Month: January 2017

Speak Out: How I Am Helping Make My Country Great, and How My Country is Making Me Greater

When I started this blog, Gracefully Global, I meant it as an evolving study on how to be a traveler, gracefully.  That is, to cherish and respect the cultures that we come upon as we learn about and interact with the world through our traveling ways.  Somehow, the political turmoil of this month has felt like a big slap in the face for many of us who value other cultures and exploration, no matter what our political identity.  In the face of the daily barrage of political news and the persistently changing landscape of our government, I almost feel like I should be cutting up my passport and never leaving my house again.
Luckily my passport is still intact, as, surprisingly, I’ve experienced some major positives as an outcome of the events over the last few weeks that I never would have seen coming.  Two positives, in particular, are keeping me motivated and steadfast in my beliefs and in working to maintain my optimism for whats to come.  So I’d like to share them with you.

I feel connected.

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Marching together and writing postcards together! The fight continues. 🙂

The fact that I am writing this post now is a testament to the higher engagement I’ve experienced online and in person over the last few weeks, connecting with friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike.  Not to say all of the connections have been positive, but they have all certainly been illuminating.  Life somehow feels more interesting when you delve down a bit deeper to what makes each other tick, doesn’t it?  And with connection, and a deeper understanding, it seems the sky is the limit on what could happen next.

The standout occasion for this connectedness was, of course, the women’s march, an incredible wash of positive energy, and a unique, historical moment of togetherness.  Peaceful and optimistic, women of all shapes, sizes, ages, religions, politics, you name it.  We were all there, and even better, we all seem to agree on the quality of this experience.  I made a video about our experience at the San Diego march.

And the connectedness continues.  I read a Vogue article about advocacy that I immediately trivialized as being too “beginner” in its advice.  But really, it was perfect.  It suggested that we organize groups of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances to work together on political advocacy goals.  I don’t know why I originally thought of the article as overly simplistic.  A few hours saturated with of frustrating political news later was all it took to change that thought, as I was fired up and the Vogue article suddenly seemed genius.  I reached out to some friends, and we’ve already had our first meeting!

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My college roomie holding up her stack of postcards.

The friends that agreed to participate in these meetings are the women from each of my life’s major adventures that have stood out as the no-nonsense, powerful, empathetic, energetic, intelligent people that made life feel better.  We met in a cozy, neighborhood café in San Diego.  There were a few new faces, friends of friends, who I was thrilled to welcome.  We enjoyed our food, and rolled up our sleeves and started writing Women’s March postcards to our political representatives.  We cracked jokes and strategised.  Laughed and shouted (the café staff were really patient with us, thankfully).  It was exactly what we needed, after starting the evening feeling rather helpless and overwhelmed, politically, and each leaving that evening with a stack of postcards covered in the ink of our thoughts and concerns, and addressed to each of our political representatives. If meeting together these ten times for the 10 Actions/100 Days movement serves only to give me a bellyache from a good laugh and some updates from my favorite people, then so be it.  That would still be a win in my book.  And, ironically, the action for the current 10 Days is forming huddles, just as we have done, which we realized on the night of our meeting.

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Writing postcards to our political reps!


The other equally significant outcome of this rollercoaster of a month is something that I never saw coming:
I feel comfortable calling myself a feminist again.  

As much as I’ve changed as a person over the last few decades, I’m realizing that I really haven’t changed that much.  I’m still that gal that took gender studies my freshman year of college, and started making my own t-shirts in the first versions of Photoshop with whatever deep feminist theory was on my mind at the time.  Which I wore to the annual feminist theatre production I produced at UCSD.  As I’ve increased in age, I’ve learned to “tone in down.”

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My beloved godmother. Let’s just say, this wasn’t even close to being her first march.

I can’t put my finger on exactly what caused my current change of heart. I surmise that Hillary, Pantsuit Nation, and our participation in the largest protest on American soil – a women’s march – has something to do with it.  I hope that feminism can now achieve for politics what it once was criticized for not achieving for itself: bringing together women of every background, united in our quest for ethically minded government leadership.

That’s the lemonade I’ve managed to squeeze so far, and I’m expecting a lot more of it to come.  So I hope to have many other positives to share, soon, as well as more reports from our meetings!  In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you.  Have you felt more connected, more feminist, or anything else that is personally positive?  Thanks in advance for your thoughts!

I wrote this piece to join others in the WordPress hosted conversation, Speak Out.

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My wonderful friend Lindsay, who made the trip to Washington.

Being an American Abroad in 2017

I woke up New Year’s Eve day in a small guest room off of a coffee shop on the lakeshore of Catemaco, Veracruz (Mexico) to a large flock of birds chirping incessantly.

I decided to take advantage of my early rising and unusual lodging arrangement by sitting on the porch of the coffee shop and enjoying a cup of tea and the lake view (pity I don’t drink coffee because Veracruz is famous for delicious beans).  At the next table, a pair of men – also enjoying the porch – were switching their conversation between English and Spanish.  My German travel companion and I played the typical game of “guess the home country of the ex-pats/tourists without directly asking them.”  We thought they were German, as the owner of the coffee shop was a German ex-pat.

Eventually, my friend got up to use the restroom, at which point one of the men decided to introduce himself while his buddy was packing.  He was an organic pesticide salesman traveling for business, and taking a holiday break to visit the famous butterflies and this beautiful lake in Veracruz.  He was the sort of man who used a bad word every three sentences, but it didn’t bother me because someone once told me people who swear are more honest.  Which was ironic, considering our next topic of conversation, where the inevitable question arose:

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“El Centro, California,” I responded.  “You?”

“I’m Canadian!” he belted, his voice rising above the hundreds of chirping birds across the street.
Now, I’m no expert.  But this accent was not the accent of a Canadian.  Or rather, since I don’t know Canadian accents well but can certainly recognize an American accent, that was the sound of an American if I’d ever heard one.  Our conversation continued on into past experiences he had “visiting” Seattle, and how much his Mexican farmer clients supposedly “hated” Americans because of Trump.  Which was a bit of an “ah-ha” moment for me in deciphering the mystery of this man.  I had never experienced any animosity as an American abroad, but I was open to hearing his opinions.

We said a pleasant goodbye and my friend and I headed out to a jungle sanctuary for the afternoon, followed by a rambunctious New Year’s Eve celebration in Santiago Tuxtla, and finally, back to Mexico City.  God, I love that city.  I had such a great time in Mexico City (posts to come!), and truly enjoyed the Mexican people, above all else.  Often I felt safer as a solo female traveler than I do in big cities in Europe, as I was frequently surrounded by families, and felt a much more relaxed, considerate vibe.  That is, with one major exception.

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The famous fountain in the Anthropology Museum’s courtyard known as “el paraguas”, Spanish for “the umbrella”.

On my second-to-last day in Mexico, I found myself enjoying the Teotihuacan pyramids followed by an afternoon at the National Museum of Anthropology, one of the more respected museums in Mexico.  I was taking a rest at the museum’s restaurant, as I love myself a good museum café, when a bit of a ruckus fired up near me.  I don’t like to make assumptions, but what seemed to be a fairly affluent American family sitting at the next table was complaining about everything, and the restaurant management was making rounds to appease their barrage of complaints.  I was embarrassed, as I feel inherently linked to other Americans while abroad in a way I don’t when I’m in the United States.

Everyone sitting on the beautiful patio trying to enjoy their lunch heard the ruckus, and an English-speaking Mexican randomly spoke up: “Be careful,” she said.  “Stay in the museum.  There are riots, and they are after Americans.”
I heard her words, and I immediately went from trying to tune the scene out, to hanging on their every word. “My husband called me and warned me,” she went on.  “They are angry about the oil prices, and they are blaming Trump.  They are going after the Wal-Marts in the city, looting, because the store is American.”

As I quietly freaked out by slumping in my chair and frantically texting my German friend who works at the Goethe-Institut and is very connected to city happenings, the American family didn’t make any effort to hide their concern.  They went from table to table, asking for more information from anyone that would respond.  Nice Samaritans began googling local news sites, and a young man tried to calm them, “The United States Embassy is next door.  You couldn’t be in a safer place.  And if you want, you can call them, but you really don’t need to.”  The family spent the next half-hour on their cell phones, calling various people at the embassy.

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Hiding away in the Anthropology Museum, and watching other visitors take it all in.

Meanwhile, my German friend started getting answers.  The Mexican woman was right.  There was looting going on, and they were targeting Americans.  His local friends that knew he was hosting me had started to text him, worried about me and urging me to stay inside.  I spent a surreal few hours in the starkly quiet museum surrounded by ancient treasures, trying not to think about the potential chaos outside.  They finally closed and ushered us out, and I called an Uber to take me directly to meet my friend.  As we drove along, there were guards armed with semi-automatic weapons outside all of the stores we passed.

The night ended without incident, and I was even able to enjoy the historic center the next morning, despite the warnings of a few friends in the city.  I returned home to San Diego unscathed, but with a lot on my mind.
This was my first trip outside the United States where my president – or rather, the president on everyone’s minds – was not Obama, a president that I have never heard a negative word about in all my travels.  Admittedly, I have a limited perspective, as I didn’t travel much before the Obama administration.  Hiding away in the Anthropology museum that afternoon in Mexico City was the first time I’ve felt vulnerable due to my nationality and the international politics of my president.  And technically, Trump hadn’t even been inaugurated yet.  The words of the “Canadian” organic pesticide salesman began to resonate.

Whether we like it or not, however long or short our travels are, we are mini-ambassadors to the United States in every interaction we have.  Interactions that are now under the shadow of the Trump administration, an administration that has sent a clear message to the rest of the world that they are putting “America first.”  Whatever that really means – I don’t mean this to be a partisan issue – it is left to the interpretation of the receiver of that information, which we can’t control.  And in the case of the Mexicans, understandably angry about the rise in oil prices, the Trump administration was an easy bad-guy, a scapegoat for their woes.  But here I am, in their country, face-to-face with these angry people, and Trump is safely in the Whitehouse with men with semi-automatic weapons standing on his roof, protecting him.

I’m considering being “Canadian” as well in order to safely live my ex-pat life, the life that I’ve become so accustomed to over the last five years, a life I’m not ready to give up yet, but a life that has drastically changed shape within this new international political landscape.

I’m curious if any of you have had similar experiences abroad in the last few days, weeks, and months.  I would love to hear your thoughts, insights, and concerns.

Thanks for reading.