Being observant

This is just a piece I had to write for my narrative journalism workshop a little while ago, to learn how to write without interpreting what we're seeing. We had to sit in a busy place for a few hours,to "become aware of our surroundings. Allow the place and it's inhabitants to pervade your consciousness..." Then we had to write about it all in a way that was showing, not telling the audience.

So here it is. It was really relaxing to write, actually.

Friday 29th January, 1:30pm, Hilton Garden Inn Reception Desk

Beige walls, beige floor. Dishwater blonde hair in a ponytail and a cream sweater behind a beige desk.

Brrring! Brrring! Brrring! “Thank you calling downtown Ithaca Hilton Garden Inn. This is Melissa, how may I help you?’

Black suitcase rolling across big beige and little green tiles. Klah-klunk klah-klunk klah-klunk klah-klunk.

Automatic doors open. Winter air. The sound of traffic driving through slush interrupts recordings of pianos and saxophones. Splash. Splash.

Brown sweatshirt, black baseball cap. Jeans and a short brown beard. “Hi, I have reservations for Curtis? Yes. And it’s for two nights.”

“I have your room ready. I just need your credit card. Have you been here before?”

Heater rumbles. Rrrrr. Rrrrr. Rrrrr. Thunk. Silence.

Brown and cream fisherman’s sweater. Hair swept into a messy ponytail, with lots of little hairs falling out from the rubber band.

“I’ll go look at our license plate.” Wet sneakers leave marks on the cream and green tiles and navy blue carpets.

Brrring! Brrring! Brrring! Brrring! “Good afternoon, thanks for calling downtown Ithaca Hilton Garden Inn. This is Melissa, how may I help you?”

Black and white pictures of old Ithaca reflect a glare from within brown wooden frames. Maps, construction sites, flora and fauna.

Black leggings, black North Face and hot pink slippers walk by. “I gotta go to court.” Cell phone chatter fades into the distance.

Rapid clicking. “Okay, you’re all set arriving on the eighth until the tenth of February. Do you want me to read you the confirmation number? Okay, you’re all set then.”

Whur. Whur. Splash splash splash splash. Unintelligible voices filter from outside.

More footprints on the navy carpet, leading from doors to desk. “Is it possible to get change for a twenty?”

“Sure! Do you want all fives?”
“Yeah yeah. Definitely.”

Blue windbreaker with black shoulders. Black slacks. Closely shaven head and a goatee. Leaning into the phone and typing with both hands.

“Let me go and transfer you back to Kelly.”

A short beep when the elevator arrives. A long beep when the elevator departs.

Tapping. Hot pink slippers walk across the floor again. Arms full of Cornell-brand luggage and a cell phone still tucked under her chin.

“Our parking isn’t validated. Thank you for making my life difficult, I really appreciate that.”

Clicking. Light comes through the windows. Beige floor turns gold. Stacked Hilton points package pamphlets cast a glare. Bright white and blue. Go tropical.

“Is that validated for us?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”

Hot pink slippers turn around. Short beep. Long beep.

“Whenever she’s here…” Big sigh.

Constant beeping. A door is unlocked. Fluorescent lights shudder on and cast shadows over piles of luggage.

“I don’t know which bags are mine, there are two red bags left.”

“Yup, that’s all.”

Klah-klunk klah-klunk klah-klunk klah-klunk. Whur. Whur. Splash splash splash. Honk. Splash.

“Take a deep breath before you go outside. This is upstate.”

A wonderfully perfect walk home

This is all so cheesy, but this is how the night just kind of felt and worked itself out.

When I got out of work, there was this really thick, strange fog just covering everything. I'd been in the office since 6pm, and the skies were clear when I arrived. I wasn't expecting the change in weather at all.

There was rain, but was more of a drizzle and it was mixed with snowflakes.

For all the complaining I've been doing about the cold and the winter (I think maybe all the complaining everyone on the east coast has been doing about the cold and the winter), it was beautiful outside. The fog diffused the glow of the street lights and public safety call boxes, making the snow shine with a blue and gold haze. All the cars and signs were cast in a dark shadow, but the buildings themselves seemed to be glowing from the inside out.

I put my ipod on shuffle as I was leaving the office, and "Drops of Jupiter" by Train came on. The fog was so thick, and there really weren't very many people out. I was able to indulge in some middle school nostalgia and sing off-key about traveling through the galaxies and sharing soy lattes without anyone on campus recognizing me (I hope). I was able to throw in a few dance moves in an empty parking lot as well. It was really tempting to swing around a lamp post (actually meandered towards a few), but didn't give in that far. This isn't "Singing in the Rain."

Today wasn't particularly special. In fact, it had some downright shitty moments. Bad memories from recent events kept popping up in my head, and I ended up just keeping myself as busy as possible to keep from having a total, cry-in-the-corner meltdown.

But for a few minutes, on this walk home, my life was a music video. And everything was okay.

Pussies Unite!

The Vagina Monologues performance was last week, and it was AWESOME. Even more awesome was the fact that I remembered all my lines, didn't trip/pass out/vomit on stage. Go me!

All-in-all, through ticket sales and merch sales (and by merchandise, I mean chocolate vagina lollipops), IC Players and IC Feminists raised over $2,400 dollars. 90 percent of the proceeds are going to the local womens advocacy center, while the other ten percent are going to the V-Day Movement to help women in the DRC.

I had so much fun doing the show. It was amazing to be able to act in a play for the first time since high school, and have actual lines. And to play an adult. Not a sick child or Scrooge's corpse (they built the bed too small for anyone else. So my big role in "A Christmas Carol" was to lie under a black sheet for 20 minutes and breathe as little as possible).

But I digress. The show was amazing, and IC Human Rights was there to table for women's rights in Congo. We had fliers with facts, lists of things people can do to help end the violence, and a letter to Hillary Clinton people could sign. We got over 80 signatures! Not too shabby.

The members of IC Human Rights are so amazing. We got asked to table at the show pretty suddenly, and even though the civil war in Congo wasn't originally on the semester's agenda, the members really studied up and took to the challenge with open arms.

We're now planning a teach-in, a bake sale (Cookies for Congo!), and a benefit concert to help the V-Day Movement build a City of Joy in eastern Congo. The City of Joy will help female victims of sexual assault heal both mentally and physically, and train them to become independent leaders. It's a pretty amazing project and I hope it's successful.

An ex-marine came up to one of the ICHR e-board members during tabling. He said he had been to Congo, and it was a mess. But that our letter to Hillary Clinton won't do shit to help the situation. He might be right. There are so many reasons why the United Nations and the United States have failed to act. Cultural, economic, etc. But we have to put at least a little hope in the American Dream, that our elected leaders would stand up for the things we, the citizens, believe in and respectfully represent us abroad. Sure, Hillary Clinton might read our letter and wipe her ass with it. I don't know. But at least IC Human Rights and the signers of the letter tried through legitimate channels to make a change in the world.

And letter writing campaigns have been proven to work. Go ask Amnesty International.

We know the likelihood of our letter ending the civil war in Congo. That's why ICHR is doing other things as well, like raise money for the City of Joy. We're not putting all our fragile human rights eggs in one basket.

Femicide

The civil war that has been happening for the past twelve years in the Democratic Republic of Congo has taken over six million lives. Thirty times more than the earthquake in Haiti. But it constantly escapes the media's attention.

Why? Is it a matter of race? Another sad story about Africa? What is it about the civil war in Congo that makes no one want to report about it?

I am an avid believer in the idea that the more people know about a situation, the more people will try and do something to alleviate it. Sure, there's always the opportunity for compassion fatigue to set in, for the desire to see some happy headlines on the front page of the paper. But isn't risking compassion fatigue worth it?

What's going on in Congo is, according to Nicholas Kristof, the most lethal conflict since World War II. And the main target of aggression this time is women. What's going on in Congo is femicide. The United States government cannot act like it did during World War II, ignoring pleas for help until it was almost too late. The United States has to overlook its need for the minerals in Congo's land to save the women living on the land.



This weekend, at the productions of The Vagina Monologues, IC Human Rights will have a fact table set up outside the entrance. It's been absolutely amazing seeing the members of the club get together to make this table happen. We've made posters, fliers, fact sheets, and have written letters to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton to ask the United States keep up the promise of "never again."

If you're in the Ithaca area, please come to the productions of the show and sign our petitions. A few signatures can really go a long way.

Also, here's a January 15, 2009 article from The Nation about other things you can do about the war in Congo. Eve Ensler, the playwright of The Vagina Monologues and the creator of the V-Day movement, helped compile the list.

Theater, pubic hair and human rights

So I've been back at school for three weeks. And to say things have been hectic is...kind of an understatement. It's my final semester! I'm supposed to just be applying for jobs and lolling about. Preferably lolling about drunk.

Instead, I'm just beginning to crawl out of an awfully draining cold, and lots of fun other things. After four years, I still get surprised when college isn't what the movies make it out to be.

But on the bright side. My first theatrical performance since high school is this coming weekend!

I will be enacting a monologue from Eve Ensler's "The Vagina Monologues." Basically, in the 90s Ensler interviewed hundreds of women about their vaginas. What they look like, how they smell, what they would wear, what they would say, y más. Lots of thoughtful, insightful stories. A lot of people consider the show to be kind of a "She woman, man hater," experience, but personally I love it. It's fun, it's enlightening, and all of the money earned through ticket sales goes towards good causes.


Now, people keep asking me: "Briana, what vagina are you supposed to be?" Like the different characters in the show are the Spice Girls. There's the angry vagina, the sad vagina, introspective vagina...well I'm hairy vagina.

Sexy, I know.

I get to read a monologue about how a woman's husband said that he screwed around, because she wouldn't shave down there.

So it's not that deep of a story. Pubic hair. Woo hoo. At least it's fun.

But some of the monologues in the show are absolutely earth shattering. One in particular, this year's Spotlight Monologue, is about teenage sex slaves in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. During the past few years, rebel Hutus have been traveling across the border between Rwanda and Congo. Everywhere they go they leave a trail of fire, destruction, death and pain. Almost 6 million people have been killed, and over 200,000 women are known to have been raped. Some as young as 14 months old.

A portion of this year's proceeds from "The Vagina Monologues" is going to help the survivors of Congo's femicide.

Here's Nicholas Kristof's amazing January 30 column about rape in Congo. Like many of the human rights stories that Kristof consistenly covers, I am often left feeling like he is the only reporter on the scene. Which absolutely should not be.