Last night, I got together for dinner with two of my sistah-friends, R. & L. Despite our professional and personal schedules, we meet up a few times a year to catch up and offer compassionate support to each other. I've known both R. & L. since my graduate school days at NYU, where each of them played a significant role in my coming-of-age as a twenty-something woman. L. showed me the ropes in my first professional student affairs position, and R. was alongside me as we both worked with students who were committed to bringing Asian American Studies and support services to the NYU community.
Back then, NYU goers admired L.'s lofty locks as they hung elegantly and anchored her, so indicative of the confidence and intelligence she shared with students. And. R.? Her whipping enthusiasm and just-do-it! attitude was contagious.
Sixteen years later, each of us is on our own individual path to welcoming a child into our families through adoption. I am waiting for a referral from the Philippines. L. is gathering her dossier documents, so that she can become a mother to a child in her native Jamaica. And R. will be starting her adoption process to bring home a child from China. As I devoured my chopped salad dressed with grilled shrimp in a champagne vinaigrette, I couldn't help but daydream about future feasts, where we will most likely be joined by younger ones. I hope our celebrations won't end.
What a blessing it is to be waiting in the wisdom pool with women who reflect the values I so desire to pass along to my child. Mahalo to L. & R. for years of generous comraderie and sageness. And a most happy birthday to L.
I just started my community leadership course with NYC's Citizens' Committee for Children, which primarily advocates on behalf of children and families. My first class was a simulation in poverty. It was maddening. In a matter of minutes, I was a 30-year-old woman whose husband had just deserted her with two kids, ages 9 and 11, one of whom had suddenly become ill. I hadn't worked since I'd had my eldest daughter, and my husband left me with a bank loan of $120/month in addition to monthly living expenses of $1600. An out-of-town family member inconveniently decided to live with us in our home in Brooklyn, which I was unable to hang onto given that I had no income. I was forced to navigate the city's array of social services for public assistance, temporary housing and any job that I could get. My welfare check wasn't coming in for another two weeks, and I hadn't gotten around to cashing in my food stamps quite yet so that I could feed my family. My daughter was failing math, and I had no extra cash for a tutor. I pawned what I thought was $400 worth of furnishings and jewelry and only received $100. As much as I tried to hold them off, the police, landlord and utilities collector were constantly on my back -- literally. And every time I had to travel to another resource in another borough because no one told me I needed this or that referral, it cost me a transit ticket. Insanely maddening.
I failed.
I thought, I can't do this. What choice do I have? I have to give up my kids, so that someone better can take care of them. I am such a failure.
That is, by the end of the two-hour exercise, I hadn't secured shelter, food or safety for my kids. This was just a taste of what millions of New Yorkers in poverty experience on a daily basis.
Even more disturbing was that as an adoptive mama-to-be, in the simulation I, a single mom in NYC, could so easily choose what I thought would be a better life for my kids. What kind of woman/mother am I? Though I suspect, choosing adoption for a child in the Philippines may be a little different than choosing foster care or adoption for a child in New York City. The possibilities and results surely vary.
While I work at ESS and every so often meet clients who have experienced tremendous trauma or hear a story or two about how they may or may not have broken through some hardship of abuse, my first class at CCC drove home that I really have nothing about which to complain. So when family or friends -- who have jobs and live in their lovely homes with their hardwood floors, french doors and fabulous scenic views with household incomes above $18,000 (myself included, of course) -- tell me, "Oh, we're poor . . ." and go on to say, "We can't afford that . . ."
Well, not so much. Really. You're (we're) not poor. We're not a family of four living on $18,300 a month. That would be the poverty line. Others, like Oprah, have argued that poverty abroad is much more serious than in the States where Americans have access and the means to pick themselves up and navigate successfully through social services and public assistance. Not so for our fellow global citizens abroad where cultural boundaries and government infrastructures are so restraining that upward financial mobility and the creation of a sustainable living come with incredible challenges.
Still, that doesn't negate the experience of NYC's two million children, many of whom live in poverty among terrible emotional and physical damage and need caring individuals to advocate on their behalf. And so begins my course to more educated advocacy.
I am blessed to run in a circle with those who practice karma yoga, the path of selfless action and selfless service, on a daily basis. A close friend, A., in Seattle plants trees regularly. Cousin K. engages in front yard farming as a means of sustainable living. The moms and dads in my life make extra efforts to be engaged in their school communities. My colleagues at ESS work around the clock to make sure kids are safely supported by their birth or foster families. Among our fundraising staff, the newest additions are three recent college graduates who have chosen to do their domestic peace corps assignments through one year's service with ESS before embarking on their careers. These everyday examples of karma yoga do not go unnoticed.
As another 9/11 annivesary passed this weekend, I couldn't help but reflect on the importance of community -- beyond our immediate families whether it's as a town, nation or heritage. A. has frequently challenged my understanding of "community" and the exhilirating feelings that move communities. In fact, he is stunned by the genuine friendliness at a smaller church we've been visiting, where folks get out of their pews and go up to each other individually as well as across aisles to wish each other peace . . . a simple act of karma yoga.
A.'s coming around though as he gears up for the 2010 Heart Walk in Long Branch on October 3. He's been super concerned about whether or not he'll be able to last a 5K walk. No doubt he will! It'll be our third health awareness event that we've participated in since May, and each has had significant meaning in our lives. We supported our physical therapist friend who specializes in hemophilia. In June, we honored Dad's memory by doing the Run for Dad and raised funds for prostate cancer research. And in just three weeks, we'll celebrate A.'s 4th healthy heart anniversary as we stand up and walk for healthier hearts.
Karma yoga doesn't have to be back bendingly strenuous. It can be fun, especially when we're practicing alongside friends and family and even those we don't know.
Thank you, Great Spirit, for the blessing of community -- being with those we don't know but with whom we might share a familiar experience. Teach us grace, so that we might live a more charmed existence. Help us to go beyond our comfort zones so that we might learn the value of true fellowship.
