Writer As Peace Builder: Dear Friends, Celebrate

So, reflecting on the inspiration I gained from Eleanor Roosevelt’s letters last week, as well as the inspiration that was passed on to all the Americans who read her daily column while she was alive, I was wondering, “What if someone who wasn’t a public figure wrote letters like that to the public? Would they still be an agent for social change? Would anyone really care?”

I’ve decided that it may take longer for people to become interested in such letters in a newspaper. More time would have to be spent establishing yourself as a person who could be trusted, a friend, an average run-of-the-mill person (although Eleanor did spend a great deal of time setting up this image in her early letters) but I do feel that it could be just as powerful. I myself may not be able to write national letters to the entire country that could make people think, yet still provide hope and a sense of comfort, but I may be able to pull off writing letters in a column for a local Rochester paper or my Ithaca alumni news letter, and most definitely this blog. I think the most important thing to keep in mind is Eleanor’s letters worked because they complimented her actions. People saw her out in the field getting her hands dirty, these made her words easier to trust and enjoy. The lesson of the week seems to be: one’s writing has the power to change the world, but it is even more possible for their words to change others when they compliment great actions.

Before I attempt to write a moving letter to change hearts and mind (:P), I wanted to touch on another thought really quick. I’ve been taking a conflict management class this semester which has empowered me and encouraged me more than any class of my grad school career, and writing to change the world actually fits nicely into one (and I’m sure many) theory of peace building. The theory as it was presented to me by Mary Anderson and Lara Olson in Confronting War: Critical Lessons for Peace Practitioners states that there are many approaches to peace that need to be interconnected. Below is a chart that shows the different approaches to peace building and highlights their interconnectedness. It comes from page 66 of Confronting War.



First, there is peace building that happens on an individual/personal level. This is what I like to refer to as the process of “changing hearts and minds” and “learning to live peace.” This process needs to both happen for large groups of individual citizens (people at the grassroots level) and within the hearts and minds of key people. These would be the people capable of making policy changes (politicians) and establishing new cultural norms (the media, role models, elders, ect). Once these individuals have a new understanding of peace and justice, their individual transformation is taken into the public sphere. This is where those new policies and cultural norms are set into action. Of course, even when the social political level is being transformed, time and energy still has to be placed individual change efforts. Some people haven’t been reached as the overall culture is being transformed and have the ability to disrupt new policy and social norms. Others have been reached but need support and reassurance to hold on to the lessons learned from personal transformations.

But where does “writing to change the world” come in? It is part of that personal level of transformation. It creates an understanding of shared humanity at the very least, and captures the true essence of peace and justice and, at its very best. And if the message finds the right hands, it can lead to social/political transformation. If it finds the wrong hands, it can be distorted and used against its original call. (I can’t help but think of the Bible and the Qur’an here.) Peace literature—writing that can change the world—is threatening, dangerous, but it doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be attempted.

I like this thought of the author as peace builder. The letter below probably won’t be worthy of that title, but it’s worth a try. As I learned in undergrad, write a lot because most of it will be garbage a writing a lot improves your odds of a finding something useable, but not necessarily good.

Dear Friends,

The other night, I went to bed thinking ferociously. “Should’ves”, “Would’ves”, “Could’ves” bombarded me from every angle it seemed. I couldn’t stop the stream of judgments and unresolved issues rushing through me. I couldn’t help but think how useless it was to be spending these two years in grad school when I could actually be out doing something. I kept thinking about how unfair my sister’s life is at the moment, living in a house with no electricity or insulation, working at the casino on the reservation from 3am-8am because there is nothing else that pays and no one around to show her how to dream. I kept thinking about issues we are all dealing with in our classes her at school; how it feels like the moment I came into grad school I stopped being a person with experiences and understandings and became just a student that needs to be filled with knowledge. For the most part we are often bodies in a classroom, sometimes when time was permitted we have the chance to become people again. The professor are just professors, researchers, the appear distant. The system has taken away part of their humanity as well. I thought about how as students we’ve tried to address this, but have been told we are over exaggerating, told that there is nothing wrong, and that we should be worrying about people with real problems.

So, again my brain began to worry about people with “real” problems. I thought about my kids back in Rochester. I thought about their classmates and friends. Many of them are seniors. I wondered how many were going to graduate. I wondered how many parents would show up. I wondered how many were going to be able to afford to go on to school. I wondered how many were encouraged to even try to apply. I was overwhelmed by structural violence, and being pretty violent towards myself because “I wasn’t doing enough.”

This experience lasted for much too long, but began to end when I consciously said to myself, “Brandi, breathe. Let it go. Release it all and let your whole body be filled with Love.”

It was a struggle and I didn’t even successfully let go of everything, but the stream of thoughts became controllable and began to calm its movements. I found myself able t breathe again, and felt hints of the love and beauty that I know is always there waiting to be noticed and embodied. And I heard a voice say, “You are much too hard on yourself. There is always room for improvement, but you are doing great things. Celebrate that. Celebrate!”

The voice was so reassuring that I finally fell asleep.

Anyone working for social justice, for peace, or for others has experienced that nighttime panic. That list of regrets. That list of things still yet to do. For many it’s a regular occurrence, but why don’t more of us go to bed celebrating? And more importantly how can we really understand peace, social justice, or love when we don’t take the time to see it, or celebrate it? When we only see what is still yet to be done?

A wonderful documentary that I watched about a year ago at the Student Peace Alliance Conference in D.C. called Soldiers of Peace focuses on the presence of peace and love that is present in some of the most violent societies in the world places, like Columbia and Liberia. It shows that peace is always out there to grasp no matter where you are. You just have to recognize its seedlings, the energy of good will, love, hope, excitement, and compassion, and help it to manifest itself into something powerful that can be experienced by many at once.

The next morning, I woke up and walked an hour to work, and made the conscious
decision to look for social “issues” to celebrate on my way. I saw a school bus pick up a man for work. He wasn’t outside, but the bus didn’t drive away. The driver pulled over and honked the horn. The man ran out in a hurry, frazzled, but the driver smiled and said, “Good morning.”

I saw two young mothers standing at the bus stop with their 6 year old daughters, all for were giggling. I thought how rare to see parents at the bus stop with their kids? How wonderful!

I saw a man sorting his recycling on the curb. He waved.

I saw an older woman working in her garden. She had the most beautiful tulips near her porch. It made the small area on the street look a little more inviting and full of life.

I had three or four men respectfully say “Good morning” and “God bless.” And when I got to work the security guard gave me a friendly good morning, and I started my day.

Sure, there were things that I saw in that hour that weren’t as beautiful. But I chose to spend more of my energy celebrating that day. Everyone should spend more time celebrating the peace, providing energy for it to manifest itself even more. I, myself, will encourage the good. I will give it attention and praise. I won’t ignore the bad, of course. But I will find balance in my life.

Love,
Brandi

Reflections on "My Day": Eleanor Roosevelt- providing security, connection and trasfomation through action and over 1,000,000 words

So, I’ve just spent most of my day reading My Day: The Best of Eleanor Roosevelt’s Acclaimed Newspaper Columns, 1936-1962, and right now one question and one remark echo through my brain on repeat, “Why was I never taught anything about Eleanor Roosevelt? She’s amazing!” The reason that I probably never learned anything about her is because every year in my history classes in elementary and high school we never seemed to get past reconstruction and carpet baggers. The reality that my grandparents and parents lived through, the realities that probably shaped the way that they raised me and therefore, had a huge effect on the person that I’ve become, were never really seen as important in the eyes of the New York State Board of Regents. I do remember taking the initiative to do a report on Eleanor Roosevelt in the 5th or 6th grade. I remember my class being taken to the library and shown the biography section. We were told to pick one book on a famous person to take out and write a report on. I remember staring at book upon book of famous men. Then seeing one on Florence Nightingale that one of the other girls immediately snatched, and being left with a book on Eleanor Roosevelt. I don’t really remember getting much out of that report because as a 11 or 12 year old I just couldn’t get past the fact that she married her cousin (Eleanor Roosevelt and Franklin Roosevelt were 5th cousins once removed). But reading this I’m sad and a bit frustrated that I was never given the opportunity to learn about a woman who did so much.

For me this reading brings up a lot about gender and a lot about the power of honesty and sincerity has for building connection. First, let me pretend to wrap my head around the issues of gender that a swirling around in my head, thoughts that I can feel making me slightly uncomfortable which means they are probably effecting something more than my head as well, my heart perhaps? The thoughts below are not well formed simply because I have never felt comfortable expressing them. But how can our thoughts be improved, clarified or changed if we never acknowledging them in the first place? How can we really write to change the world or ourselves, if we are hiding behind a curtain of fear? What I am trying to express below is simply my own personal muddled understanding of the world, and I greatly welcome anyone’s voice that can help me work through them.

Eleanor Roosevelt was the First Lady for three terms (1933-1945). She acted as more than the hostess of the White House, but also as her husband’s eyes and ears , since his polio made it difficult for him to travel. She trekked the country visiting small Appalachian towns, inspecting the conditions of factories and juvenile detention centers, and she was known to always give FDR her honest opinions on national policy. As a woman myself, these acts make me proud and eager to look to her as an example of female leadership. But it is her writing in “My Day,” a daily column that she produced everyday from December 1935 to just before her death in 1962 (writing over 1,000,000 words), which for me shines as an example of feminine power. My day was a simple letter to her readers, she always wrote as if she were writing to a long time friend. Some letters covered the basic day-to-day realities of a wife, mother and grandmother. She talked about playing with her grandchildren and even being sick in bed with the flu. Other letters covered her reflections on recent national events and how they made their way into the domestic sphere of her life.

I believe very much that the female experience of life is distinctive, just as I believe that the male experience, the black experience and the Latina experience is distinctive. I also believe in a continuum that connects the two experiences of femininity (attributes of life-giving and nurturing qualities of motherhood, birth, intuition, creativity, life-death-rebirth and biological life cycle) and masculinity (attributes of logic, independence, a go-getting nature, strength, self control and a physical nature). I don’t believe that all women are or should be feminine or that all men are or should be masculine. I don’t even believe that individuals act with the same amount of femininity or masculinity in all situations. I do however, believe that there are valuable lessons and insights to be gained through looking at the world through the eyes of the masculine and the eyes of the feminine. I of course believe this because I believe in wholeness. I also believe that the feminine viewpoint has often been discredited in the public sphere. I personal identify with being feminine more than I do with being a woman, simply because the category of women is too large for me to even begin to find my place and I have found many woman that I relate less to than many men in my life. I identify with creation, nurturance and the act of transformation.

Anyway, I worked through all of that to say that I was floored by the feminine voice that Eleanor held on to throughout all of her writing, even as she talked about issues that were very much part of the public sphere. She advocated for birth control and divorce, she stated that housewives should be paid wages, she praised prohibition being taken off of the books as she remained dedicated to her stance against alcohol, and she spoke out against war. But she didn’t do this from a logical, rational, separate lab-like space? She didn’t spew out facts and figures. She talked from the heart and tackled this concepts as she let people into her home as she shared her experiences providing for her grown children, traveling to Minnesota for her son’s surgery to remove his wisdom teeth, and all the way to Seattle for her daughter’s third pregnancy, and her experiences making guest feel at home in the White House, and her stories of making people feel loved and not forgotten in the mountains of Appalachia and in the very living rooms of her readers. This following comment from Mary Marshall who was writing for the Nation in 1938 may be read as demeaning and/or paternalistic but I challenge that initial reaction. Mary Marshall wrote, “To prisoners of newspapers where wars are always raging ‘My Day’ is like a sunny square where children and aunts and grandmothers go about the trivial but absorbing pursuits and security reigns. In the sense of security it generates, lies the deepest appeals of ‘My Day.’

The word that may strike many when reading this comment is “trivial.” If this is the case, anger and frustration are often ignited. The reader focuses on the statement that children and grandmother’s lives are trivial, without real meaning the larger scope of world affairs. But what if one focuses on the world “security?” Then all of sudden, Eleanor becomes the provider of one of the most basic human needs, one that it is her husband’s (the President) job to provide an entire country. Suddenly, when we focus on the need to provide our children and grandmothers and their sunny squares with security there trivial lives and sunny square also appear to have a strong value to society. It is within this realm of security that I see Eleanor’s writing changing the world. Her daily writings provided radical thoughts and progressive reflections, and these thoughts were able to be received and digested because she was also providing a sense of security, as sense of normalcy, hope and love. She was not only able to form a connection between her and her reader, but also between her readers lives and the larger national and international happenings.

Silver Linings- A Brief Memoir By Brandi Remington

Here is my first attempt a memoir in awhile. I was trying to capture my social justice beginnings and explain where they came from. I think this is just part of the story, but an important part. I also hopes it brings up some of the most passionate issues to me in my current work, youth, community, love, education, and never judging a book by its cover. Let me know what you think. Just remember its rough.


The street light outside of the window always created a tiny, silvery, glowing stream on the floor next to my blankets. When it rained the stream would shift and spin in unison with the branches from the trees and the raindrops on the glass. I hated that stream. It would lull me to sleep and trick me into thinking that tomorrow was going to be a better day. I slept 6 inches away from that stream, on the hardwood floor for over a year. My little sister curled up next to me, her knobby knees poking me in the back.

In the morning it was time for school. Clothes, hair, teeth, lunch money, back pack, and double checking everything for my sister. “You good?” I’d say. She would nod her little head in agreement. Her blue-green eyes told me I was the only one she trusted. I don’t remember Dad being there. I’m sure he was, in his ratty bathrobe still lying on the couch. Maybe he was wandering around with his first cigarette and Diet Coke of the day, belching like a dragon. I’m sure he was around, but not there.

School was different. I was important, a smart-kid. The teachers knew I was friendly and the first one to volunteer.

Daren was a sweet kid. He wanted a mom, someone to love him. He wanted a friend, someone to at least like him. No one did, but me. He was on medication because he was “out of control.” He had coke bottle glasses, a learning disability and wasn’t able to control his anger or his tears. He swore alot and cursed, teaching all of us fifth graders new vocabulary every week. The teachers said he was violent and shouldn’t be allowed in “normal” classes with “normal” students. I heard them talk. I knew that adults had the most important conversations when they turned their backs turned to you. That’s when you had to listen.

Daren couldn’t eat lunch with the rest of us. Loud noises were bad for him and increased his crazy moments. The teachers called them “outbursts.” So, he had to eat in the nurse’s office at this tiny little desk that was placed against the wall opposite from the cots where kindergarteners would lie down after puking in class.

Daren ate alone, unless I volunteered to join him. Sometimes he liked my company other times he didn’t. Sometimes he would tell me stories about his dogs and how he hit them, other times he would tell me stories about his stepdad and how he was hit by him. Other times he would ignore me or tell me I was stupid. I would look at the nurse. She would nod her head to tell me it was okay. I liked the nurse. She was a beautiful woman who liked her job. She was one of the adults that you could trust. When she hugged you, she meant it. When she laid you down on a cot, she wanted you to feel better.

No matter how angry Daren was at me during lunch, he always asked me back the next day. I understood, and would join him two or three times a week. He was tiny for a fifth grader. He had arms that looked like unbent paper clips, and Lindsey said he had chicken legs. His hair was longer than the rest of the boys, and no one ever brushed it. His coke bottle glasses made his eyes the biggest feature on his face, but they really were already big and round like puppy dog’s. And his mouth was the largest I had ever seen, my Grampa would have said he looked like a walleye, but it made his smile even better when he decided to share it.

Daren was smarter than the teachers thought. He would steal a French fry off of my tray or burp in my face, and out of the corner of his eye look for my reaction. When he would see that I wasn’t impressed. He would quietly apologize and start to talk about something cool like his favorite game or how much he liked the shirt he was wearing. Daren was a normal kid. He just didn’t get a chance to act normal.

One day, Daren bit a kid in class. I don’t remember who, but I yelled. Actually, I screamed and couldn’t stop. My brain was processing all kinds of things and could no longer control my mouth and lungs. I was mad. Mad because Daren made me a liar. I told my friends that he was a nice kid. I told them that he was funny. I was mad because Daren didn’t trust me to help him. He bit someone because he was being picked on. He didn’t come to me. He bit him. But, I was mostly mad because that stupid stream of light had tricked me again the night before.

The teacher began to yell, but because she was an adult they called it scolding. She sent Daren and the kid he bit to the nurse, and then sent me to the hall. The hall was dark that day. The janitors didn’t turn the lights on and the only light came from the windows on the door at the end of the hall by the sixth grade classrooms. Silver lines separated the large tiles on the floor and reflected the light up to the ceiling. I didn’t trust the light hear either.

When the teacher came out, she was mad. Unlike the nurse, she didn’t want me to feel better. “What do you have to say for yourself? You of all people should know that you can’t yell at Daren like that! He doesn’t have as easy of a life as the rest of you students. You of all people should know better than that, Brandi. He doesn’t need you kids being mean to him. And what is all over your hands?”

I started to cry. “Paint. Face paint.”

“From what? You don’t have a Halloween costume on today, and the other kids who are dressed up don’t have face paint.”

“My little sister’s a tiger today. It doesn’t look very good. I smeared it.”

“You put it on? What was your mom busy doing this morning?”

I cried harder, “She’s at Jones Hill, at the mental hospital. She’s been there for awhile. She’s sick. She had a nervous breakdown.”

Then I got angry. Daren bit someone and got sent to the nurse. I wanted to stop him and got sent to the hall. “I painted my sister’s face. I need to wash my hands. Can I go to the bathroom?”

The teacher nodded. My hands were speckled with orange paint, and the black and white paint had from my sister's tiger nose blended together. There were silver streaks that went up to my wrists. It was a beautiful color, one that I made. "I made something pretty," I thought.

I smiled.Everything was going to be okay.

"Freedom from Fear" and the Importance of Memior

Today’s reflection is on “Freedom from Fear,” by Aung San Suu Kyi. I’m classifying this book not only as a piece of social change literature, but also as a memoir. At first glance the book may not appear as a memoir, since it reads and feels more like a history book, composed by actual writings that were meant for Australian high school history books and a hodge-podge of copied speeches (primary sources) that are still available to us. But I will argue that these writings are indeed worthy of the title of memoir.

To understand memoir, we first have to understand that it is not the same as autobiography. Autobiography in my opinion is always boring and sloppy. In this genre it is the author’s intention to tell you everything about them, and in striving for this they end up telling you absolutely nothing. Sure, you may have a list of facts by the end that are comprised of dates and names and accomplishments, but you still really know nothing about the person, and now infer that they are full of themselves and boring.

Memoir on the other hand, aims to capture a particular time in the writer’s life or a particular theme that they have seen chasing them through the years trying its hardest to make itself visible. For me I always view memoir as a form of deep reflection, where the author is uncovering meaning and purpose, and I am part of this process as I read their words. I’ve written a memoir of my own as a writer found that this journey of discovery through the writing process was very true. Writing it helped me to discover the meaning in certain events in my life and it helped me to uncover a theme, or a string that tied seemingly random events together. When I read other people’s memoirs, I am often encouraged to find meaning in my own stories as I identify with theirs, experiencing what I believe to be the point of good literature, especially social change literature, shared humanity.

Understanding memoir as an attempt to make sense of our lives to find purpose and connection, I can honestly say that I believe “Freedom from Fear” qualifies to be placed in this genre. Throughout all of these writings Aung San Suu Kyi tries to understand her history beginning with her father’s legacy, and then decipher what her role she should play in Burma because of her understanding.

She never knew her father and the first few writings which capture his role in Burmese history are written from a historical point of view, but who can write about their own father and not begin to understand their own connection to the history he created? As you continue to follow Suu Kyi’s writings throughout the book you can see her pulling together the own themes of her life and begin to understand that her work as a Burmese historian illuminated her role as a Burmese citizen and the responsibility that she had to speak for her people that were often without a voice. By writing about her father, she appears to have discovered herself.

As a side note, I have to say that my favorite part of this book was the introduction by Aung San Suu Kyi’s husband. He helped bring her to life introducing her not only as an amazing human rights activist, but also as a wife, a mother and a daughter. I couldn’t help but cry when he wrote about the day that he and their sons were informed that her house arrest had been intensified and they would no longer be able to see her, and then I thought about her in her house now over 20 years later never being able to see her boys grow. I cried again.

So, what role do I believe that good memoir plays in social change literature? Well, first any writer writing honestly and vulnerably about themselves cannot help but create a space of shared humanity. When people are honest and transparent, their humanity shines through, and readers cannot help but reflect on their own humanity and ask themselves questions like, “What would I do in that situation? What are going to be the consequences of that action they just took? Who are the people that shaped me in the ways that the author is talking about right now?” Obviously, these reflections aren’t always deep and drawn out, but I believe they are natural reactions to reading honest text, and just by being present if not deep provides a more fertile soil for social justice.

Pipher in “Writing to Change the World” also comments on the ways that writing memoir helps the writer. She argues that they begin to find themes of importance in their lives. Things that speak to the them. It helps writers to clearly grasp and explain to themselves their passions and where they come from. She says it also helps writers to begin to discover their strengths and their weaknesses and begin to use them to their advantage in their writing and activist work, and that this form of writing helps the writer to see the links between their story and the rest of humanity as well. This understanding helps the writer to find entry points in new conversations and new initiatives.

Well, as Katy pointed out yesterday, it’s such an easy way out to write about why you aren’t writing and claim it as progress. But I think it was a necessary step. Maybe now I can actually begin a bit creatively. Stay tuned, hopefully the next entry will be a little bit of some memoir of my own.

Consumption vs Production

Yesterday I worked the North Eastern Regional NCAA hockey semi-finals, and in between selling $50 tickets to Yale alumni and proud BC (Boston College) grandparents, I found the time to finish "Writing to Change the World" by Mary Pipher. The book stirred me to life, ever page either made me laugh or cry. And the energy must have taken over my whole body because more than usual customers asked, "Are you always so smiley?" While the rest just seemed calmer than usual, wanting to chat with me instead of running to their seats.

I sat in my chair at my little ticket seller window wanting to write so badly. Quotes like "We write to discover what we think."-Joan Didion and passage by Pipher like, "Once we are immersed in writing, we forget our anxiety. Focusing on clarity and beauty clams us down," and "Any form of writing can change the world. Your goal is to find the form that allows you to use everyone of your talents in the service of what you consider to be your more important goals. You want to search for what you alone can say and then how you can say it most effectively" made me ready to write. I sat there seeing beauty and purpose in the way I string my words together in letters to my loved ones, in my journal entries, and even in my facebook status updates. My head was racing with excited characters, ways to discover the social issue most important to me, and past anecdotes that illustrated the power of empathy and the hard yet family centered life of the rural poor in Upstate New York.

This urge to write stayed with me until the end of my shift. I felt centered and full of light. For the first time in months, I felt like I was digesting social change material that spoke to me. No violent revolutions, no dichotomies, no labels write on post-it notes and mentally stick to people's back. No pessimism. I was reading about empathy, connection, honesty, authenticity, and thought all changing the world. I was reading about change happening at the level of the individual, at the level of the writer and the reader, and this individual change reaching out like a ripple in Lake Cayuga.

The excitement stayed with me. When I got home it was still there. But did I write? Did I produce anything? Did I even produce junk that could later be sifted through, leaving behind only the original thoughts, phrases, and honest observations? No, of course not.

I chose to consume instead. I ate dinner and watched Gosford Park, and through the whole thing marveled at the beautiful scenery and dresses, joyously watched and listened for snark British one-liners, and enjoyed the underlying commentary on humanity and the evils of power and oppression. How can we take away a persons life, making them nothing more than a servant, meant to notice only us, our needs, our wants, even anticipate these things before they are in our awareness? Why do we allow others to take away our lives? Why do we begin to identify not with ourselves, but with those who control us, those who are held higher in society, and those who oppress us?

I thought an consumed. My thoughts may be considered a production of sorts. But to me they were nothing more than energy. The energy that was used to produce the movie was broken down in my mind to its smallest parts. The thoughts were nothing more than the concrete illustration of a transfer of energy. It was my responsibility, as it was after reading Pipher's words, to take that energy and use it to create. But I did not. I went to sleep.

I've wrote about this consumption vs production issue in this blog before. It was during my summer in Berkeley and I wanted to write so badly, the energy that I was consuming was so powerful and transformative, yet I only managed to post a few blogs and send a few smiles. Although my addition to conversation that summer were deep and meaningful, which hasn't been the case since I've come back to Clark. Those conversations, I believe, do count as production. I was passing the energy further, creating my own rippling waves.

When I looked at the stagnation of my writing then. My over consumption and under production, I had decided was mostly due to what Pipher, and many others refer to as "the shadow self." This is the darkness that comes from fear, guilt, envy, anger and despair, according to Pipher who's major training is in psychology, so I guess this makes her more reliable than most. I accredited fear, guilt, and envy with my writer's block. I was feeling guilty that I wasn't writing. I was envious of all the beauty others were able to manifest and the talent that they had. But most of all I was fearful. Fearful that my thoughts were foolish, that my view of the world was too far fetched. I was afraid that I wasn't able to express myself clearly enough or that what I found beautiful others would find cliche. Pipher used a Mark Twain quote that really seemed to capture this, "The human race is a race of cowards. I am not only marching in the parade, I am carrying the banner."

So, now I wonder where is the fear coming from? Why do I lack the confidence to believe that my thoughts are worth sharing? Why do I keep questioning that I know something?

And then I thought back to my Education and Development classes this semester. I realized that for 18 years of my life I've been in school and told that I know nothing, that there are people out there that have written theories that truly explain my reality, and that I need to read them so that I really understand my world. I've read them. I saw value. I took them as my own theories. I lost my voice. I lost my unique addition to the conversation.

Grad school has been even worse. I feel like I lose a little of voice every class. I read a reading. I am moved and excited. Then I am bewildered at where the classroom conversation goes the next day. Everything I found relevant to my work, everything that I found profound appears to be just wasted space. I read the same pieces, yet still have no place in the conversation. But the point of this independent study is to rediscover my voice, my place as a change agent.

What Exactly Am I Looking At?

Welcome to my new experiment. The following entries you are about to read over the next few weeks will the product of my independent study, a 7-week study that will be carried out until the end of my graduate studies in May.

Why am I calling it an experiment?

1.)It's going to be interesting to see how far I can take myself in an educational context without classmates to bounce ideas off of, and without a professor to guide the way, frame the conversation, and "keep and eye" on my progress.

2.) This is more of an experiment than a traditional class. I have already begun to see my original game plan (my syllabus)organically shift and transform, which I'm really excited about.

But anyway, I feel like the Master's student in me is getting carried away, writing about the abstract before giving you anything tangible to sink your teeth into. Let me tell you about this independent study!

Here is what the original syllabus looked like:

Writing to Change the World

This independent study will allow the student to look at the power of the written word in social change as well as explore the importance of creativity in social justice work. It will also allow the student to sharpen their writing skills as well as their understanding of audience and connection.

*The layout for this class is based on Mary Pipher's book Writing to Change the World which was based on a class that she taught at the University of Nebraska Writers' Conference

Syllabus:

A weekly reflection will be kept throughout the 7 weeks. These reflections will be on the readings for the week. One reflection will be required for each reading. These reflections will be posted to the blog with a title to be yet determined at http://brandi-possibilities.blogspot.com/. Assignments will also be posted here. The final project will be posted in installments starting on the due date (the professor will get the full copy on this day.) The purpose of this is to create an audience for the students work. Writing can only create change, if there is an audience.
The final project is expected to be a polished final draft. Other smaller assignments are to be thought of as a work in progress, except for the Op-Ed to be submitted to the Telegram and Gazette.

Reading Throughout the Seven Weeks- Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within By: Natalie Goldberg

Week 1- Reading: Writing to Change the World By: Mary Pipher

Week 2- Reading: Freedom from Fear By: Aung San Suu Kyi (Memoir)

Week 3- Reading: Local Wonders: Seasons in the Bohemian Alps By: Ted Kooser
Assignment: Personal Essay 4-6 pages

Week 4- Reading: My Day: The Best of Eleanor Roosevelt's Acclaimed Newspaper Columns 1936-1962 By: Eleanor Roosevelt
Assignment- Op-ed to be submitted to the Telegram and Gazette

Week 5- Reading: The Little Prince By: Antoine Saint-Exepurey
Children's Story 4-6 pages

Week 6- Reading: What Are People For? By: Wendell Berry
Assignment- Speech

Week 7- Reading: The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist-Fight in Heaven By: Sherman Alexie
Final Project: Final Project 10-15 page fiction piece

As I've pointed out this syllabus has already changed in my head, and in the spirit of the amazing social change lessons I received in Berkeley, I'm just going to let this study grow naturally. In order to do this I know I just have to hold strongly onto my objective and then pay attention to the world around me. I truly believe that when you have a clearly stated objective with which you are viewing the world, the answers will come to you. Your attention is focused and you aren't paying attention to things that are distractions.

Anyway, my objective is simple: Find authors who are reaching ordinary, public citizens with real social justice issues challenging hearts and minds, and then learn to do the same.

I am tired of reading journals and writing for academics. I've always been a writer and a story teller. I'm naive, yet intelligent enough, to know that a story can change the world. I've felt stories change me as an individual and I've witnessed stories change groups. I know I am good writer. It is a gift and it's been way too long since I've put it to use.

So, over the next few weeks you will be witness to my rambling reflections and hurried attempts at creation (oh the troubles with deadlines). I am thankful for your witness, but please feel free to join the conversation. You are the closest things I have to classmates on this adventure, and I need you. What are the use of thoughts with out questions and dialogue? My thoughts are always just the foundation to good ideas. I need others to flesh them out and make them clear.

Thanks for your companionship. And wish me luck!