The past two months in hypothetical blog post titles, categorized.

Didn't see it coming

• I almost joined a cult. Whoops!!
• Escaped a cult and not sure how f---ed over my mind is?
• On being a neurotic Christian. 
• When good intentions don't preclude failure. 
• When a detour feels like a prison. 
• The harmful effects of shame. 
• Is it all just in my head? 

Coping

• Recovering from a punch to the heart. 
• TV bingeing: a recipe for general life dissatisfaction. 
• Falling down the Wikipedia rabbit hole. 

Metacognition and deconstruction

• Realizing I think in black and white. 
• R.I.P black and white thinking. 
• Paralyzed: don't know how to think. 
• Does anything mean anything? 
• Nuance and ambiguity is everything now, I guess. 

My emotional self

• On verbal dramatics and hysterical realism OR When every word that comes from my mouth is hyperbolic. 
• How my strong emotions make others uncomfortable. 
• To be or not to be: when contradictory advice makes me question my entire identity and very personhood. 

In sum

• The agony of agonizing. 
• Crying and I don't know why. 
• Jesus?

Bolivia Anecdote: Cinco minutos, hermanas...

Author's Note: So although I had planned on drafting blog posts while I was in Bolivia to post once I returned (because we didn't have internet at the School of Christ), I definitely didn't get around to doing that. Whoops. There wasn't really time. In lieu of that, I'll be periodically posting anecdotes, memories and revelations from God that I received in the school, as they come to mind. I hope to mix the humorous and absurd stories with the profound and serious. Buckle up!!

Cinco minutos, hermanas...

So one of the responsibilities I had during the three-week long school was to be "room warden" for a group of 20 or so of my classmates. There were two women's rooms; my friend Jessica was in charge of Room One and I was in charge of Room Two. We were chosen because of our bilingual skills, mostly (as Bolivians and Americans were split evenly between the two rooms). As you can imagine, each room had row upon row of bunk beds and our room had the special privilege of a wooden door that scraped nails-on-a-chalkboard-style against the floor every time it was open or shut. Good times.

One of the first days in the school we were instructed on the way that our bunk beds needed to be: signs with our names on our bunks (in case individuals needed to be punished for not following room regulations), towels ONLY hung onto the frames (not even jackets or coats were allowed), beds neatly made each morning (our Bolivian peers tended to bring legit bedding, like sheets and blankets, rather than sleeping bags), luggage/backpacks zipped and placed directly underneath the bed with two pairs (maximum) of shoes lined up meticulously in opposing corners.

Part of my duties were to make sure folks were adhering to these regulations, but also make sure that everyone got up on time and went to bed on time. First off, this was a bit of a challenge seeing as I didn't have a watch... but that was soon remedied as my American teammates Matthew, then Jacob, graciously lent me theirs. You see, the tricky thing was that if anyone from my room was either late to 6:00am prayer or caught up past the 10:00pm lights-out hour, my butt would be on the line AND the entire room would be punished. So the stakes were *high*.

Each morning we would be woken up by a bell ringing at 5:30am. I would quickly albeit with a noted absolute lack of coordination, fumble my way down from my rickety top bunk and shuffle over to turn on the lights. The first week or so, people would get up as soon as the lights were turned on. By week three, though, there were a handful of regulars that continued to lie there, unmoving, perhaps attempting to squeeze in a few more minutes of precious rest. I mean, seriously, some girls knew how to take it down to the wire. I tried to be fair by giving folks multiple warnings, 20, 15, 10, 5, 2 minutes and then 30 seconds out from our 6:00am call time. The same would go for counting down to lights-out at 10:00pm. I would just say tersely, "__ minutes, sisters [__ minutos, hermanas]." It became such a regular thing that my American teammate DeAndrea (who knew very little Spanish) would repeat perfectly after me, "Cinco minutos, hermanas!"

The strange thing was that even with these (what I believed to be) ample warnings, some girls seemed absolutely shocked when I would give the final warning in the evening, "30 seconds and I'm turning out the lights!" I would hear cries of alarm, followed by pleading, "Hermana, por favor," or "Ay, no, hermana!" Hermana! Hermana! and a half-hearted scrambling to get ready for bed.Without fail, though, I would turn out the lights at 10:00pm, because if not, the guy in charge of discipline would have my head for it (he would regularly be patrolling the hall at this time).

One time when the pleading was especially numerous and insistent, and I abruptly turned out the lights anyway (to further cries of distress), one of our Peruvian classmates, Eina, said, "April is a good soldier of Christ Jesus! She cares more about pleasing God than pleasing man!"

There may have been some truth to that.

Mostly, though, I was just happy to finally go to bed.

"Hermana..."

SAYONARA, UW SCHOOL OF SOCIAL WORK

Here's my final personal statement I'm submitting with a culminating binder portfolio. Yes, I'm actually submitting this.

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            When I began the BASW program at the University of Washington I was generally an optimistic, idealistic and naïve person. Now? Well, at least I’m still idealistic. Sort of. Being in the undergraduate program has been like opening up the stomach cavity of humanity and being forced to see and smell the pulsating entrails normally covered by flesh and skin. I’ve come to understand at a very deep level the mechanisms of oppression, the context of history with social problems and the seemingly insurmountable odds we find ourselves up against as social change “agents.” While the world may seem bleak at times, I’ve learned that because of my existence as a social worker, it is now and always will be marginally less so. Slow clap.

            As a result of being in this program, I’ve had to adapt and survive through self-care. In the morning I would learn about how black people were lynched and used as sex slaves. Then, I’d go to coffee with my classmates and try not to cut myself.

            The School of Social Work encourages students to think critically and independently. Well, in this school, I sure have learned how to do just that. While the school may imply that social workers are responsible for the fate of all oppressed populations everywhere, and that if we don’t do something, then no one will, I know in my heart that this is simply not true. I refuse to live in agony and misery, wallowing in privileged guilt and an unhealthily metastasized savior-complex. While I am aware of the plight of vulnerable populations, I as one individual, can only do so much. I will do what I can to address poverty, violence and suffering in the world, but once I’ve put in my eight hours for the day, I will surrender myself to a coping mechanism entitled fatalism.

            When I leave this place, the School of Social Work, I will forever have on my goggles of “awareness.” Trust me, even when I try to enjoy something as mindless and popularly entertaining as The Hunger Games, for example, I will end up writing a five-page analysis of its major themes with respect to power and oppression[1]. I will carry with me ecological-systems theory, empowerment theory, the ethnic identity development model, cultural responsiveness (the dialogic model, of course) and the strengths perspective. These theories have affected the way I interact with people, whether in my professional or personal life; I have internalized them that much.

            In terms of “staying current” with social welfare, I’ll always feed my insatiable compulsion to “be in touch” with the reality of the underclass, whether it be through the NPR public health blog (Shots), The Seattle Times, National Geographic, literary fiction or memoirs of people who have survived horrific circumstances (e.g. Strength in What Remains, Desert Flower, Persepolis). It is my duty as a professional social worker to stay informed, and informed I will stay!

            My strengths as a social worker are my ability to articulate forms of oppression, my critical thinking, my self-reflection and my ability to establish rapport with clients through genuine warmth and caring. Areas for growth would be maintaining professional boundaries with clients, political advocacy and research-informed practice.

            It has certainly been an interesting ride, this BASW experience. I’ve had my hopes crushed into a finely ground powder, then snorted through someone’s nose. I’ve learned to be much more realistic, to reject martyrdom and to enjoy life for what it offers. As a social worker, I may not be able to fundamentally change the structure of society to uplift the downtrodden and usher them into an age of triumph, true brotherhood and utopian parity. However, I’ll do my small part, quietly, without heraldry or accolades, humming a pop ballad from the 1990s.

“Two roads diverged in a wood and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.”

-Robert Frost

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[1] Attached.

Sometimes You Just Have to Laugh

Took a morning Pilates class for the first time at the local gym today. The only Pilates I'd ever done before was at 30 minute Mari Winsor tape, and I'd only done that to please my mom. Hahaha...

Oh man, it was a crack up! There were about four diehard women that the instructor, Perla, knew by first name. I mean, these women were crazy strong!! But then in the back there were these three random slacker men that made me laugh out loud every time I glanced their way. We had to do this intense ab exercise--20 reps--and halfway through I was starting to get tired, UGH! But then I looked behind me at those three men and this is what I saw:

Two of them were just lying there on their backs, legs bent, not moving at all. They'd simply quit and didn't care. The last guy, Lord bless him, was doing some form of crunches, but not very successfully.

Oh man, and those four buff women in the front were taking themselves all seriously with their perfect muscle tone and control, not shaking at all as we finished up the last rep.

Just goes to show, the "no pain no gain" attitude is only for type A's. I'm so thankful those men were there today, cuz they added some much needed perspective. I mean, If you're tired, man, just quit. Life's too short to torture yourself for the sake of "fitness."

;-P

Email Archives

So my Gmail account has been acting kind of funky and slow lately, so I thought I'd clean it out (I'm almost at 50% capacity for storage). Here's somethin' cool!


I wrote to Rachel R. on Valentine's day 2007

Positive loves!!!!!!!!!!!!! We all should be each others' valentines. Our girlie friendships>any boy.

She wrote back to me

boys, you make me tired. not now, todd.

Some things never change. :)