Are you Indispensible?

It's no surprise to anyone reading this blog that I'm a big fan of Seth Godin. I read his blog and routinely send his posts to my staff, my boss, my colleagues, our key volunteers, and friends of friends though my Google Reader and Facebook accounts. I dragged my boss to The Linchpin Session in Manhattan in January, and have recommended that new book to dozens of colleagues, a handful of whom are reading it so we can plan leadership trainings.  I've recommended or assigned chapters from Triiibes as preliminary reading for some of the teams I work with -- because when you're responsible for leading an army of volunteers who will walk hand-in-hand with you to hell, you'd better be able to know what's most important to them.

I'm a fan. As my awesome boss regularly teases me, "I drink the Kool-Aid." (It's my favorite cherry flavor, and every so often I get a glass that doesn't have quite enough sugar in it.) So when I saw the announcement on Seth's blog last week about the High Leverage Week opportunity, you can imagine how my heart jumped into my throat. It's been a crazy few days since then; I wasn't sure if I'd actually have the nerve to apply or if I'd let my lizard brain use the excuse of exhaustion to slither past the deadline claiming, "oops, I was too busy  with important projects; I guess I'll have to wait until next time."


Fifteen minutes ago, I pressed submit on the application. And whether I'm accepted to the program or not, I'm grateful for the opportunity to apply, for the opportunity to think about these questions, and the responsibility to articulate my answers in a way that makes sense. I'm grateful for the renewed energy and excitement. I'm grateful for the chance to say, "yes, I want this, and here's why." Here are the contents of my application -- because this is what I want and what I'm working toward, with Seth's direct instruction or not.

URLabout you
www.google.com/profiles/expetesso#about

Tell us where you work.
American Cancer Society (ACS)
www.cancer.org and www.morebirthdays.com

What's the purpose or mission or reason for the organization? Why did you choose it? Why is it worth noticing? Why does it matter?
The American Cancer Society's mission is to eradicate cancer, which is why I chose to work here. My father was diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer a year and two weeks after I graduated from college. Caring for him changed my worldview and made me reevaluate what's most important; when I arrived at my conclusion (life, health, vitality, and the opportunity to take full advantage of all three), I started looking for meaningful work preserving all four.

I chose to work with ACS, first as a volunteer and then as a member of the staff, because the Society has an amazing track record of making a measurable difference in the lives of all people with cancer -- and people who will never get cancer because of our work. The Society has been the support behind every major breakthrough in cancer care over the last century, and has the power to actually cure this disease.

But I stay at ACS because in spite of these amazing wins, the organization gets in its own way every single day. I know that if I can figure out how to articulate and leverage my vision for how we can do business better, I can help fix that. I can help make us smarter, faster, more responsive, more articulate, more convincing, and better able to save more lives than we are today.

What do you do? 
I strategize, analyze, and direct the online fundraising programs of ACS in New York and New Jersey. I collaborate with nearly two dozen teams of people across these states and across the country, to ship tools that allow our supporters to fundraise on our behalf, to engage with us to create a world that they wish to live in.

But what I *want* to do is to transform my ideas about relationship management and transparency of purpose into support systems that my teams can ship to our staff and volunteers to make their lives easier, to make their work faster, smarter, more useful, and more rewarding.


Where are you going and where have you been?
I fight cancer. I've been in the thick of it in hospital rooms and surgical suites and pharmacy waiting lines and emergency room visits. When people ask me, "what's your five-year plan,” or, “where do you want to go next," my answer is, "I'm going where I'm needed. My plan is a lifetime one; I'm going to leverage an army of people who care, who count, to fund the cure for cancer and figure out how to spread it." I'm going to change the way we solicit research grant applications and spend our research dollars, so that the number one cause of premature death in the world has treatment options and cures that work in the third world as well as the first, so that surgery and chemotherapy and radiation aren't the only options in places where wells aren't dug, roads aren't built, and the sick wait for help to come to them. I'm going to make it easier for all people to witness and take part in the good work we do every day, to be part of the solution in their community, in their world. And once I've done that I'll figure out what comes next.

I’ve been in the field with volunteers who stay up all night, who work for days and weeks and months to pass screening guidelines and messages about living with healthy choices from hand to hand like a child’s game of telephone. I’m going to leverage choice architecture that makes it easier for people to find and live with the options that will keep them healthy. And I’m going to places where I can work with people to make this happen, to position potential energy in such a way that it becomes kinetic exponentially, so that the actions of each individual reach hundreds of others.

This is what the American Cancer Society can do -- this is where I want to go. But I need some help to make it happen.



If you're interested in being part of this amazing class, you've got fourteen hours left to submit your application -- the deadline is noon tomorrow, New York time.

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Playing by the numbers

I've spent the last two days in St. Louis, Missouri -- a city I've never before had the privilege to visit -- with 120 of my colleagues from across the country.  Meetings like this are a terrific opportunity to connect with smart, passionate people whom I rarely get to spend time with, and a huge inspiration.  When you're in a room with representatives of the whole nation, the "big numbers" ring just a little bit more true, a little more realistically.

In Tuesday morning's general session, I heard -- and saw -- the cancer incidence and mortality rates from 2009. 1,479,350 Americans were diagnosed with cancer in 2009.

1,479,350. That's not just a number. Those are people. 1,479,350 people forever changed by the words "you have cancer." Parents. Children. Friends. Colleagues. Neighbors. Strangers. The teller at your bank. The pilot of your plane. The bagger at your market. The principal of your school. The sister of your neighbor. That guy who gets off the bus one stop before you. The little girl who walks her dog at your park. The teenager who skateboards in front of your favorite restaurant. The telemarketer who interrupts your dinner every Thursday. Your best friend.

Cancer does not discriminate; it can strike anyone at any time. And too often, it's deadly. 562,340 Americans who were surviving cancer perished in 2009. 562,340 lives were snuffed out. It isn't possible for me to go to work every day without remembering just how high the stakes are, just who benefits when we succeed, just who pays when we fail. It's sobering, to say the least.

Those are the stats that can terrify, can paralyze, can make this problem called "cancer" so Goliath. But there are so many amazing, encouraging, stalwart, inspiring, galvanizing numbers, too. The number of people who stand up to demand healthcare reform. The number of lawmakers who responded with "Yes, we can." The number of people who fundraise through Relay For Life, who advocate with groups like ACSCAN, who donate as generously as they can, who volunteer their time and expertise to provide services to those in need. The number who give and give and give, tirelessly, selflessly, humbly, devotedly. The number of people who, when rocked by the harsh reality of an unfair world where bad things happen to good people, stand up and fight back. The number of people who are brave little Davids.

Of course, I don't have those exact figures burned into my brain yet; they change every day, and the most recent ones are tucked into a notebook packed in the bottom of my suitcase. But those figures are the ones that keep me getting up every morning, going to work when I'm tired, talking and talking and talking and shouting and singing and dancing about the work of the American Cancer Society every time someone gives me an opportunity. Because every one is important -- the people whose lives we celebrate as they struggle through what it means to "have cancer"; the people who die but will never be forgotten, whom we work in remembrance of, and the army of those who fight back with every breath. Every one is a story. Every one is a real, flesh-and-blood human being.

I'm sitting in the airport, growing steadily more impatient to board my plane and return to New York. In part because the two day meeting was exhausting and I'm looking forward to going home to my cozy apartment and cuddly cats, but also because I'm ready to get back to work at the office tomorrow, building the projects that will make us more likely to succeed.

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Is anyone buying what anyone's selling?

When I was a little kid, my parents frequently brought my sister and I along to trade shows. They were always either renovating or building or re-outfitting our house, so the Capital District Home Show, Garden Show, and Flower Show were much-anticipated annual events. Seeing the amazing exhibits, playing with tile chips, admiring the creativity of really talented people -- it was magical.

Now, as an adult, I eschew trade shows unless I am in search of a very particular item or service. For example, in early March of 2009, I went to a Home and Garden show specifically looking for urban container gardening tips.  I found two vendors with information for me, and while I admired a great deal of other things, I didn't pick up information that I didn't need. Why do so if I was only going to throw it away later? 

Last Saturday, I spent a few hours staffing a booth at NYC's GLTB Expo at the Javitt's Center, and while the focus of the event was different from others I've been to (my space was surrounded by companies offering commitment ceremony travel packages, new beverage lines, exotic lingerie, cosmetics and skin care for men, financial planning, and adoption counseling -- none of which I'm in the market for), it was a welcoming, open, friendly space for everyone who walked through the door -- even a mainstream-looking, too-often-pass-for-straight girl like me.  I had fantastic conversations with dozens of people about Relay For Life -- so many attendees were thrilled to find a non-profit organization (there were only a handful of us present) offering a way to help their own "without getting all political".

But a few hours was all I could handle; by the time I left the convention center, I was commercial-ed out. "Yes, sweetheart, you're lovely and I'm sure you've got a lot to say, and I'd be better able to pay attention if you were wearing a dress over that mesh bikini -- which I'm not interested in buying, actually, but thank you for the unending sales pitch." There was just so much "buy me!" "try me!" "see me!" "pick me!" advertising of every possible commodity -- by the time I left, I just wanted to go home, whip up a smoothie from home-grown ingredients and not look at external stimuli for awhile.

I think the side effects of my Greening Challenge from a few years back have ruined me as a consumer.  I just can't see or hear an advertisement for something without going all analytical and "what does anyone *really* need that for?" about it. Today, I finally cut the cord again on another degree of the commercialism I'm willing to allow into my sacred space (home) -- I canceled my cable plan, and subscriptions for two of the magazines I receive but never read because the ads are just so irritating. (Side Note: this means I will be going out to watch and live-update the Yankee games this summer, since I can't do so from home. Anyone want to come with?) I culled my RSS reader and dropped every feed where ads or attention-whoring calls away from the actual content, no matter how good that actual content is, and every blog that forces an unearned click through to an advertisement-laden "full post." The latter even counts for friends -- sorry, but I'll have to keep up with you offline.

I recognize that this makes me a snob.  I'm willing to attend trade shows if I'm in the market for a particular item; I'm willing to work a crowd to share an opportunity I genuinely believe will benefit people, but I won't ever be a hard pitch sales person for something I'm not exceedingly passionate about; I'm only willing to pay attention to something if it's deemed worthy of my limited time and focus; and I'm not necessarily quick but certainly absolute in my ability to wipe out what doesn't work for me.

I can't tell if this is completely out in left field, or becoming more typical of the average person. If Seth Godin is to be believed (and yes, I'm a kool-aid drinking devotee) we're on a pendulum swing toward the point where all attention must be earned, always, but I events like the one this weekend make me wonder how far through the arc we've actually come.

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Letters

Dear Lissa,

Packing chocolate for your trip to St. Louis might be the smartest thing you have ever done as preparation for a business trip. That it was an accident doesn't make it any less brilliant.  Make Lindt Truffles a stock item on your travel list.

Love,
Yourself

P.S. You probably should have thought of this three years ago; I'm guessing that most of your travel hatred can be mellowed with a little ganache.

~*~

Dear Contra Friends,

You may keep your dance camps with beautifully rustic cabins near gorgeous lakes and streams and mountains. I am very happy with my king sized bed and 600 thread-count sheets, shower with scalding water and an extra-long, double-depth tub, wireless internet, and room service. We'll always have Flurry.

Love,
Lissa

P.S. Save me a swing on Saturday?

~*~

Dear Mom, Becky, and Mary,

I know we canceled the trip to Virginia this summer for really good reasons, but can we make a pact to make the trek in 2011?  I want to walk out the door and land in the surf, kayak the coast with the porpoises after a thunderstorm, play beach volleyball with whoever happens to be running around our section of sand, cycle through the nature preserve, do yoga at sunrise as the tide changes around my ankles, teach Freddy how to jump waves, build sandcastles with my twins, grill poisson en paquette and shrimp scampi, and chase down the Schwann's guy for ice cream when the power goes out.  And none of that will be any fun without you and the rest of the family. Please?

Love,
Lissa

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More Stories from Annie

Annie Leonard is one of my heroes. I wrote fairly extensively about my reactions to her video The Story of Stuff when it was first released at the end of 2007.

At the end of last year, she and The Story of Stuff Project worked with Free Range Studios to release The Story of Cap and Trade, which is informative but significantly less detailed about it's subject than the original film was.  That said, it's still worth watching if you don't understand what "Cap and Trade" is, or how it works, or how it impacts your life and the environment, because "you can only compromise to a point before a solution isn't really a solution."

Today, in honor of World Water Day, Annie and the project have released another video in their signature style -- the Story of Bottled Water. "Who would demand a less sustainable, less tasty, way more expensive product?" Watch and learn about the science of manufactured demand:

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Candy Anniversary

16 years ago this month I began volunteering with the American Cancer Society, and 6 years ago today was my first day on the payroll. My first job out of grad school, and my first staff position with responsibility for making something happen without direct supervision every step of the way -- I was more than a little nervous to meet my colleagues on that first day.

I woke up ridiculously excited, way too early -- something like 4:30 in the morning, though I wouldn't leave until 7:45. I spent most of that time primping, too anxious to eat, knowing that I had to look old enough and mature enough and responsible enough to be taken seriously, and desperately afraid that I wasn't going to measure up, that I'd made a huge mistake.

At 8:30, I stood in the conference room in the office, wearing my dark gray suit and the first pair of heels I'd worn outside of a theatrical stage and formal events, the focus of twenty-seven pairs of warm, welcoming eyes. It wasn't until I heard the days all-staff assignment that I realized the people belonging to those eyes were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers, with mittens and earmuffs tucked into their pockets. "Time to unload, pack, and ship the daffodils!"

Eight hours later, having gamely schlepped boxes up and down rolling staircases and across the parking lot, assembled packing crates, sorted through mountains of cut flowers (which look very much like asparagus prior to blooming, fyi), and gotten to know my new colleagues far more quickly than side by side desk work would have allowed, I knew I was in the right place. And the lessons learned that first day are the ones that have served me best:

• Be prepared.
• Be flexible.
• Be adaptable.
• Do the work no matter what obstacle seems to be in the way; the reward is worth it.
• Laugh as often as possible, and always share the joke; chances are good that someone needs it.

Here's to the next six years!

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Just What You Can Carry

I'm finally learning to shop like an urban dweller.  Plan. Make a list.  Buy the smallest volume version of the item you need possible. Plan to schlep.  Errands every day, on the way to or from somewhere else. Think short term, small scale, and flexible. It only took a year.

That said, I'm reconsidering my membership in the Park Slope Food Coop.   I know, I know, I've been looking for community endeavors around food for forever, and waited so long to get on board, and was so excited about the chance to "work for food" and make new friends and try new things, and, yes, save money on gourmet items. The reality isn't quite as easy to live with as I thought, though.

1. The coop isn't far away as the crow flies, but it's a fifteen+ minute walk to the subway, a ten-minute ride, and a ten-minute walk -- and then the reverse while laden down with groceries. An hour-and-a-half to go food shopping plus the notoriously long lines and having to actually find what I'm looking for? So far I've only shopped on days when I have a work shift -- it's too easy to argue that "I don't have time to go all the way there" or "it's not worth it to save $5 on four things" or "seriously, Liss, just make something else."

2. A work shift every four weeks sounded great in December and January -- what's a few hours doing something meaningful? But looking at April's schedule, and further ahead to May and the horrors of no-time-to-myself in June ... it's a big imposition considering that I'm not really feeling a return.

Really, those points wouldn't mean much if there weren't good, close options for fantastic, organic, gourmet food very close to home -- and there wasn't a year ago.  But a new littler grocery store opened up just before Christmas that's a five minute walk from me, and I've become a regular customer.  So much so that when I was in last night to pick up some essentials that I couldn't be bothered going to the coop for, the manager introduced himself to me and said, "I recognize you as a regular customer -- Saturday evenings, right?  Do you mind giving me some feedback on the shop?"  I convinced him to stock a wider selection of flours (high-gluten, bread flour, spelt) and was thrilled to learn that they're opening a juice bar in April, and will have bike racks installed by tax day. The deli is lovely, and the bakery is quite good, too. And their prices on non-gourmet products have come down significantly since the opening -- not comparable to the coop, of course, but quite a bit less than similar items at Whole Foods. 

Looking at it all written out this way, the decision seems clear -- take back the standard-labor workday per month I'm giving to PSFC for work shift, transportation, and shopping, and get on with my life. But that makes me sad.

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Itchy Feet

I've moved too much in the last six years, packing up home and putting it down somewhere else must be habit. That's the only explanation I have for my recent behavior: stopping to browse real estate advertisements in broker windows, visiting the website listed on "for rent" adverts throughout every neighborhood I visit, painstakingly reviewing the options and amenities highlighted on the billboards of "construction in progress" buildings.

There is no reason for me to move. I like my apartment. I like my neighborhood, and my neighbors. I'm not dissatisfied with my commute to work. I'm not thrilled with the length of time it takes me to get to many of the places and people with whom I choose to spend time, but I'm learning the importance of finding local hangouts (and convincing people to visit!) and the degree of time and energy that can be saved by slow-biking-as-transportation. 

I'm making improvements to my flat -- redecorating the bathroom garnered major props from the building's broker this morning; he had some appointments to show the unit on the second floor and stopped in to help me change out the seasonal windows while waiting for the prospective tenants to show. (He also likes the idea of pink for the kitchen, so I think I'll shop for paint chips next weekend.) There are families of three and four who live in the amount of space that I have, so there's no good reason to go seeking more of it.  Landlord will be starting work on the backyard as soon as he secures a tenant for the vacant apartment, which means that my "livable space" will triple when counting the outdoors, and the potential for vegetable garden beds, and a barbecue pit, and dancing ...

I spoke with a young family who's looking at the flat -- their son is the same age as my twin nephews, and is a shameless flirt in love with my cat -- and surprised even myself with my enthusiasm and fervor for what a cool place this is.

I repeat, as a reminder to myself and a bit of accountability to everyone who reads this and calls me out when I commit to something, I do not need to move. 

And therefore I need to stop wasting time dreaming and get down to business.

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Swing ReMix

Not having done any swing dancing since the week before Dance Flurry back in February, I had no concept of footwork tonight, my follow holds were all over the place, and my spins were contra-fast rather than in any type of rhythm that idicates I was paying attention to a lead. But gosh did I have fun!

I'm really excited about Jenny's class a week from Tuesday. ACS Staff and Volunteers, come to Hope Lodge for a free Introduction to Blues class on the 6th floor terrace as part of Active For Life. My friend  Jenny is an *amazing* dancer and choreographer, and she's a cuddly bunny, so there's nothing to be even remotely intimidated about.

You'll have a GREAT time!.

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The Secret Garden

The Secret Garden was one of my favorite books as a child. In particular, the volume that I have is the one that taught me the value of gilded hardcovers over paperback books; it's an oversize book with cover art that spans the entire outer plane without resorting to a dust jacket, large type set on heavy paper with off-set edges, and gorgeous illustrations. Seeing Mary and Dicken kneeling before the "loose gray branches and dead roots and leaves all tangled up on the ground" searching for "wick" taught me that brown and gray are beautiful colors.

I was in a music shop with my Nana, who did more than anyone else to fuel my love of music and art and dance (she claims it was in an effort to cultivate someone she could then count on as a companion at the symphony or museums, which worked brilliantly), when I first saw the soundtrack to the musical version. I purchased the cassette (! -- must have been the very early 90s, as CDs weren't widely available yet.) And promptly stopped listening to anything else. A few months later, after I'd rewound The Quartet Scene of Act II for what must have been the 62nd time in a row, my mother walked into my bedroom and said, "Melissa, enough! That's not even a song, and you've mangled the tape so badly that the sound is distorted -- throw it away and listen to something else." I was horrified, and insisted that she sit down and listen to it, as I talked her through the interplay of close harmonies between four voices, the independent lyrics for each character, the intertwined stories being told, and the way that the rise and fall of the piece mimicked the composition of the various storm scenes throughout the musical, making the ghosts both more real and more eerie. She listened very patiently but still made me throw away the tape -- but when I came home from school the next day, a replacement copy was sitting on the kitchen counter with a set of headphones.

This is one of the few musical soundtracks in my collection that still holds up now, that I can play through remembering every word, every note, every flourishy little trill, and be just as touched and moved by now as when I first fell in love with it. And I am so very grateful for that, for the ache caused by the happy but bittersweet resolution of Archibald's speech in Lily's garden just before the ghosts retreat alone --

"Mary Lennox. For as long as you will have us, we are yours, Colin and I. And this is your home. And this, my lovely child, is your garden."

"Come to my garden..."

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Crafty Love

I crochet. Not badly, if not superbly - a rather intermediate level hooker who appreciates simple stitches perfectly executed more than convoluted patterns. I'm deliberate; as my mother has pointed out more than once, I make one stitch then stop to examine and admire it, then repeat ad nauseam. I have a subscription to Interweave Crochet, a quarterly publication that I adore, full of gorgeous photos and patterns far too impractical for me to do more than gaze at them longingly -- until one jumps off the page at me and I can't avoid winding the yarn, breaking out the hooks, copying and marking up the pattern and beginning to work on something beautiful.

Tonight, setting aside the first of my pair of forest green shutter socks (the heel of which is now complete, while the first rows of the outer cuff neatly curl over the top), I broke into two new projects.

1. I met my friend Michael at the Lion Yarn Studio after work tonight, to select and tote home approximately a mile's worth of yarn to knit the original Doctor Who scarf. I love the Doctor, I have wanted to learn to knit for forever, and Mike is thrilled to be the recipient of my first project - feet and feet and feet of simple garter stitch plus tassels that won't become boring, since it will be my accompaniment to watching all of the episodes, in order, of DW and Torchwood. :)
   
   Tomorrow is my first lesson in casting on with Patty, over lunch.
   
   
2. After walking from midtown to Chelsea and then to Union Square, seeing people in shirt sleeves and sporting the first pale, bare legs of the season, carrying first my coat and then my scarf as the warming rays of sun made springtime a reality as well as an insistent dream, I found myself wanting to create something light and airy, suitable for spring. I have Doris Chan's all-shawl pattern half stitched in a gorgeous, vivid pink malabrigo, but that brilliant hue and liquid drape sing to me of June with her trumpet blossoms and rhododendrons, rather than March with the gentle tips of crocus pushing their way through earth that's still cool to the touch.
   
   So, when.I arrived home a few hours ago, I queued up the soundtrack for The Secret Garden, which is one of my favorite springtime albums (I never tire of hearing Mandy Patinkin and Robert Westenberg duets), pulled out a skein of lovely celery-colored wool, and began crocheting Karen Druin's Mesh Trellis Cardigan, complete with skimmed edging and fluted sleeves.

Given how slowly I stitch, I haven't progressed terribly far with my new project, but both the celery wool and pattern, and the eggplant wool for the first ten rows of Mike's scarf are packed in a project bag, complete with needles and hooks, and ready for Friday.  If only I were...

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Keep your bloody grace

I sat bolt upright in bed at 4:32 this morning, awoken out of a completely sound sleep in very comforable blankets, suddenly wide-awake with the knowledge of why I've been pissed off at church-folk in general and evangelists in particular for the last four years.

That whole concept of divine grace -- undeserved love and mercy overflowing from one who is so good and great to those who can never be worthy -- is the most demeaning, insulting thing I have ever been offered. And I've been the recipient of some horrible barbs over the years, so I'm sure you can imagine how low "most demeaning" actually falls.

I don't do guilt. When I make a mistake, when I cause someone pain, when I'm intentionally cruel or hurtful, I figure out what I've done wrong and then decide what to do about it -- beg pardon and ask forgiveness as I choose and am capable of doing so, and then pick up and move on. The suggestion that I need to be absolved of the sin of existing as a human being looks very much like a bully dressed in leather and armed with hardware swaggering toward me out of a dark alley. And my friends know just how viciously and successfully I fight back in that situation.

Which certainly explains my visceral revulsion at entering religious buildings, and my overwhelming urge to slap everyone who utters that sanctimonious, bullshit phrase, "I'll pray for you."

It feels wonderful to have finally figured out why I've been so incredibly angry for so long. Even if I'm still spitting-nails-mad right now, I imagine that -- like many things that once filled me with rage -- eventually this will be just another thing that I chalk up to people whom I don't understand and don't need to concern myself with.

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Home and Exile

...for every coarse, misshapen phrase, for every blundered, dislocated word, I pay a fee. A man with borrowed, ill-fitting tongue, I cannot compete for this city's attention. I cannot participate in the lively lovers' quarrel between it and its inhabitants. I am a man whose voice is a harsh whisper in a city that favors a song. No longer able to trust the sound of my own voice, I carry a small, speckled mirror that shows me my face, my hands, and assures me that I am still here. Becoming more like an animal with each displaced day, I scramble to seek shelter in the kitchens of those who will take me. Every kitchen is a homecoming, a respite, where I am the village elder, sage and revered. Every kitchen is a familiar story that I can embellish with saffron, cardamom, bay laurel, and lavender. In their heat and in their steam, I allow myself to believe that it is the sheer speed of my hands, the flawless measurement of my eyes, the science of my tongue, that is rewarded. During these restorative intervals, I am no longer the mute who begs at this city's steps. Three times a day, I orchestrate, and they sit with slackened jaws, silenced. Mouths preoccupied with the taste of foods so familiar and yet with every bite even the most parochial of palates detects redolent notes of something they have no words to describe. They are, by the end, overwhelmed by an emotion that they have never felt, a nostalgia for places they have never been.

I do not willingly depart these havens. I am content to grow old in them, calling the stove my lover, calling the copper pans my children. But collectors are never satiated by my cooking. They are ravenous. The honey that they covet lies in my scars. They are subtle, though, in their tactics: a question slipped in with the money for the weekly food budget, a follow-up twisted inside a compliment for last night's dessert, three others disguised as curiosity about the recipe for yesterday's soup... They have no true interest in where I have been or what I have seen. They crave the fruits of exile, the bitter juices, and the heavy hearts. They yearn for a taste of the pure, sea-salt sadness of the outcast whom they have brought into their homes. And I am but one in a long line of others. The Algerian orphaned by a famine, the Moroccan violated by his uncle, the Madagascan driven out of his village because his shriveled left hand was a sign of his mother's misdeeds, these are the wounded trophies who have preceded me.

It is not that I am unwilling. I have sold myself in exchange for less. Under their gentle guidance, their velvet questions, even I can disgorge enough pathos and cheap souvenir tragedies to sustain them. They are never gluttonous in their desires, rather the opposite. They are methodical. A measured, controlled dosage is part of the thrill. No, I am driven out by my own willful hands. It is only a matter of time. After so many weeks of having that soft, steady light shined at me, I begin to forget the barbed wire rules of such engagements. I forget that there will be days when it is I who will have the craving, the red, raw need to expose all my neglected, unkempt days. And I forget that I will wait, like a supplicant at the temple's gate, because all the rooms of the house are somber and silent. When I am abandoned by their sweet-voiced catechism, I forget how long to braise the ribs of beef, whether chicken is best steamed over wine or broth, where to buy the sweetest trout. I neglect the pinch of cumin, the sprinkling of lovage, the scent of lime. And in these ways, I compulsively write, page by page, the letters of my resignation.

Monique Truong, The Book of Salt (p 19-20)

I've long been fascinated by exiles, expatriates, outcasts -- those who leave the familiar for the unknown, alone, willingly or only after putting up a fight -- the isolated, the lonely, those searching for a home, or trying to save one already lost.  My favorite volume on politics (by which I mean the causes and conflicts which drive us as individuals within a social system, rather than sweeping issues that are ensnared by public policy) bears that title, Home and Exile, written by Chinua Achebe as source material for a series of lectures he gave at Harvard in 1998. In each of the three sections, Achebe comes back to the core of his subject -- which is not so much "the need for African stories told by Africans", as nearly every critical review claims, but the quest to realize our dignity as people -- the inherent worthiness of being human on this planet.

Truong's novel, the story of an "Indochine" cook searching for a place in Paris in 1929, who finds one -- albeit heartbreakingly temporary -- in the salon of Gertrude Stein and Miss Toklas as they distract and finally beguile the Lost Generation, is a deeply personal look at the emotional state that is hinted at with Achebe's philosophical ideology. Told in the first person, the man whose name isn't really Binh is alternately guarded, exacting, with every syllable measured and ponderous, and raw as an open wound, so full of yearning and loneliness that the phrases bleed. Reading this novel always takes me a few weeks -- poring over a scant few pages for an hour at a time. I have to work to love it, which makes every re-reading more worth the effort.

The passage I quoted above is the third part of Binh's account of his experience searching for a place during his first six years as an exile, the agony that fills his consciousness as he waits outside 27 rue de Fleurus for the "two American ladies [who] wish to retain a cook," who will retain him as response to confidence he projects through the accident of language. Outcasts welcoming an outcast; the lost and the broken serving one another. 

Which is home, and which is exile?

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"Toilet paper is a luxury, not a privilege."

Two years ago, I had the great joy of working with a terrific colleague for a short while. Jess was a student in SUNY Albany's Masters of Public Health program, completing an internship with the American Cancer Society. Jess's work was with the advocacy department, just around the time when "access to care" was becoming a buzz phrase for the general public (rather than industry language for those of us working in the field), and the politics were heating up and garnering a lot of attention. It was an exciting time and I loved catching up with her in the break room and hearing about her work, which was so different from mine.

When Jess finished her internship, she and her new husband embarked on their honeymoon, a two-year stint serving the people of Nicaragua as Community Health Promoters with the Peace Corps. They have spent the last two years exploring a gorgeous country filled with beautiful people who are hungry for education and opportunity and great love, learning to speak and teach in Spanish, living simply, adopting pets, planting gardens, and building a stunningly gorgeous life of love and service together.

While in Nicaragua, Jess and Matt have been keeping a blog, Hello From Nicaragua. As they are preparing to leave Nicaragua and transition back to life in the States, Matt has begun to compose lists of filsofia, elements of Nicaraguan life that are so foreign to many Americans, and yet have become natural and an ordinary part of living for them during the Peace Corps experience. The title of this post is from the list he posted today, 15 Gems of Nicaraguan Filosofia.

I am so glad for the experience they've shared, for the love they've found, for the lives they've enriched and the people they've served. At the same time, I'm a little sad that this time is coming to its end for them, as mt means that my vicarious experience will also end.

And, I confess that I'm also a little disappointed in myself for not taking a similar leap of opportunity when I had the chance.

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Decisions, Decisions

I rarely ever take public notes about business reading, but this "decision making matrix" stuff has my brain doing cartwheels around my skull. Thus, some of the quotes that leapt out as being forceful reminders of my failings or things to keep in mind when leading teams through decision processes, from Thomas McAuliffe's The 90% Solution.

"The process [of decision making] also offers something that I have not found in any other decision technique -- a way to determine if the best alternative is good enough. There is no gain in choosing among the best among a group of alternatives if that choice is not going to measure up. The pick of the litter might not turn out to be a great dog."

"The process for understanding a puzzle is completely different from the process of choosing among alternative solutions. Do not mix these two or your efforts are not likely to produce good results. If you were racing a small sailboat and noticed that you were no longer going as fast as your chief competitors, you might want to evaluate sail trim, boat balance, centerboard positioning, wind and current differences, and other possible causes. Choosing a different set of sails will not help you if you just needed to remove the seaweed from your rudder."

"Be careful with preemptive decisions. When opportunity knocks, you should have your hands free to open the door." (Lissa, apply this only to business. You do not need any other excuse to eschew commitment in your personal life.)

Decision Making Matrix (i.e. When faced with an identified problem and solution options, how do you choose the best course of action?)

1. Make an expansive list of goals
2. Eliminate duplications and similar items
3. Determine the most important goal
4. Determine the relative importance or "weight" of each goal in relation to the most important goal
5. Determine the relative strength of each alternative solution -- having separated the relative importance of each goal from the ability of each alternative to accomplish it
6. Determine a weighted fit
7. Determine weighted risks
   Choose based on quantitative factors!

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