getting OUT and staying OUT

http://www.gosonyc.org/

Founded by Mark Goldsmith, retired executive at cosmetic giants Revlon and Shisheido, Getting Out and Staying Out (GO&SO) is a non-profit that helps men between the ages of 18-24 incarcerated at Rikers Island in New York get out of prison and stay out of prison through coaching by successful community leaders. The recidivism rate for inmates in the GO&SO program is reduced by nearly 85% in comparison to all those incarcerated at Rikers. How does a program like GO&SO accomplish knocking down a proverbial statistic that many Americans would consider a hopeless cause? Through instilling hope in these young men by believing they will achieve their goals, giving them the tools to do so, and mentoring them along the way.

I think the people at GO&SO are onto something. Getting out of prison and staying out of prison are two different matters. It's only by using the right method that I will prevent repeating past transgressions and ending up back in the personal prison of limitations from which I recently freed myself. The right method is believing I can achieve my goals, working to find the means to accomplish what I'm setting out to do, and looking for the right mentors. I had a long talk with my good friend Emily today, and she's right - I can't help but be successful if I follow my heart and stay true to my passions.

What are my passions?

Creativity - I'm writing my own story and forgetting what others already wrote about me.
Compassion - I don't feel good unless I'm encouraging or helping people.
Adventure - I can't live if I'm just existing.
Audacity - I'm finding the courage to dismiss my insecurities and just go.

From this point on, my blog will focus on all of the above. Every time I blog, I will be writing about a new place on the map and the people I meet along the way. Restaurants, tourist traps, monuments, theaters, bars, stores, volunteer organizations, events, parks, shores, etc. What's familiar to those who have lived on the East Coast their entire lives is completely foreign to me. So if you're from here, I'll be getting to know your city blocks and reporting on how I see it. If you're from back home, you can experience each new venture with me.

Time to put some stamps in my East Coast passport. I'm getting OUT and staying OUT.

Making It Home...

The quickest way to make a house your home is to cook a meal in it.

As a Michigander, I'm familiar with Meijer or Kroger, so I am a little nervous when I grab a shopping cart and enter my first "Giant Food" supermarket. But I am also determined to make this new state my home, so I go about gathering my groceries as if this store has always been part of my routine. Crossing off the ingredients on my list, I feel more confident of new adventures in Maryland with each stroke of my pen.

Tomatoes...check.
Green peppers...check.
Mushrooms...check.
Onions...check.
Tomato sauce...check.
Pizza dough...check.

I steer my cart down the wrong aisle, International Foods. I start to turn around, but then I see the Inca Kola and a sly smile curves up on my lips. I take a picture with my phone and email it to my friend Mary. Whereas Coke is the devoted favorite for many Americans, Inca Kola is the soft drink of choice in Peru. Think Mountain Dew or bubble gum as far as flavor, and you can imagine fairly well what Inca Kola tastes like.

Seeing this Inca Kola, I'm instantly transported back to South America and the trip Mary and I took to Peru last year. I remember every accomplishment: correctly getting through the International Airport in Lima with just two Spanish words at my disposal (que to ask "what?" when I didn't understand, and "poquito!" to signal "whoa, just a little" when anyone assumed I spoke Spanish), confidently strolling down the stone streets of Cusco, excitedly taking the train that led to the winding, snaking bus ride up to Machu Picchu, suddenly realizing a sense of pride at making my way to these sacred ruins on my first trip outside the United States.

It doesn't matter what shape you're in when you arrive in this ancient settlement nestled in the Andes Mountain Range. If you hike through the ruins of Machu Picchu, you will feel the struggle in your lungs with every labored breath you inhale, the ache in your joints for every grueling step you take, and the vertigo in your head at every unbalanced height you reach. And all of these sensations will come to a head if you take the trail to the Sun Gate that sits high atop Machu Picchu.

Hiking up to the Sun Gate, there are areas on the trail carved right into the stone of the mountain without a fence, handrail, or even a rope to keep you from falling off the edge and straight down to the Urubamba Valley below. And the trail is tricky in spots, wide enough for only one person to go on ahead with blind corners so you can't see if someone is climbing down as you're attempting to climb up.

I conquered my fear of heights on that trail for one reason only, and her name is Mary. While we were hiking up the trail before getting to those tricky spots, Mary was ahead of me. I screamed out in terror because this huge, horrid, buzzing insect was attempting to invade my ear and it scared me half to death. On instinct, without even flinching, Mary immediately whirled around toward the edge of the cliff and reached out to grab me because she thought I was in mid-tumble off the side of the mountain. We both laughed for a minute thinking about her reaction, but inside I felt relieved. Okay, no matter what, I thought, this girl has my back.

I guess that's what life is about. The tricky spots don't seem so bad when you know the people walking next to you don't want to see you fall. You go through things, scary moments, and you realize just who has your back and who doesn't. Who cares, and who couldn't care less. And you know you're going to be okay, because you've figured out who you can count on.

I sit in the kitchen of my new apartment and eat my first home-cooked meal. I twist open a bottle of Inca Kola, pour it over ice, and raise my glass to toast the ones like Mary who never hesitate to reach out and keep their friends from stumbling.

46e Line 52

James L. Bowman. Dundee, Michigan. Killed 1968. Vietnam conflict.

Visiting Washington DC sites with my friend Elizabeth and her parents, we casually stroll around the Tidal Basin while looking at beautiful cherry blossoms and plan our stops at the different monuments contained within the National Mall and Memorial Parks.

I’m going to be honest and tell you my first impression of the Washington Monument is that it’s fairly lame. Unless you get there early enough to grab a free ticket to go up inside and look out to see the surrounding area for as far as 30 miles, it’s really just a big, white, pointy lego standing upright. The Jefferson Memorial is impressive, stately, just as I imagine the man himself would have been. The Lincoln Memorial is imposing and breathtaking in its simplicity and dignity. I don’t know if the artist intended this, but I like the disparity Daniel French creates in the design of his sculpture between Lincoln’s two hands; the right hand is somewhat relaxed but still gripping, while the left is clenched in a fist. It’s symbolic of the peaceful, intellectual Lincoln who wasn’t afraid to be decisive and resolute during a dramatic turning point in our nation’s history.

But the two sites that stand out to me are the two memorials that represent American eras that cannot be more dissimilar. The Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial is personal, it’s more about the American people and how one president inspired them during some of the toughest times our nation’s ever seen. Spread out and housing the four terms of Roosevelt, the walls behind the different bronze statues are inscribed with the words a president spoke to comfort and heal a nation during the Great Depression and World War II. It’s symbolic of the collective emotions, dreams, and convictions shared by all Americans during that era. And in stark contrast stands the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, more popularly known as “the wall.” And it, too, is extremely emblematic of our nation during a challenging time of upheaval and growth.

Walking the wall of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, you can’t help but be instantly struck by the reflective surface. This has to be what the artist intended, for you to walk beside the names of those who fought in Vietnam and were either killed, died from injuries suffered, or were never identified, and in reading those names look at yourself. Because that is exactly what Americans did during and after the conflict in Vietnam. Although it was a long, drawn out, aggressive military action, Vietnam is termed a conflict because the United States has not declared war since 1941. Personally, I think conflict is the most appropriate word because it speaks to the change in America during and after Vietnam.

During Roosevelt’s administration, we were a nation of idealists. We were people who fought for what we believed in because there were distinct evils challenging the clearly defined values we had of right and wrong. We knew what we fought for because we had something to fight for. During the Vietnam era, everything changed. We no longer had any fight in us because we weren't as sure of right from wrong. Lies from leaders and failing faith from the commoners...we became a nation of true individuals who started to question established views of liberty, how we should define and defend it. We became conflicted.

Sometimes I wish life were as simple as it was in the 1930’s and 1940’s. I’m not saying life was easy, but it seemed to be a lot more purposeful. We were connected to each other. We were united in vision, in aim. We seemed to be more concerned for the person standing next to us. Now we do our own thing, and there are very few who even notice when you’re standing shoulder to shoulder with them. And yet there are parts about being an individual – outside the hive – that I enjoy.

As I walk the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, I am looking for one name on the wall. The name of the only person I have any kind of connection to who died in Vietnam – James L. Bowman. He graduated with my mom and dad. 46e, Line 52. When I find it, I can’t help it – I cry. I wonder about James L. Bowman. What did he think when he was drafted? What did he think when he put on his uniform and held a gun for the first time in a foreign country? What did he think when he died?

I kneel down and trace the letters with my fingers, and I see myself reflected in the endless list of names. I realize that no matter what the conflict is inside me, no matter where I go or what my future is, I’m going to make my dreams happen because most of the names on this wall didn’t have a choice in their future. I’m grateful they’re part of a nation that’s evolved, but remained true to its purpose, to give me a choice in mine.

On the B-Side in Baltimore

Sitting in a lonely apartment. One bedroom, one occupant, one carton of soy milk in the fridge, one dirty dish in the sink, one big white wall that stares back in silent judgment at the girl who doesn't know enough about herself yet to fill it with things she loves, because she's not even sure what her tastes are, where her passions lie, or who exactly she is.

She used to know. She was married to someone she planned on being married to forever. She planned on having kids with this man. She had a religious faith that she thought was unshakable. She worked hard to earn a top GPA in college, she worked harder to do well in her career: promotions, raises, and awards. For a long time, she had life figured out. And then...

Two miscarriages, no kids.
Very strong questioning of her faith in God.
A huge smack in the face realization that her husband was a complete fraud of a human being who was having more affairs than a little black book could ever contain.
Divorce.
New career.
New single life.
New love, which she wasn't wanting or prepared for, but happy to find.
Break-up out of the blue.
Decision to just stop working at a job in a field she no longer understood.
Awareness that she wasn't happy.
Desperate, desperate, desperate need for change.

Fast forward the track, and I'm that girl with the big white wall looming in front of me. Life before in Michigan had its depressing moments for sure, but it was my A-Side. I understood it even when it was difficult. It was filled with friends, family, and familiar surroundings. I was comfortable, I had a niche. My A-Side life, that was nice. I could play my A-Side all day long. But sometimes you wear a song out and grow tired of it when you play it too often. You know every word, every note, every beat to the point where what is distinct has turned into what is dull and dispassionate. And all the things you knew about that song start to make you think there has to be better melodies out there.

So I flipped life over. I moved to a new place where I'm a nine hour drive from all that I know, and I'm giving myself six months of living on savings to see where life takes me in Baltimore. And I know I'm setting myself up for some possible big-time failure. Not knowing anyone in Baltimore, not having a job, not having any blueprints to guide me is making my life on the B-Side scary. The people I love back home are watching, and falling down in front of an audience always gives a faceplant to the floor a lot more sting. But I've thought about it, and I think the B-Side songs might be the best ones. They aren't the flashy, overproduced, overhyped, overplayed tunes. They don't have the support of the producers, the money men. Maybe they're the tunes that have integrity, passion, faith, and courage. Maybe the B-Side isn't just a filler, maybe it's what you fight to get on the album, what you pour your heart and soul into and say to the world I'm putting it out there, even if you don't like it, even if you don't believe in it, it's me and I'm going to tell you who I am with a bold voice even as I struggle to figure it out myself.

Kobi Yamada said, "Sometimes you just have to take the leap and build your wings on the way down."

So this is me, on the B-Side in Baltimore. Might be a hit, might be a flop, but either way this album is getting made.