look put together even if in the process I have a handful of bleary-eyed train travelers looking on with a bizarre mix of curiosity and disdain. Hey! At least I'm not applying mascara at the stop-light in my car. I like to think of those 15 minutes applying makeup as my very own unedited Extreme Makeover show, with the audience sitting in for the before and after look.

3. Your seat is not assigned and you are free to move about the train.

Especially when you find yourself seated in the vicinity of a morning-person with a voice that makes nails on a chalkboard sound like Pavarotti. My personal favorite is the seat change that comes with sitting across from the socially inept, loud cell phone talker who, wait for it, doesn't mind if the entire world overhears all the gritty details of their relationship woes. Those are the moments when you change coaches completely guilt free, for you have just saved yourself from a potential Primetime What Would You Do? moment.

4. Do not judge the open-mouthed, snoring, drooling train sleeper.

Because sooner or later, that WILL be you. Granted, I've fought the urge to doze off because I don't want to be one of them, but just three weeks into my daily commute, I know my time is coming. And when that time comes, look upon me with sympathy I beg of you.

5. Although air-conditioned, the train is not immune to funky smells.

The most pervasive of them all is the unsettling odor of hundreds of frantic folks running to catch the train in the heat and humidity of summer in Toronto. Lucky for you they make it just in the nick of time and plop down on all sides of you still huffing and emitting their funky fumes. It doesn't get better until a few train stops in. Just carry a scarf dipped in perfume to cover your face to get you through the commute. It'll be less conspicuous than your irritated face and scrunched up nose.

I'm sure the lessons will continue as time and experience allow.

To be continued and feel free to leave your own 'things you should know' for us newbies or those considering the GO train commute.

Courtesy GO Transit

Storyteller

I was going through and removing old web bookmarks from my computer that I don't use or need anymore, and almost removed this lovely image in the process:

"Storyteller"
Courtesy www.PamelaMurphyStudio.com

I'm glad I didn't. This picture brings me back to who I really am and what I love to do. It gave cause for necessary pause and drew a knowing smile. And on the busiest of days or on the most arduous of climbs to get where I think it is I want to go, may I never forget that underneath it all, I'm just a girl who loves to tell a good story--even if all's I got are a few butterflies listening in.

A daughter's confession

“When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.”

— Mark Twain

Well I've never been a boy, but I can certainly appreciate the author's sentiment. At 31, I'm astonished at how much I still need my father. I thought I was supposed to be all grown up and stuff by now, but in times of big decision-making or crisis,  I look upon the long-distance phone charges with fondness because most of them are "Dad calls."

I have many friends without fathers today and I'm keenly aware that could just as easily be me. I'm sure I would be lost without him and so while I've still got him, I hold him as tightly as I can from my long-distance perch here in Canada.

Today I ranted on Facebook and Twitter about our vapid shout-outs to our dads via social media platforms. I'm sure I insulted a few folks who don't know me well, but my point is this: if your father was good to you, worked his butt off to put a roof over your head, took second place on presents every Christmas and Father's Day, and invested in the person you are today, then I don't believe an updated Facebook status will cut it.

If I could be, I'd be with the rest of my siblings in southwestern Oklahoma today, hiking up the worn-out and modest mountain tops as my dad leads the way to our favorite spots growing up as kids--avoiding wild buffalos, cactus pricks and sunburns, because Mom will ask why we didn't put on sunscreen--all the while celebrating life with him and relishing the view at the top of the climb. We've done it dozens of times and know the trails by heart, but somehow it never gets old.

Dad, all my life you told me I could be anything I wanted to be, and I was naive enough to believe it. I think I'm well on my way to my own mediocre mountain climb, but I'm certain one of my greatest achievements is being cherished by you.

Me and dad at the back of Notre Dame in Paris, May 2011

Rescue of the Chilean miners was a mix of technology and a divine miracle, driller says

He will go down in history as “the man with the plan” to find and rescue all 33 of the trapped Chilean miners last August. Greg Hall is the owner of a drilling manufacturing company with offices in Houston, northern Minnesota and Chile. And while he cannot deny he engineered the project that enabled the rescue watched around the world, the humble Catholic who serves as a deacon in his local church insists “it was God who drilled the hole.”

When the collapse of the gold mine in Copiapo happened on Aug. 5, 2010, the Chilean government immediately sent drill rigs that began a guessing game of poke work into the tough terrain. Poor geological mapping and insufficient equipment made the search effort chaotic. They knew the miners were buried somewhere 500 meters and 800 meters below the surface, but the local mineral exploration rigs could only reach as far as 450 meters.

Mr. Hall’s drill manufacturing company, Drillers Supply International, had the tools and the faith needed to find the men. By Day 12, he and his team were certain they were on a body recovery mission. On Day 17, the team heard a banging on his drill pipe, the first  sign of life. Attached to his drill pipe, was a muddied note in red ink that read, “Estamos bien en el refugio los 33.” We are all right in the shelter, the 33 of us.

But Mr. Hall’s journey with the miners didn’t end there. The government, unsatisfied with other plans proposed to bring the men to the surface, called Greg’s company again to ask if he had a solution. His plan was called Plan B, the back up plan.

On assignment for Listen Up TV, I sat with the Texas giant — he is 6 feet 6 inches, 300 pounds — to gather the untold story of Plan B and to hear why he believes in the power of prayer, and calls the rescue “a miracle.”

Read more here: 

Among the Ethiopian ruins, faith and worship

It was a mass of thousands, everyone dressed in holy white. I was one of the many who had gathered in Addis Ababa Stadium for the celebration of Epiphany, one of the most sacred holidays for Orthodox Christians in Ethiopia. The ancient ceremony, commemorating the baptism of Jesus Christ, brought the fourth largest city in Africa to a standstill. I couldn’t help but feel like a gawking heathen, gathering snapshots of a party I wasn’t invited to, but the high priest’s voice over the loud speakers assured me of my welcome.

“Let the ferenji (foreigners) gather close,” he said. “We all serve the same God.”

Children kicked around deflated soccer balls, hustlers created make-shift betting games in the dirt, and youth groups representing various Orthodox churches in the city drummed and danced in anticipation of the priests’ arrival with the Tabot, a replica of the famed Ark of the Covenant, believed to represent the manifestation of Jesus when he came to the Jordan River for baptism.

Gaiety momentarily masked the reality of hardship for many in the booming yet still struggling economy of Addis.  Solemnity — as thousands simultaneously bowed and kissed the ground — revealed a reverence for the sacred not often displayed in public life in the West.

Read more here: 

Post-Christmas reflections from an American expatriate

Evidence of Christmas lingers here at home with stockings strung across the floor, stray bits of wrapping paper tucked here and there, and the pick, picking at left-overs from yesterday's feast.

What hasn't persisted is the nostalgia that expats tend to carry with them back to their hometowns. It was glorious while it lasted with our Kodak perfect smiles and inside family jokes that make you howl 'til your sides ache. Sentimentality is sweet and it's the thing that keeps you coming back, but it's only fleeting. Reality sets in after a while and you begin to be thankful that you booked your flight "return."

Don't get me wrong. Nothing beats mother's home-cooking or seeing your father's proud smile in person. And nothing compares with having six siblings who are duplicated and complex variations of yourself.

Just the other day my 16-year-old sister and myself were sitting quietly in the back seat of the car while the two up front were chatting away. The radio station that was on had been on a commercial break for what seemed like hours, and with eery synchronicity both me and my sister (who I may see two or three times a year since I've moved) anxiously asked for the channel to be turned to actual music. There was something quite comforting about it. Knowing I wasn't alone in my eccentricity and my shared disdain for obnoxious radio commercials, and that I shared that with my sister.

At home, you're among your people and for the first time in a long time you can just...breathe. You don't have to explain your dialect or justify eating grits or white gravy, or my all-time favorite--apologize for being American.

But with each visit, I come to the realization that as much as I belong, I have changed. I'm not better than my people, I've just outgrown them a little. Like your favorite pair of jeans that have been worn in with love and memories, but ya know ya need it's time to say 'goodbye' to.

I'll never say 'goodbye' to family. I love them. I need them. They are what defines me, keeps me, loves me unconditionally. But after the Christmas magic dust has settled, what you're often left with is unfinished business from the past. Hurt feelings, sibling rivalries, unspoken disappointments, and you remember why it is you hug nostalgia so tight. You can shake that snow globe as hard and as often as you want, but those little flecks of white always land resolutely at the bottom.

Going into 2011, I bring with it a new revelation that's taken over four and a half years to realize. I come home to Oklahoma to stay grounded. I live in Canada to fly.

On the eve of my 31st birthday

I spent tonight like I did last year on the eve of my 30th. In the tub, soaking in lukewarm water and self-pity, staring at my toes and wishing my sorrows would swirl away down into the drain, and into the cold currents of Lake Ontario never to be seen again.

My parents produced an over-achiever who never believes she's accomplished enough with each passing year. They also produced a woman who quickly forgets that wisdom ought to be preferred over youth. This year, instead of stewing over what new age-defying face cream I needed to buy or how many more sports I'd have to play to prove that I still could, I knew I needed to get a grip. And then I remembered how I spent my birthday last year.

I spent it with my brother-in-law, Buck. He's been the subject of a few of my blogs in the past year. On December 14th of 2009, he was bed-ridden in his home with Hodgkin's lymphoma. Each day mattered, and with each day came the hope that his alternative cancer treatment would start to show results. He was probably the most optimistic of us all. Until that night.

I hadn't seen him so helpless to care for himself. I was determined to make the visit as cheerful as possible and brought over my left-over birthday cake from the office knowing what a sweet tooth he had. I cut a big slice for him and poured him a fresh drink pushing it to the edge of the coffee table. Close enough so that he wouldn't have to reach too far and yet far enough so that he would still feel he could do something for himself.

He swallowed it in Buck style. Swiftly and with gusto. Everyone tried to keep the conversation light, but he wasn't having it that night. For the first time since his diagnosis he used the phrase, "if I don't make it," and told us about one of his biggest concerns and wishes. His brother and sisters sat in sombre silence not knowing how to respond. He didn't want to be dismissed or told, "don't talk like that, of course you're gonna make it." He wanted to be heard. This time, the funny guy who couldn't ever get through a meal-time prayer without snickering, wanted to be serious. I knew it and I assured him that his wish would be honoured. A month later when he passed, we kept that promise.

And tonight, on the eve of my birthday, I've got my grip and my much-needed perspective. He didn't live to see his 28th and so I dedicate my 31st to him. I can't light up a room like he did but I'll try and make more fart jokes in his great honour.

Buck and me on my 27th birthday. As always, he stole the show.