Here is the paper I wrote for the President's Humanitarian Award I recieved for my Amnesty internship this past summer. I really enjoyed writing this bit of prose and think it offers a step inside the experience I am profoundly thankful for. I recorded a speech for Chapel that was a shortened version of this piece they played in late October at the WJC- as far as I know it went pretty well :*)
The President’s Award for
Humanitarian Service 2005
Choosing to Begin
To begin sometimes seems to admit some sort of end. I think part of me is involved in some adamant retort against these endings. I’d like to think of everything enflamed in one revolving continuum, beginning to begin and begin again. Or perhaps it’s just that voice whispering from inside of me that’s threatening to steal my memories, things I cannot forget. I know that I cannot shelve my summer in New York City working at Amnesty International off to the side after the glow of the lights fade and the buzz of traffic no longer rings in my ears. I must remember the faces and the work and the experiences I was blessed with through the communities that fed me in more ways than one.
There were the inmates, the farmers, the sisters, the wardens, detainees, the mothers and grandfathers, the captured sons just a bit younger than myself, the terrorists, the victims turned conquerors, the dead, the policewomen, the ordinary people with striking visions; all these webs of life I was connected to through my work on 8th Avenue and 34th Street. They have unknowingly woven their invisible subtleties into my eyes, my hands, my mind. Striking like cut glass glinting in the sunlight, these snippets of stories are portraits frozen in time. They piece themselves into a worn quilt enflamed in blazing colors and swerving shapes. Though I will never meet them, I feel as though I have known them because I have ached with them and moved beneath the gift of their sorrow or scorn attempting to piece together a flank of understanding. Somehow I can hope that I am dancing a timid step towards the change that could keep some of these stories from resurfacing with different names and faces. Just maybe.
Stepping into the head organ of Amnesty International USA pushed me in directions that contrasted and complimented the activism and advocacy I had previously done on my own at William Jewell. To break down Amnesty into the simplest of forms, I would say at its foundation it is the sum of two main parts. True to form as it originally began, Amnesty is simply people. It is the conglomeration of grass-roots chapters, ordinary people like you and me, bound together with a basic, common goal: to prevent prisoners of conscious from being isolated and forgotten and to educate and engage each other on humans rights issues. We write letters to czars, prime ministers, diplomats, judges and presidents. We hold vigils, sign petitions, invite speakers, play music and make as much noise as we see fit to raise awareness, or in other words, connect our communities, friends and families to a bird’s eye perspective. One that allows us to apply values mirroring our constitutional freedoms and rights to our world- the neighboring and the distant.
The other half of the equation is the work I dove into this summer. Besides domestic activism and education, Amnesty is also research and investigation, keen and watchful and detailed. Every year Amnesty releases reports detailing relevant human rights issues around the world. This summer, for example, I worked on research for reports dealing with issues in the United States involving violence against Native American women in the Navajo Nation, public housing for domestic violence victims, police brutality against lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender persons, as well as custodial sexual misconduct in prisons between inmates and guards.
As a full-time research intern, I was in for a three-month submersion into the bustling world of an international human rights, NGO employee- this was a real job. No donut toting, coffee fetching, copier jamming or stereotypical gofer intern tasks were ahead of us. We wrote briefs, edited reports, researched and scanned and picked through details, called attorney generals, e-mailed activists, contacted lawyers and victims, mailed packages bursting with information to every Department of Corrections commissioner, and read document after document on government housing policies. The list could go on for reams. Although it was challenging, tiring and even tedious at times, it was also engaging, interesting and well worth the challenge. We had to apply ourselves to some finely-tuned tasks, especially when Amnesty’s International Secretariat in London had us double checking every source and any ever so slightly unclear statement, quote or phrase for the report on police brutality against lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender individuals in the United States. In its final stages, every detail was scrutinized and hand-picked through to insure accuracy. If we couldn’t find it or weren’t 100% certain, it was thrown out. There were times where I had to remind myself of what all this amounts to- the larger perspective- in order to keep from getting disillusioned with the detailed work that could be interesting, fascinating, horrifying, angering, or unbelievable; sometimes all at once.
Although I admit that I am guilty of a somewhat colorful history involving hopeless idealism, I do try to keep my sights on somewhat. I cannot say that Amnesty wasn’t immune from the quirks and competitions hidden within any large organization or business, but I can say that it is an organization that attracts a distinct array of hard working individuals who are focused and passionate, a virtue that I think keeps those kinds of distractions at bay. Half the experience was interacting with these valuable people and participating in the various opportunities within New York City with them. We had the chance to hear speakers like the first female Iranian judge, a Nobel Peace Prize winner and even a former prisoner of conscious recently released due in part to Amnesty’s diligence on her behalf. We also sat in on panels, films, rallies, demonstrations and art exhibitions.
In addition, I had the privilege of stumbling upon certain community of individuals hidden away in the basement St. Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church. I didn’t know it that first week, but this tiny hub of service would become a glowing part of my New York experience. Every Sunday morning starting at 6am, this scattered group of volunteers laced with a kind of ordinary grace and energy, would make their way to Park Avenue and 50th Street. Here at St. Bart’s Soup Kitchen for the Homeless I was blessed beyond measure just by working side by side in simple observance of the men and women content in meeting a need that never ceased- feeding and clothing the homeless. My good friend Idi, the most revered veteran of St. Bart’s- a patient special education teacher with a sparkle in her eye who lived in Brooklyn, would always refer to the homeless through her relaxed Caribbean accent as “our customers” with the utmost respect and dignity. Then there was Ron, the friendly man with a lame arm who always belted out ridiculous love songs to Idi whenever clean up lasted too long. There was Jimmy, the hard working, ever cheerful tall Asian man who was stock broker from Wall Street. I don’t think I ever saw him without those grimy black rubber gloves and a garbage can at bay. Then of course was Bernie, the sassy lifelong New Yorker with a tinge of humorous cynicism and a no-nonsense attitude. One morning, much to our surprise, he dubbed himself as the welcome committee, grabbed some renegade flowered apron and tied it tight around his waist with a Julia Childs inspired flaunt, ready, as always, to get the show on the road. Joe, Bernie’s best pal, a sixty-something Casanova with a comb over, was superb at isolating the most stylish slacks from our sometimes scanty selection for the customers. Then there was Jeff, who told wild stories about communes and film making in Los Angeles, only sorted clothes in the back hallway and always seemed to be hoarding a special stash of suits for himself. I cannot forget Richard, who somehow reminded me of the brave-little toaster, but a taller, less metallic, more gentle version. The two of us, being the young blood, always had the last task of jamming all the bags and boxes bursting with randomly sorted clothing back into this tiny closet- like an awkward, squishy plastic life-sized 3D puzzle. Then there was also Maria, Richard’s mother from Trinidad, who allegedly made her famous pound cake for my birthday, except there was a slight mix-up in the kitchen and it got served to the homeless instead. And there were others too, all of which built and contributed to a community of people gathered to serve, not to ask questions, but just to just give what was given to them to those who showed up and asked for it. Within the volunteers at St. Bart’s, I found my community, and in turn, I discovered, was able to offer a community to our customers. Something consistent, somewhere safe, a place people recognized and respected them. I cannot begin to imagine a reality of life on the streets of New York City, but I know it is one that is all too real to many. At St. Bart’s they just recognized that there was something more to be done, even if they could only offer temporary solutions in the form of lasagna or a pair of clean socks.
The common thread that linked me from William Jewell to New York, New York to Amnesty International, and Amnesty to St. Bart’s proved to foster a stunningly ordinary revelation within me, if one might call it that. People just weren’t meant to be alone. And as I made my way through New York City this summer, a place bursting with people and energy and opportunity, I was stricken by how utterly alone and isolated someone can become even in the midst of this city that never sleeps. People need communities that are perceptive and attentive, safe and compassionate, respectful and alive. Ultimately, that is what Amnesty and St. Bart’s are all about when it comes down to it. We need these things not only to survive, but to thrive and we must realize that we are capable of creating these spaces around us right here. We owe it to each other to let our vision expand to include not only our needs, but also the needs of others, peeling away any political or religious filters that sometimes add complicated stipulations that can jeopardize our accountability to simply help each other. Amnesty and St. Bart’s weren’t peopled with extraordinary superhuman individuals thinking only of human rights and service opportunities. No, they are just like us, women and men who are sometimes tired and frazzled, who are busy, whose lives are fraught with many of the similar sorrows and joys you may experience too. They are just imperfect individuals who have taken a charge to be wide-eyed and accountable to their communities.
Mary and the late John Pritchard, the couple whose careful generosity transformed my wild idealist jaunt into a throbbing reality by funding my way, are ultimate examples of this kind of sight and action. I want to thank them a million times over for this gift of experience they gave me- what more could I really ask for? I can only hope that we may all be able to take a cue from their peace and keep moving forward giving what we can each day, to choose to keep beginning.
