Food Pics from Cuba 2023

 

Habana Vieja (Old Havana)

Strategies for Fighting Racism on Social Media

I recently posted on Facebook about the ongoing trial of former Minneapolis Police Officer Derek Chauvin for killing George Floyd in police custody by kneeling on his neck. There were not a lot of comments on the post, but one in particular definitely caught my attention. I'm not going to post the individual's name here; suffice to say that he is an acquaintance from when I lived on the island of Saipan. Actually, "acquaintance" is probably stretching it: we met once when we were paired up to search a certain area of the jungle for a friend who had gone missing. So we spent a few hours searching together one time a couple years ago. I did not even realize that we were FB friends until I saw this comment today. I will post it in its entirety, and then break it down with my responses. 

Here is his comment:

When I initially read his comment, my first instinct was "delete and block." Because I am learning how to be a better antiracist activist, however, I decided not to go with my first instinct. Instead, after clearly stating my disagreement with his position, I took the time to address each of his racist opinions and misinformation with evidence-based facts and statistics. Here is my initial response:

I’ve watched a good bit of the TRIAL which includes ALL the video footage and absolutely does NOT support your statements. You are not only completely wrong about white people, but you’re ignoring America’s history of oppression and even enslavement of Black people. To think that character is based on the color of one’s skin is so foolish, so ignorant, so contradicted by ACTUAL SCIENCE. You should do yourself a favor and watch the medical testimony, particularly the pulmonary and critical care expert. All the experts completely debunked the allegation that his death was even drug-RELATED. I’ll post the link to the testimony in a minute.
I worked in criminal [j]ustice for many years so I have seen firsthand that White people can be every bit as depraved and evil as any other race. I truly hope that you will re-examine your feelings/beliefs in light of the facts rather than other people’s racist opinions. I’ll post a couple related links there too.
I do find your statements repulsive and personally offensive, but I’ll keep this thread open for now in the hopes that you will open your heart.

I subsequently added the following:

I’d like to add two more points: (1) You live on the island of Saipan which has an extremely tiny percentage of Black residents. Are you basing any of your knowledge on personal experience with Black people? Do you have any Black people in your life?
(2) I have not had a television in over 15 years, so I don’t watch any networks unless I specifically look something up on Google and there’s no paywall. I get most of my news from award-winning newspapers and journalists. For issues related to race, I read evidence-based scientific, sociological, and historical sources. I don’t not believe something because it is some reporter’s opinion. I go to the source. Learned that in law school.

Then, after taking the time to look up the sources I needed and verify the accuracy of what I was writing, I fully responded to his initial comment, line by line. I'm posting my responses here in the hopes of starting a discussion about how (and whether) we should respond to this kind of open racism. 

This is not an easy thing to do. It took nearly two hours of reading, thinking and attempting to write effective responses to his assertions. I am not sure that this is the best approach to take. It is more like an experiment testing how this method of arguing on social media fares against other methods. I am interested to know what other methods people have tried and whether anyone has had any success in terms of the receptiveness of the other party (or other "friends" who followed the discussion).

Here is how I responded to his comment. Note that his statements are bolded bullet points, followed by my responses in italics:

• These things don't happen to white people because so very few white people behave in that fashion.

If “that fashion” means resisting arrest, it is an extremely common charge regardless of race. I looked at arrest data from a number of states and it indicates that police more commonly charge Black people with resisting arrest (rates I saw varied around 52-55%; the charging rate for white people is around 45-48%). Although I wouldn’t say 45-48% is “so very few”, charges do not necessarily reflect what actually happened. Moreover, due to the historical oppression of Black people by law enforcement, it would be reasonable to assume that more Black people would resist arrest.

• So very few [white people] have put pistols to the belly of pregnant women.

First, I don’t know what “so very few” means to you, but White people are convicted of armed robbery all the time. I’ve prosecuted many of them. According to the FBI Uniform [Crime] Data Report, in 2020, 224,720 White people committed a violent crime. Is that what you mean by “so very few”? The difference between white and black people is under 4,000. (I did not look up armed robbery specifically, but you can find all the crime data you want here: FBI Crime Data Explorer).

Second, the pregnancy allegation is false. This is an easy one. Harris County Criminal Court records [are public and] online so you can look them up yourself just like I did. Yes, Mr. Floyd was convicted of participating in an armed robbery 14 years ago, but there is ZERO indication that the victim was pregnant. It is also unclear whether Floyd was the perp with the gun - the victim only remembered him rummaging through her cabinets.

This was his final criminal conviction and he served his time for it. He did not deserve to be executed because of it.

• So few [white people] have knowingly passed counterfeit money.

This is a ridiculous assertion. No one knows whether he knew it was counterfeit. The store clerk testified that he did NOT think Mr. Floyd knew it was counterfeit.

• So very few [white people] resist arrest after numerous opportunities not to do so.

See above re: resisting arrest.

• Almost none have spent 4 years in jail for home invasion and armed robbery.

See above re: violent crime statistics.

• And fewer [white people] still have ingested enough fentanyl to kill two men.

[Y]our statistics about fentanyl are wrong. The opioid crisis has disproportionately affected White people. Here is a US Government report from SAMSA, a division of the department of health and human services, on the rising opioid crisis in communities of color. The first chart you will come to clearly shows that the overdose rate is substantially higher for White people in every single category - including fentanyl.

Please keep in mind that this was published in 2020, so pre-Biden.

• All these things, and I'm sure many more, influenced Floyd's behavior on the night in question.

I’m going to ignore this because you’re unqualified to make this assessment.

• Chauvin was a good cop doing his job.

What evidence do you have to support this? I don’t know if he was a good or bad cop, but I know that 17 complaints had been filed against him in his 19 years with the MPD. The nature of the complaints were confidential and only one resulted in disciplinary action, so this doesn’t necessarily mean that he was a bad cop, but it definitely calls into question whether he was a good cop.

• Not the tripe foisted by the likes of the Cartoon News Network and the rest of their MSM ilk.

I think I’ve been clear as to the sources of my information.

Inauguration Day

I was drawn towards politics from a young age because I wanted to make the world a better place, particularly for the most vulnerable members of society. I began serving as the “Commissioner of Community Action” in the student government of my private Christian high school when I was only a freshman, having been appointed to the position by the school administration when the older student who had been elected was unable to serve for some reason. In addition to regular student government responsibilities, my position was in charge of setting up volunteer opportunities for the student body and rallying the troops to participate in community service activities. I really enjoyed it. At the end of ninth grade, I ran for re-election and won. I was also re-elected to the position the following year. 

As my third “term” neared its end my Junior year, I decided that I would run for the head position: Commissioner of Student Affairs, the official title for the president. After all, there were only four other officer positions on the student government, and I had been in my position longer than any of the other officers (in fact, due to the appointment my freshman year - a year when students typically are not eligible to hold officer positions - I was probably one of the only students in the history of the high school who would serve as an officer all four years). I was the most experienced, and everyone in my small private school knew that I could do it.

I did the things that I needed to do to properly run for the head position. I turned in the required papers, informed the administrators, and started preparing to launch my campaign. Before the campaigning was scheduled to begin, the student council officers gathered for a meeting with our faculty advisor. The advisor asked if any of us were considering running for the Student Affairs position. As I recall, I was the only one of the current officers who raised their hand. One of the other officers spoke up, however, and said that he heard that another student was considering running, a student who was not currently on the student council. A sophomore. A boy.

After some discussion amongst the other officers and the faculty advisor, they reached the consensus that the boy would be a good leader. I would also be a good leader, they all agreed, but since there was a boy who would be good for the job, it would be better to have him do it. After all, the men were supposed to be the leaders. When I questioned why it would be better to have a boy when we had a girl serve as the student council leader a couple of years prior, the advisor explained that, when she ran, there really weren’t any boys who wanted the job.

This was the way that Jesus commanded, they reminded me. I remember nodding my head as if this made sense.

The boy ran - unopposed, if my memory serves me correctly - and was elected to serve as the president of the student council the following year. Sure, I could have run against him, if I wanted to go against God, the faculty, and the other student government officers. My senior year, I again held the position of the Commissioner of Community Action, but my heart was not in it. I never campaigned for another elected position again after that. I accepted a couple of appointments, and I campaigned for others running for election, but any time I thought about putting my name in the hat, I found a reason to support someone else instead.

Today, along with millions of women around the country, I watched through tears as the Honorable Kamala Harris took the oath to serve as Vice President of the United States. A man - her husband Doug Emhoff - stood beside her, supporting her as he had her entire candidacy. As she stood there, repeating the words of an oath repeated by so many men before her, her strong, unwavering voice emanated the confidence of a person who has earned their place in the world. A leader in every sense, she stood firm and proud. She stood for the country, for people of color, and for women. 

She stood for girls: young girls who want to become leaders, and grown up girls who would have, once upon a time.

Things That Matter to Me, Part III: Pages

One thing that I have learned about myself while contemplating these posts is that more “things” matter to me than I previously realized. It has actually been a bit difficult to narrow my most important possessions down to a few posts. At first, I was not going to include anything that was generic and/or replaceable (like my iPad, which I absolutely love), but some things that are not particularly unique matter to me because of the circumstances under which I came to receive them, or the extent to which I have appreciated them. Books definitely fall into that category, and I have a lot of them. Although I have moved almost entirely to eBooks over the past decade, I still have a small library tucked away in a storage unit in Memphis. I love my books, but I hate moving them (for obvious reasons). Since I tend to move fairly often, there are only a few books that I take with me.

The Big One

As my high school graduation approached in the spring of 1999, my parents told me that they wanted to get me a special gift to remember the event and asked me if there was anything in particular that I wanted. I thought about it awhile and finally decided that there was only one thing that I really wanted: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I think I even requested the specific edition that I later received - The Yale Shakespeare: The Complete Works. 

Although I have been tempted as I am a prolific highlighter and margin-note taker, I have kept the pages of this magnificent book exactly as they were printed. I took every Shakespeare course offered at the University of Tennessee, but I always bought trade paperbacks for my courses to avoid marking up my Yale (and carrying it to class). I kept those too, of course. As there appears to be a Shakespearean gene in my family, I also inherited a full selection of paperback Shakespeares after my paternal grandfather passed away. And then when eBay was first starting out (before they had minimums on the auctions), I paid around $25 (including shipping) for a one-hundred-year-old set of 12 hardcover volumes with beautiful full-color illustrations. Unfortunately, they were desperately in need of re-covering when I bought them, and they are still in the same shape. Re-covering antique books is not cheap, so it’s a “down the road” project. 

So, yeah, I have a lot of Shakespeare books, but the Yale is by far my favorite. I love the weight of it, and the silky smooth pages. I like the type, the spacing, the editorial notations. It is a beautiful book, and one of my favorite things.

The Bible

After my friend Christian Soronen died, her mother gave me one of Christian’s bibles. It has a beautiful, black, leather-bound cover, with Christian’s name written on the inscription page. Like all of Christian’s books, it looks new (she never wrote in books and handled them carefully). There are several reasons why this bible is important to me, but they are private. I also do not feel comfortable sharing a photo of it at this time, but I had to include it in the list.

The Passports

Passports are like journals, records of where life has taken you. I love that they are “official”, genuine and authentic records. I love what they symbolize: your freedom to pass through the world. When I had to renew my passport a few years ago, I almost wept because I had to send the old one back. (Thankfully, they actually return them to you, voided with a hole stabbed through the center, but otherwise intact.) 

Notice the holes!

I love that the gold-embossed lettering on my dark blue passport says “United States of America,” because I am very proud of where I came from, and always cognizant of what I represent when I visit other cultures. 

Note to Self: Wash your hair before taking your next passport selfie.

I don’t think my reasons for loving my passport requires further explanation than that.

The Journals

I have been a prolific keeper of journals since I was old enough to write. I have a navy blue diary with a broken brass lock that I started filling with short sentences scribbled in giant letters when I was four or five years old. Over the past thirty-five years, I have filled dozens and dozens of spiral notebooks, computer hard drives, and colorful bound journals with thoughts, experiences, travels, and memories. When I need to write, I will write on anything with anything, so many of my journals are disorganized and cluttered, stuffed with index cards and post-it notes. I have journals that I started in 2002 and completed last year. The only consistency is that I always put the date in the top right corner of the page (one day, I really hope I take the time to put everything in order, but it’s pretty unlikely that will ever happen). At any given time, the bottom drawer of my nightstand is filled with 8-12 journals with at least a few pages remaining to be filled.

When I was younger - especially during my teenage years - I used to write at the beginning of the journal that, if something happened to me, the journal was to be given unread to a certain person (usually one of my dear friends Christine, Anne, or Nancy) who would then decide what to do with it. Obviously, at the time, my main concern was my parents reading something embarrassing or angry or mean. (I don’t really include those warnings anymore. My parents know that I keep journals and I do not think they have any desire to read them.)

I do not know why I keep journals. I know why I write - it is how I process my thoughts, and I thoroughly enjoy writing. It would be impossible for me to stop writing. But why do I keep everything I write? It’s not like they are keeping a historical record of anything. Typically, I write more about my thoughts and ideas than events. I have no desire to publish them or even let another soul read them in my lifetime. The only conclusion I have come to is that they represent my survival. It is no secret that I have dealt with some pretty significant challenges in my life (as well as rather insignificant challenges that seemed more serious at the time). I think that I preserve this record of my life, in part, to remind myself of what I have overcome. And then there are things that I simply want to remember.

My journals are also significant because of what they exclude. I write a good deal about sadness, depression, and difficulties. For me, writing is part of the process of overcoming those things. There have been some periods of my life, however, where I did not write with any sort of regularity. These voids represent very dark times in my life; the times that I did not feel compelled to write are the times that I was not myself. I wrote very little during my marriage.

Besides my dogs (which really should not be classified as “possessions,” these journals are my most important possessions. In a fire, they would be the first things I grabbed (again, after the dogs). On a deserted island, just give me something to write with.

What Does It All Mean?

There are many other things that matter to me, from pieces of furniture and articles of clothing to unique items I’ve collected over the course of my travels or inherited from a beloved relative. There is an original, black and white, wallet-size photograph of my mother in her late teens/early twenties that I absolutely adore. There is music of course, like my six-disc Johnny Cash collection, or the set of previously unreleased Nirvana recordings that I could not stop listening to for months. There are tickets to museums, movies and music festivals, certificates, diplomas, licenses, awards, personal correspondence, and the old key to my grandmother’s house, which was my favorite place on earth. The little ring I wear every day that my brother bought for me when I was visiting him in California. And there is art. Lots and lots of art, from framed originals to prints and photographs. 

I attach more meaning to things than I realized, and I think that may be why I have hesitated to let go of a lot of the “stuff” that I have accumulated over the years. So how do I detach enough from the things to declutter my life without bringing in Marie Kondo? I think, perhaps, the first step is to stop hanging on to things that I think “might be” significant to me one day. Either an item is significant or it is not. As Kondo says, if an item is significant, find a place of honor for it in your home. Otherwise, she argues, what is the point of keeping it? I agree with her, for the most part, but there are some things that matter to us simply because they exist, and not because we want to display them, show them to our friends, or write a blog post about them. 

I think it’s okay to keep those things too. Just get rid of the rest. 

Things That Matter to Me, Part II: Four Pieces of Jewelry

I do not wear jewelry very often simply because I’m so active and it gets in the way or gets lost or broken. For my second post in the “Possessions That Matter” series, however, I will write about four pieces of jewelry that I love and why.

The Gold Bracelet

I inherited this bracelet from my paternal grandmother Avis, with whom I had a very close relationship. I had never seen her wear the bracelet. My aunt decided that I should have it. I remember when I pulled it out of the little blue velvet bag, my first impression was that it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It is hard to capture its beauty in a photograph - you have to feel its weightlessness and pliability to really appreciate it. 

I do not know where it came from, although I am certain that my grandfather bought it for my grandmother as she never would have purchased something like that for herself. They had the most beautiful relationship, loving each other passionately until they left this earth. So the bracelet also carries with it the love that they shared. I have only worn it once that I can recall - at my wedding in Paris.

The Turquoise Bracelet

I received this bracelet as a gift from my boyfriend at the time. After his grandmother passed away, he and his mother selected this bracelet for me to have. I had never met his grandmother, but I loved his mother. It meant so much to me not only that they wanted me to have it, but that they wanted me to keep it even after our relationship ended. I’m really glad that they did, because it is something that I actually wear. I love its delicacy and its provenance. He remains a good friend, so when I look at it now, I am reminded of kindness and the friendship that can come even from the most chaotic of relationships (which it certainly was). And I think of his sweet mother.

The Watch

My parents surprised me with this gorgeous watch upon my graduation from law school. I knew nothing about watches, and I certainly did not know how much I would need one as a young prosecutor. They put thought into this gift, choosing to get me the stainless steel version because it was less flashy (and because I love steel). I love its “timeless” style, simplicity, and how cool and comfortable it feels against my skin. More than that, it matters because it reminds me of my parents’ endless support for my ambitions in life.

The Wedding Band

The wedding band holds a different kind of importance to me. For a long time, it reminded me of the symbolic promise that I made and had every intention of keeping. After my husband left me, it symbolized hope that we would be able to work things out. When I eventually accepted that was not going to happen, I removed it from my finger and wore it on a chain around my neck. When I was finally ready to let go of him emotionally when I was in India, I decided that I would throw it in the Seine in Paris on my way home. But when I got there, I couldn’t do it. I cannot explain why. It really wasn’t any sort of attachment to him; it was just this feeling that it wasn’t the right thing to do at that moment. So, I stopped wearing it on my neck, but I held on to it for some reason.

Several years later, when I was living on Saipan, I became very close with one of the young survivors of abuse that I worked with. After her case was closed, she and her cousin would come over to my house to paint or watch movies and play with the dogs. Over the time that I knew her, I got to see her overcome what happened to her. Like so many of the survivors I have worked with, she became an inspiration to me. 

Shortly before the time came for me to return to the mainland, the girl told me that the hardest thing for her to move past was the fact that, until he abused her, her abuser had been “a good uncle.” She had adored him, which made what he did to her so much greater of a betrayal.

Having not suffered from the kind of abuse that the girl had suffered from, there was not a lot about her experience that I could relate to personally. But I understood betrayal. A few days before I left the island, I handed her a chain necklace with a ring hanging on it. I told her that it was my wedding band, and I wanted her to have it for three reasons. One, to remind her that she is not alone in feeling betrayed by someone she loved. Two, because the shape of the ring itself reminds us that, no matter what happens in our lives, we must keep going. And three, to remind her that she mattered to me and that I would always hold her close to my heart.

The ring is one of my favorite possessions because I gave it away.

Things That Matter to Me, Part I: A Shopping Bag

 To commemorate four decades on this earth, I’m going to post some of my favorite possessions and the stories behind them. I typically don’t put a lot of stock in “stuff” because, as my late Aunt Nina used to say, “It’s just a thing.”

Also, i just moved into a new apartment and I feel overwhelmed with all the stuff I’ve accumulated. I need to purge some of it. So I thought it might be fun and useful to see and share what things really do matter to me.

I got this free shopping bag at a store in Kerala, India in 2012. I love it because of its authenticity. I have never found a good way to display it because I don’t like the idea of framing it.

My White Fragility

I’m almost finished reading Robin DeAngelo’s White Fragility, which is the #1 bestselling book on Amazon right now as we are in the midst of the police brutality protests following the brutal murder of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis police. White Fragility is an important book that I hope will become required reading in high schools. Having worked in employment discrimination law and even conducted trainings on race discrimination, I had already heard many of the things that DeAngelo teaches. Hearing something, or even learning it, however, does not equate to practicing it.

If you know me, you undoubtedly know that I am a progressive, left-wing democrat. I do not tolerate hatred of any group and I have been outspoken in my support of the #BlackLivesMatter movement. I have close friends of many different colors and nationalities. Although I’m not certain, I think I was in high school the first time I joined the NAACP. I would never intentionally discriminate against someone on the basis of race or any other immutable characteristic.

Despite all of those things, I realized that a lot of the times when DeAngelo described someone who has taken advantage of the benefit of white privilege, failed to question their own biases and prejudices, and used “white fragility” to their advantage, she was describing me. I have no doubt that my friends – regardless of skin color - would say that I am not racist. But in reality I think that what they would mean is, “compared to most white people born and raised in the South, you aren’t racist.” While that may be true, it does not excuse my own behavior. 

It does not excuse my racism.

I am writing this for two reasons. First, I want to communicate to every person of color who I have ever interacted with (or ignored) that I am truly sorry for any offensive behavior and inexcusable ignorance, and that I am always open to discussing with you anything that I have done that you felt was racist or simply not racially sensitive. The sad truth is that my actions may have been more memorable to you than they were to me. I want to listen and remember. I want to learn to be better. I want to stop being fragile.

Second, I want to communicate to white people who see me as progressive that I am not immune from this, and neither are you. If I can look at my own behavior and see racism, then you can too. And you should. You need to. If we do not do this, nothing will change. Racism will continue to dominate every American institution. White people will continue to exercise the privileges afforded them by virtue of their skin color at the expense of people of color. Cops will keep killing black people.

We all want to distance ourselves from the racist cop who murdered George Floyd. I read that one of the police officers who was charged with aiding and abetting in Floyd’s murder is claiming that he “did everything he could” to stop the killing because he said things like, “maybe we should turn him on his side.” Even he wants to distance himself. It’s easier for those of us who were not there, who have never been witness to police brutality directed at people of color, to distance ourselves from the murder. But it is not good enough to say, “I would never kneel on a black man’s neck until he died, so I’m not racist” or “I would never kill someone so I’m not racist.”

The man who killed George Floyd was in his mid-forties. He had some eighteen prior complaints against him in as many years on the police force. Do you think that he only acted violently at work? That he reserved his racist beliefs for moments where he had a black man completely under his control? Of course not. It would not be possible for someone to hide such hatred. According to one study, the average American knows around 600 people. How many of the 600 people in Derek Chauvin’s life knew that he was racist and a police officer? How many of them confronted him? Reported him? When people say, “White Silence is Violence,” this is what they mean. Chauvin’s 600 may not have known he was capable of murder, but many of them had to know that he was racist and in a position where he could act on his racism.

Do you know anyone like that? Think hard. What are you going to do about it?

When I was a young prosecutor, I asked a white police officer prior to a hearing why he had pulled over the African-American defendant. We were alone in the hallway when he shrugged and said, “What do you want me to say?” Taken aback, I responded, “The truth.” The cop asked to look at the citation again “to refresh his memory.” I declined. “It’s not on there,” I said. The I asked him flat out if he pulled the guy over because he was black. He asked to see the citation again. I told him to get out of my sight and never to bring me another case. I dismissed the case and told the defense attorney why. I may have even reported it to his supervisor, but I honestly cannot recall (I reported a lot of officers for various reasons, mostly for missing court, so this is not something that would have stood out). What I know for certain is that I did not follow up. I did nothing to ensure that the police officer, who was not only racist, but willing to lie under oath, never made another arrest. I certainly could have. Instead, I felt proud of myself for berating him and moved on to the next case. God only knows what that man has done since then. I don't even remember his name.

Please, resist the urge to say that I did more than “most people” would have done in those circumstances. I do not judge my own morality by the morals of others. What I did was not good enough. What if that cop was Derek Chauvin? Would the fact that I had called him out privately have stopped him from killing George Floyd? Of course not. Getting him permanently assigned to desk duty might have. Getting him fired definitely would have. We have to stop patting ourselves on the back simply because we don’t do what the really racist bad guys do. It is not good enough just to refrain from using racially derogatory language. It is not good enough to post articles on social media about police brutality. It is not good enough to not vote for bigots, have black friends, hire black people, or even march for justice. Of course, we should do all of those things, but we also need to do the important work of examining ourselves. We need to see not only our own prejudices, but also our own complacency.

We have to acknowledge not only that we have passively benefited from white privilege, but also that we have actively taken advantage of it. We have to admit that doing so was racist. We have to admit that our racism, whatever form it took, contributed to the systemic inequality in America. We have to admit that, deep down, we knew that it would.

Facing the reality of our own racist actions is not easy. It takes a lot of work. Some years ago, when I was coaching mock trial, I asked one of my black students how she was going to do her hair for the competition. Her eyes widened and she responded that she was going to wear it natural, like she always did. When I suggested that she pull it back to stay out of her face and “look more professional,” she accused me of singling her out. I denied this and said that I had told many of the other girls to pull their hair back to make it less distracting, and some of the other girls acknowledged this. The student said she would think about it and eventually agreed to wear a headband. Of course, she did not really have a choice. I was the coach.

A couple years later, I read an article about black women’s hair and almost immediately realized that what I had done was very, very wrong. I reached out to the student, who was now in college, and apologized (she was very gracious), and I moved on having learned an important lesson. I have told this story to many people over the years, often for the purpose of helping people realize how ignorance of black culture can lead to unintentional discrimination. As I read White Fragility and thought back to this incident, however, I realized that there was nothing unintentional about my actions. I did not need to understand the historical significance of hair in African-American culture to know that it was inappropriate for me to tell this young woman that her hairstyle was unprofessional. In fact, as I re-analyzed the situation, I remembered that I had actually consulted with another adult on the best way to broach the subject with the young woman. I knew better.

This is not a confessional or a ploy to relieve myself of “white guilt” and I do not care for opinions on the morality of what I did (I am leaving out a lot of relevant details for the very purpose of avoiding that discussion – please just assume that I am correct in my assessment that I did the wrong thing in this situation). I am telling this story because I want other white people to read it and think about situations in their own lives where they have perpetuated racism. I want to encourage you to analyze not only what you did or said, but what you were thinking when you did it. If you want to discuss it publicly, you are welcome to do so here, but right now I ask only that you think about it and acknowledge it in your heart. Take the first step.

Buy it on Amazon

Dog Grief

Reflecting on the past three and a half months, I have learned some things about grieving the loss of a beloved dog:

1. Three months is not enough time to prepare for the loss.
2. Three months is not enough time to "get over" the loss, either.
3. I have zero regrets about a single dollar I spent to get those three months after his diagnosis. I would have done the same thing even if I had known in advance that I would only be able to buy three months. I never think about the money I spent as if I could have spent it on something else. No regrets there. (On the other hand, I think I would regret not trying everything that I tried, but that is only me in my circumstances. If Cash had been older or in more pain or if I did not have the resources I had at the time to try everything, I would have made different decisions. No judgment here.)
4. Besides the passage of time, I have not found anything that helps alleviate the horrible grief associated with losing an animal that you spent more time with than any other thing or person in your entire life. 
5. You can avoid hearing other people's ridiculously inappropriate opinions on euthanasia if you simply say that your dog "died of [cancer]" rather than referring to "putting him down" or anything like that. Euthanasia is not something that people can understand until they have been put in that horrible position with their own pet. My dog died of cancer. 
6. I struggle a lot with the fact that I had to make the decision to put Cash to sleep. I wanted nothing more than the cancer to stop his heart so that I would not have to make that decision.
7. You do not need anyone else to tell you when is the "right time" to let your dog die. You know your dog, so you will know when he has reached the limit of what he can handle. There may be other factors that influence your decision. That is okay. You don't owe anyone an explanation.
8. Your grief is compounded by watching your other pet(s) grieve and being unable to offer them any explanation or comfort for their loss.
9. For me, memorializing Cash's life by burying his body and marking the grave was a cathartic experience. I think it helped me begin to start healing.
10. I have not found anything else that helps.
11. Looking at pictures and videos does not help.
12. Getting another dog (even a puppy) does not help. In some ways, it makes it harder.
13. Getting another dog may help your other pet(s) who are grieving.
14. Do not get a young puppy if your other dog is older or just less energetic than a young puppy. The annoyance to your other dog probably negates however much the puppy helped.
15. Every now and then, when I'm alone with Tub, I pet her and tell her that I still miss him too. I think it helps her to hear it. I know it helps me to say it out loud.

Iceland

Click here to see the slideshow of my recent trip to Iceland!

Rick Steves: Ten Ways Iceland Can Kill You

An Exhilarating Ride

A friend who co-owns a tour company on Tinian offered to take me back to Saipan by boat, something that I have always wanted to do. I have this photo of Grandpa riding a boat around Tinian on a reconnaissance mission during World War II:

The expression on his face doesn't reveal how incredible the ride is across the open sea (by the way, my friend was able to identify exactly where Grandpa was - the spot visible in the background is called "Drop Coke" because the soldiers apparently dumped a bunch of coca cola bottles there after the war and now scuba divers can go there to see them). My videos provide a little more insight... This was truly one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. It was frightening, but in an exciting and adventurous way. 

After we passed the point of Tinian, the waves got much bigger - too big for me to hold the camera (and my beer). Sometimes the boat landed in such a way that the salt water drenched my face. 

I felt so alive.

Link to Original Post

Obyan Beach with the Doggos

Playing around with the GoPro a couple weeks ago:

• Video 1
• Video 2 (starts getting exciting right around the 3:00 mark; excitement stops shortly thereafter)

Sex(ual Harassment)-On-The-Beach

At the beach today, just sitting in the water with the dogs, beach "security guard" walks over. He's maybe in his late twenties and seems friendly enough, so we make small talk for a second, then this:

Him: Be careful out there. Are you here with someone?

Me: Yes [looking at my dogs]. We come here all the time. I don't swim by the reef anyway.

Him: I mean besides your dogs?

[I ignore the question, hoping he'll get the hint.]

Him: Where did you park?

Me: [Thinking maybe he has the authority to ask as part of his job] Over there - Why? Is that a problem?

Him: [Shrugs.] It's fine... You aren't here with anyone? Your husband or your fiancé?

Me: I'm here with my dogs. [In fact, there are only 3 other people on the beach, and they clearly are not with me.]

Him: Why isn't your husband or fiancé with you?

Me: I came here to be alone [hint hint] with my dogs.

Him: Do you have a husband or fiancé?

[I pause, just to let him sit in the awkwardness for a second.]

Me: That's a very personal question. 

Him: I was just wondering because... usually I see people here with their husbands and their dogs.

Me: Uh huh. 

Him: But you're just here alone, so I was just checking.

Me: Right. Well, clearly I'm fine.

Him: I guess you're just independent [smirking]. 

Me: Yeah... gotta go give them some water so... [walking away].

If you're a man reading this, you may not understand why it's worth a blog post. If you're a woman, on the other hand, you know. We deal with this shit all of our lives, on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. It's more than an annoyance too. It destroys the atmosphere because your guard has to go up. Why did he want to know where my car was parked? Is he going to try to follow me? Or will he be out there when I get to my car? 

Of course, I push those thoughts aside and try to enjoy the day, but I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, checking to see if he's watching me. Yeah, he's probably just an awkward guy. He's not local; maybe he grew up in a culture where men and women don't interact much until marriage, so he just doesn't know how to talk to women. I don't know. 

But one thing is certain: my marital status was none of his damned business. 

Link to Original Post: http://betsygoespacific.blogspot.com/2017/09/sexual-harassment-on-beach.html

Next Stop: South Pole

(No, I’m not going to the South Pole, Mom! I promise!)

Laying out on the beach at my resort in Tangalle, Sri Lanka, I met an adorable Swiss couple in their mid-twenties, Lee and Priscilla. Lee and Priscilla come from Interlaken (coincidentally, I visited Interlaken en route to Grindelwald in 2001) and speak German, but Lee had studied in San Diego for a year and communicated well in English. Priscilla also understood a lot of English (a lot more than she realized when we first met!), but did not feel comfortable speaking more than a couple words at first. They are such a great couple! They’ve only been together three years, but they have spent as much of that time traveling as possible – they are both passionate about seeing the world and, spending time with them, one can easily see how that mutual passion strengthens their relationship. After talking for a bit, I told them I was going to walk to another beach that I had visited the previous day with a woman named Monika (more about awesome Monika later), because I wanted to collect sea shells. Lee asked if they could join me and I was happy to have them come along!

We spent the morning on “the seashell beach,” which had a really cool Buddhist altar on a patch of green that jutted out into the water. We drank fresh juice from a beachside restaurant called Turtle Landing, and I ate some delicious fresh shrimp there as well. Around 1:00, we decided to head back and they invited me to join them to do some sightseeing that afternoon. I gladly accepted the invitation because I had not made any sightseeing plans in Sri Lanka and they already had a driver arranged to take them to a lighthouse and a couple Buddhist temples. I wasn’t super excited about seeing a lighthouse, but I thought, what the heck, I’ll check it out.

I am so glad I did. Dondra Head Lighthouse, the tallest lighthouse in Sri Lanka and one of the tallest in Asia, is located almost at the southernmost tip of Sri Lanka. In fact, standing at the lighthouse, you are literally at the end of the world: the next landmass to the south is the South Pole!

We were the only tourists at the lighthouse when we arrived, and we entered to find a couple of guys who worked there (it is still an active lighthouse). For a small fee, they allowed us to climb to the top of the lighthouse. There were a lot of stairs. When we reached the top, we opened a small door and climbed out onto the ledge.

To say that the view was breathtaking is inadequate. I have never, in my life, seen a more spectacular view anywhere in the world. We were all speechless for at least a full minute after we stepped outside. There we were, standing alone on top of the world, basically at the end of the world, looking out at the vast Ocean and the landscape of this magnificent country. I will post some videos, but there is just no way to capture that feeling. The clean, brisk air, the birds flying below, perfect spots of bright white clouds, blue water crashing ferociously into the rocks below, and the endless Ocean. That experience with nature was far more spiritual for me than any church or temple I have visited before or since. Just beautiful.

I have no idea how long we were up there. It could have been 15 minutes or an hour. I was just lost in the moment. Eventually, we started back down the stairs and ran into at least 30 tourists on their way up. We had come at the perfect time.

• Click this link for a video from the top of the lighthouse. 
• Click this link for another video from the top of the lighthouse.

After leaving the lighthouse, we went to a nearby Buddhist temple that was hundreds of years old and fed bananas to the temple elephants in the yard. 

 

Then we drove to another temple, on top of which sat a magnificent giant Buddha, maybe eight stories high and covered in mosaic tile. The inside of the temple had amazing sculptures and paintings, some over 600 years old. 

 

It started sprinkling a bit as we were leaving the temple, but the rain passed by the time we reached the resort. After freshening up in our cabanas, we met for dinner at the restaurant and later shared a bottle of South African wine on my verandah. It was a wonderful day spent with wonderful people – Priscilla was using English quite a bit by the end of the day – and I was sad that they would be leaving the next day for Mirissa Beach.

The next day, Wednesday, I spent most of the day at the beach and at my villa planning the last few days of my trip. I needed to do some souvenir shopping, so I decided to head to Galle, a city built in and around an old Dutch fort about two hours away. Thursday morning, I went down to meet my driver and the hotel manager, Rohan, informed me that Lee and Priscilla had left a small item behind and they had called asking if I could send it to them. Rohan told them that I was heading to Galle, so they messaged me asking if I could pick them up on the way! I was more than happy to see my friends again, so my driver stopped in Mirissa, where we picked up the Swiss kids, and then we went together to Galle.

We had a lovely day eating and shopping in the cute colonial town. Galle reminded me a little of Valetta, Malta, which was a fusion of British architecture and customs with African cultural influences. Galle had a definite European flair, but the Asian influences were a constant reminder of how far away they had come from colonial times. The shops were great and the company was such a pleasure! Late afternoon, we returned to the car and headed one town over to drop Lee and Priscilla at their new hotel in Unawatuna. Again, I was sad to part with them, but it was so nice to get to spend another day together.

On the drive from Unawatuna to Tangalle, my driver told me a little about the impact of the 2004 Tsunami on Southern Sri Lanka. He was actually one of two men from the district who attended a post-Tsunami training camp in Thailand. He returned as a manager of the rebuilding process, a job he held for two years when the project was complete. I was surprised to learn that Tangalle and Galle were two of the hardest hit cities in the Tsunami. Over 40,000 people in Sri Lanka lost their lives in the Tsunami, many from this area. If you are interested in learning more about the Tsunami, which killed 250,000 people in 18 countries, there is a documentary available on YouTube that I’ve watched twice. Also, the film The Impossible with Ewan Macgregor and Naomi Watts is excellent.

Today is November 20. On the morning of November 23, I will head to Colombo to spend the day before flying to Mumbai that evening. From Mumbai, I will be coming back to America. Time has flown.

Sri Lanka

On the evening of Thursday, November 13, I flew from Jaipur to Mumbai. After a layover in Mumbai, my plane departed for Sri Lanka around 2 am on November 14. I arrived in Colombo (the largest city, but no longer the capitol) around 5:30 in the morning, completely exhausted. Fortunately, Shanti from Amber Tours arranged for a driver to pick me up from the airport so I did not have to think about anything. I had been sick the last few days in Jaipur and was still feeling weak (although the doctor had cleared me to travel), so I fell asleep for awhile in the car. The driver was friendly and pointed out some nice sights along the three-hour drive (when I was awake) to my destination: Tangelle.

The first thing I noticed about Sri Lanka is how completely different it is from India. I don't know what I expected having very little prior knowledge of this tiny country, but I guess I thought it would be like India shrunken into an island. I could not have been more wrong! Everyone who follows this blog knows that I am completely in love with India, the people, the culture, the sights, etc., and I rarely write about problems in the country because I am so overwhelmed by its beauty. But, for the record, there is one HUGE problem with India: it is dirty. By dirty, I mean heavy pollution in the air and water, trash piled on streets and sidewalks, and sickly animals running the streets and leaving feces behind. This is just a fact of life in India, and the Indian people want the government to clean up the country (and there is hope that PM Modi will make some improvements, particularly with water sanitation and sewage systems). Just to be clear, while the cities are shockingly dirty to Westerners, the Indian people are not dirty. In fact, the people are so clean that they eat with their hands. (I know I personally don't wash my hands as frequently as they do). I've heard Westerners make offensive comments about Indians smelling bad, which is just plain ignorant. Indians fill their homes with fresh flowers and jasmine incense. They use the sweetest smelling natural perfumes and oils on their skin. One of the things I missed most last time I came home from India was the smell. Yes, the trash stinks, but that's universal - who's s&*t smells like roses? (Cue Outkast...)

So, major difference in Sri Lanka: It is clean! The streets are cleared of litter and people can actually go running on the sidewalks without falling over a heap of trash. This was a refreshing sight, for sure. There is less traffic, since the population of the entire country is only 19 million (equal to the population of Delhi, India's third largest city), and less obvious pollution. The skies are clear.

My driver said that the urban landscape has improved significantly since the Tsunami in 2004. Over 40,000 Sri Lankans lost their lives in the Tsunami (50,000 by some estimates); they had to rebuild basically half the country.

After a nice drive from Colombo to the Southern Province, we arrived at my resort: Palm Paradise Cabanas  in Tangalle (aka "Tangalla"). I had originally booked an open air cabana on stilts with mosquito netting around the bed but no A/C (about $25 USD per night) because I'm broke and a seasoned traveler - who needs A/C anyway?

Me, as it turns out. After sweating it out for about 20 minutes, I walked to reception and asked about the Villas on the hill. For $60 USD more per night, you get A/C, glass windows and free wi-fi in your villa. Suddenly, I didn't feel so broke...

The cabanas are actually really neat, but not for someone recovering from being sick and exhausted from weeks of traveling.

So I moved from here...

   Cabana Video

to here...

Villa Video

...and then I was happy.

Here's a video of the walkway to the beach.

Tangelle is not on the above map of Sri Lanka, but it is located near Hambantota is on the southeast tip. It is definitely the most naturally beautiful place I have ever seen. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves...

Goyambokka Beach, Tangelle, Sri Lanka

Happiness

Another photo of the beautiful beach at my resort

Drinking coconut water from an orange coconut - naturally filtered!

Lone fisherman - I watch him every morning.

Buddhist altar on a narrow green spot jutting out into the Ocean. A vast majority (over 80%) of Sri Lankans are Buddhist; about 18% are Hindu.

Exploring another beach in Tangelle

Thanks for reading! More to follow...