700 handshakes and casava bbq

I now truly understand what it is like to be "in a fishbowl". I don't think I have ever been watched by so many eyes at once. All 700 students lined up around the school courtyard, in and outside nearby classrooms and on the balcony, pointing at me and looking very surprised and amused to see that their English teacher from America, dressed in slacks, a long button down shirt, and a blue headscarf (jilbob), did not look like a bouleh (white person) at all.

Today instead of classes, we had an outdoor orientation ceremony (Halal bihalal) to welcome all 700+ high school students back to school after the Ramadan/Idul Fitri holiday. The ceremony, which took place in the school courtyard, consisted of every single student lining up to shake every teachers' hand- including mine- as dramatic music played in the background. I say shaking hands, but it is more accurate to say that some students lightly held my fingertips, while others kissed it, and still others pressed my hand to their cheek.

The generosity of Indonesians never ceases to amaze me. I was exhausted when school ended and my cheeks were sore from smiling but I happily joined the teachers to visit Mr. Mu'at (who works at the school) because his wife wife had a tiny, tiny baby just yesterday. After a visit to another teachers' home and a trip to the market, Shienda and I finally returned to my yellow house and I knocked out for a two hour nap. I woke up to the sound of talking from my kitchen and after finally getting up, discovered a small army of chefs at work. Shienda's mother and sister had arrived to help my cook dinner and when I opened the door to my backyard, I was surprised to see Mr. Mu'at (whose wife just had the baby) himself sitting outside fanning a small fire (made from woodchips, a cigarette box, and a flip-flop- yes a shoe) where he was grilling a casava for me. He also grilled a corn on the same fire and carved a young coconut for me.

This is just one of many examples of abundant kindness that I have been flooded with. When I first moved into my dark and empty house I wasn't worried, but I questioned whether I could ever feel at home in such a foreign place. My power and water occasionally turns off, my kitchen ceiling leaks and my house seems to to be the favorite hangout for ants and fruit flies; yet surrounded by all these wonderful people I think someday soon, I will be able to call this house my home.

New home and new friends

Finally got internet up and running in my new home! On Sunday morning at 2 a.m. I arrived in Genteng, a small city in East Java, where I will spend the next 9 months. My house is bright yellow (both inside and outside) and I think the color attracts butterflies because every day I find at least three of my flying friends perched on my walls. There is a living room, three rooms and a spacious kitchen that leads out to a backyard where soon, I will begin planting my own vegetables. Around my backyard (I just noticed this today) is a tall fence crowned with sharp pieces of glass, which I think are intended to keep intruders out. My kitchen is loaded with casava, coconuts, fruits, and cookies that people have brought over for me. There are always people at my house checking in on me and giving me food and whenever I walk around the neighborhood, people invite me into their homes. It is like being a part of one massive family.

For now, Shienda (my co-teacher/counterpart) at my school is living with me. I am very thankful for this because there are so many things that I didn't know how to do- like wearing a jilbob (Muslim headscarf that I wear to school) and taking showers. In my bathroom there is an elevated upright rectangular cube in the corner which can be filled with water. Naturally, I assumed this was a bath-tub. On my first night, I climbed inside to take an uncomfortable, cold bath, all the while wondering how I would tolerate this for one year. Later I learned from Sheinda that I'm not supposed to climb into the tub but in fact the entire bathroom is the shower floor. Thus, to wash yourself, you just stand in the middle of the floor and use the showerhead or dump water on yourself from the tub using scoopers. This was strange to me at first but now I am used to it.

A little about Shienda. She is 24, has a radiant smile, "single and very happy", and probably the most vivacious person I have ever met. She's been teaching English for only 8 months at our school but speaks wonderful English. She learned most of her English from watching American movies and listening to music- everything from Jason Mraz to heavy metal. When she was in college, she was in three different heavy metal bands (much to the demise of her more conservative parents).

In addition to Shienda, I have a friend named Mohammad Syaefulloh that everyone calls "Syaefull" (pronounced Si-full). But I call him Superman because he helps with everything- driving, shopping, and fixing things in the house as they break down. He does all this in addition to starting college (which he just began today) yet he never looks tired. With Shienda and Syaefull I have no worries except that I might burden them too much. Right now my two buddies are lounging in the living room munching on mango dipped in rujak (spicy peanut sauce) and chatting in Javanese and occasionally asking me questions. It is raining heavily and I will probably find lots of puddles in my kitchen tomorrow morning.

Celebrating Idul Fitri in Indonesia!

After a month of abstention from food, water, and sexy time between sunrise and sunset, followers of Islam gathered to celebrate one of their most important holidays, Idul Fitri. This year, our Indonesian teachers, invited all the English teaching assistants (yep all 44 of us) to their home to celebrate the holiday with them in Indonesian-fashion.

During Ramadan (the fasting month), most Indonesian Muslims wake up around 3 or 4 am to eat sahur (the pre-fasting meal)- the only meal and drink until sunset which occurs around 6 p.m. here. My Indonesian friend Elly explained that fasting is a part of her jihad or "struggle" to gain control over her emotions and draw closer to God. To get a better understanding of what she meant, I fasted on Thursday.

At 3:40 a.m.- before a ray of sunlight had touched the sky- I woke up to eat a large breakfast at the hotel buffet and drink water- lots of water. Throughout the morning I felt fine, but as soon as our guest speaker began lecturing on lesson-planning techniques, my eyes wandered wistfully to the espresso machine and plates of snacks piled in the corner of the classroom. Long story short, I survived and emerged with a renewed appreciation for the food that I have and respect for everyone that fasts throughout Ramadan.

Probably the hardest part of the day was when we discussed traditional foods eaten during Idul Fitri in our language class. I didn't realize until that then, how difficult it must have been for our teachers- Ibu Vita and her sister, Ibu Lilly (both Muslim)- to teach a group of Americans who constantly snacked and drank coffee, but they never once showed a trace of impatience or annoyance. In fact, at the end of the day, the two sisters invited all the ETAs to celebrate the end of Ramadan in their home!



On Friday, about 40 ETAs piled into ancots (little green buses), ojeks (motorcycle taxis) and taxis headed towards Ibu Lilly and Ibu Vita's house. Pretty soon, their house was full of buleh! (Indonesian slang for white people)






















To celebrate Idul Fitri, the sisters cooked a variety of traditional Indonesian foods for us including eggs boiled in a soy-sauce, pickled vegetables, and chicken curry. There was also a basket filled with passion-fruit, snake-fruit, and pears and of course, plenty of ketupat- rice steamed in a basket woven from young coconut leaves. When you unwrap the leaves, you use a knife to slice the densely packed rice. You can find ketupat sold in bushels at street stands all around the city.




After eating too much food, I accompanied Ibu Lilly and a few of the ETAs to visit the neighbors. An important component of Idul Fitri is forgiveness and rebuilding relationships with God, friends and family. Muslim families open their homes to guests and visit each other, greeting one another with the phrase "mohon maaf lahir dan batin" which means "forgive my physical and internal (wrongdoings)".

Ibu Lilly's neighbors welcomed us into their home and showered us with food and questions about what we thought about Indonesia and where we would be teaching. We also took lots of pictures. Fortunately, the neighbors were just as excited as we were to take pictures- they had never seen so many buleh in their home before. Selamat Idul Fitri!

First visit to an Indonesian school

As our massive bus rolled into the courtyard, small smiling faces suddenly appeared in windows and doorways out of the sky-blue colored school. From my window I smiled back- equally curious and eager to remember everything from this special visit.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from an Indonesian classroom, but I imagined rows of children with folded hands listening quietly as a stern but respectful teacher lectured. That image was decimated on arrival. As four other Fulbright English Teaching Assistants (ETAs) and I entered the sparsely decorated room, we were greeted by a chorus of enthusiastic “Hello Miss! Hello Mister! Good morning!” from a group of about thirty girls dressed in intricately designed uniforms and white head scarves.

When we introduced ourselves, everything we said was followed by a harmonized “Ooohhhhh” or “Ahhhh” and if we said anything positive about Indonesia (IE- “I love the food here!” or a simple “I like it here”) the kids went nuts, bursting into belly-clutching giggles and applause. When they started begging us to sing, their teacher finally stepped in and took over the class.

All of the ETAs are studying the Indonesian language and teaching methods in a city called Bandung until September 17 when we will be flown to different schools around the country to teach. Typically our lessons are held at the Sheraton hotel where we are staying, but instead of meeting in a hotel conference room, today we observed local English classes to see how Indonesians teach.

We sat in the back as the teacher began a lesson which sounded more like a pep rally than a lecture. “Is this a BOOK?” he shouted while pointing to a book. “YES! It is a book!” the students shouted back in unison. “Is this a PEN?” he asked. “No! It is a BOOK!” was the reply. This continued for about ten minutes, with the teacher pointing to different objects in the classroom and the students getting progressively louder. Once the teacher began calling on individuals, the girls suddenly became very shy though, giggling nervously and covering their faces with their hands.

At the end of the class, I asked to take a picture and the girls immediately began chattering excitedly and striking poses. They kept asking me, “Do you have Passbook?” Not knowing what “Passbook” was I apologized, but that didn’t stop dim their smiles or chatter (I later figured out they were trying to say Facebook which is extremely popular among Indonesian children).

Ever since I found out that I would be traveling to Indonesia, I have been looking forward to teaching, but meeting these kids has only doubled my excitement. I have never seen energy like this at an American high school, except maybe at a football game. As our bus rolled out of the schoolyard and headed back to the Sheraton, my thoughts wandered to Genteng, the village where I will begin teaching mid-September, and I smiled knowing that I am in the exact right place to teach.

Peruvian presidential candidate campaigns for votes... in New Jersey

Could you imagine Obama flying to France to rev up American ex-pats to get out of their cafés and vote in the 2012 election? Well that’s basically what Peru’s leading presidential candidate is doing tonight, right here in N.J.

Keiko Fujimori- congresswoman and daughter of a former president- will be the keynote speaker at a Paterson charity event- not only to help raise money for poor kids, but also to court votes from the largest émigré community from the South American country.

She’s got a good reason for doing so. Peruvian immigrants, who send billions of dollars in remittances home each year, remain actively involved in Peruvian politics, even while living abroad. One community leader recalled that during the 2006 election, the line of Peruvian Americans voters stretched four blocks, according to a report in NorthJersey.com.

The census says there are 66,000 Peruvians living in N.J., but community leaders believe there could be as many as 200,000- that’s so significant that the Peruvian government built a consulate in Patterson- only 15 miles from its other one in New York City, said the report.

Some interesting facts about Fujimori taken from Business Week:

• As a descendent of Japanese immigants, she is considered a minority

• Her father, former President Alberto Fujimori, is a political prisoner. In 2009, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison for human rights violations.

• She got her MBA from Columbia University, where she met her American husband

• She was elected to Congress in 2006 at the age of 19

Why I go to Platters (and why you should go too)

The Europeans enjoy long multi-coursed meals served on fancy plates. But at Seton Hall, there’s a group of us that have our own idea of a three-hour meal, and it’s not European.

One course, one platter- that’s all you need when you visit the Halal street stand on 53rd and 6th in New York City.

Known to regulars as “Platters”, Halal Chicken and Rice is one of those places that make college kids speak poetry. No joke. Twenty-one year old, beer-guzzling men speak of Platters like King Solomon spoke of his beloved or Romeo of his fair Juliette.

To anyone that’s ever ventured there, that’s no surprise. The food is enough to make even the most snobbish epicurean weak in the knees: Perfectly seasoned lamb (or chicken) tossed on a bed of yellow rice and warm pita, topped with a generous serving of “white sauce”, and if you have good taste and a strong stomach- the legendary, hot sauce. And you can’t beat the price: $6 for a platter, and $4 a gyro.

But as any Platters regular will tell you: It’s not just about the food, Platters is an experience. As a Seton Hall student, visiting the legendary street stand meant scrounging for cash (no credit cards accepted), finding drivers (who can maneuver NYC taxi cabs), gathering a group (at least 5-strong), and setting aside at minimum, 3 hours to drive there, eat, and return.

Most importantly, Platters is never planned. One person says, “Hey want to go to Platters?”- usually around midnight, and usually the night before an early-morning class. Hesitation and rational debate ensues, but eventually, logic surrenders to passion, ego bows to id, and before you know it, you find yourself in a car with too many people, hungry and dancing to “You know you want me” as it blasts on the radio.

I always enjoyed Platters myself, but as a type-A nerd, involved in too many activities and enrolled in too many classes my sophomore year, Platters was also a cause of heart-palpitating anxiety- symptoms of shirking assignments, putting off never-ending emails, and going to class too tired the next day- if I woke up. But thankfully, I always had friends that dragged me on monthly, sometimes weekly pilgrimages, despite my protests and pouting.

Now as a slightly-less-than-type-A graduate, I realize that those irrational excursions were in a way, just as important as the meetings and the lectures which consumed so much of my time in college. The people that joined me for Platters runs, I now consider some of my best friends, and even though they will be dispersed around the country and around the world next year, we’ll always share the memories of those ridiculous nights of laughter, traffic, and of course, savory baby sheep.

I’m still a nerd, I still get work done on time, but because of those friends, I live my life by a slightly different clock. Take this piece of prose for example. In less than 6 days, I will be taking the GRE, an exam which will determine which offices I sit in for the next fifty years of my life. If my Asian dad saw me writing a street-food review for my not-for-profit blog at this moment, he would freak, FREAK. And so would nineteen-year old Grace.

But for now, I am just happy. I’m happy because I am doing something I love (writing), writing about the people I love (you know who you are), and reminiscing over some of the best nights we ever shared. And although there probably won’t be another Platters reunion until, oh, next month, at this moment, those memories are enough.

Grace's phone falls to sudden, tragic death

NEWARK -- A single-hinged black cellular device - otherwise known as “My Phone” - came to a tragic, silent death this morning after plunging three feet from Grace’s desk at The Star Ledger office in Newark, New Jersey.

For several months, the enV2 flip-phone was literally “hanging on” for dear life after a violent tug-a-war between Grace and an anonymous Sri Lankan left the device with only one hinge.

Despite repeated offers from her dad to replace the phone, Grace kept “My Phone”, hoping it would make it through the rest of the summer.

“I only have a month or so left before I leave for Indonesia, why bother replacing it now?” Grace remembered telling her Dad.

But Grace’s dream of sharing the summer with the 2008 phone came to an abrupt end when at approximately 10:12 a.m., Grace knocked the phone off her desk with one swipe of her right hand.

“I was reaching for the computer mouse… and then I saw if fall,” Grace said recalling the life-changing moment, “It fell without hardly a sound. I was shocked when I saw my phone laying there in two pieces.”

The phone had landed on carpeted floor under Grace’s desk, but experts say that months of opening and closing the device had worn away the single hinge which for months, had held the phone together.

“My initial reaction was- shoot, how will I know what’s for dinner?” said Grace who had been hoping to text her mother later that day.

The phone, which Grace has owned since the summer of 2009 was filled with hundreds of photos, saved text messages, and contacts, when it came to its sudden death.

“My Phone” is survived by its caretaker, Grace C, age 21, and enV3- "My New Phone"- which Grace will be using until she leaves for Indonesia.

Grace's number will remain unchanged.

Seton Hall alumnus exchanged in spy swap after pleading guilty to espionage

A Seton Hall alumnus was flown to Vienna today as part of a spy swap between the U.S. and Russia, after he - and 10 other Russians - pleaded guilty to acting as unregistered agents for Russia.

When the story first broke, it sounded like a bad joke. The week of June 27 was a-buzz with news about the 11 Russians that had been arrested on charges of espionage. So when a friend told me that a fellow Seton Hall graduate was involved, I was in disbelief.

“One of the people arrested for spying is a Whitehead grad from 08!” he said in a Facebook message on June 29, “His name is Mikhail Semenko. pretty crazy huh?

A simple Google search and a thick FBI report confirmed that the blue eyed Russian- known on campus as “Misha”- was a suspect in one of the largest espionage crackdowns in U.S. history.

As I pursued the story, I uncovered details which seemed to come straight out of a Hollywood script.

Semenko came to the U.S. in 2005 on a student visa to pursue a dual masters degree in diplomacy and international relations/ Asian studies at Seton Hall’s Whitehead School of Diplomacy. Whitehead students that I interviewed, described him as a “normal” guy who was involved in school clubs, regularly attended lectures, and enjoyed socializing at parties.

“He really just seemed like every other student,” said Molly Holzbauer from the class of ’08.

But authorities said the 28-year old was a budding Russian spy.

During an alleged conversation with an undercover FBI agent, Semenko revealed that he had spent weeks with the Russian foreign intelligence service, learning how to secretly share messages on wireless computer networks. That conversation led to a meeting during which the undercover passed him $5,000 and a map which showed where to hide it for a fellow spy. Hours later, Semenko was arrested.

Seton Hall alumni, many who had learned of the arrest through an alumni Facebook group, were shocked by the news.

After all, Semenko, who grew up on the Russia-China border always seemed more interested in China than in U.S. foreign policy. He was actively involved in the Chinese Student Association at Seton Hall and fellow members recall being impressed by his fluent Mandarin. He taught English while traveling in China and also kept a blog on the Chinese economy which won him kudos from Steve Clemens, an analyst for a prestigious D.C. based think-tank.

But he didn’t try hard to downplay his Russian identity either. His latest job was at a Russian travel agency and at school, Semenko was involved in the Slavic club. He even helped teach some of the elementary Russian language classes when a professor left on maternity leave, students recalled. A Russian-language professor who described Semenko as “sweet” and “innocent” hung up on me when I asked for an interview.

“We had joked around that he was a Russian spy, but never took it seriously,” said one friend who shared classes with Semenko.

An Ode

Dear Joe,

I never imagined that I would be writing these words to you.

I still remember how as a young freshman in college, I wouldn’t even give you the time of day. Sure I was curious, and yeah, you’re hot and I saw how all my female friends were gaga over you- but I was new to college, ready to save the world and happy just being me, alone and independent.

Sometimes I regret that we didn’t start things sooner, but I’ve come to realize that it was actually the time apart that has helped me to appreciate the role you play in my life today.

I will never forget that first day things started happening between us. Sophomore year: It was a late night in the library and I had already been sitting in my dusty cubicle for eight hours, desperately cramming for my Honors final. Then my best friend came over and suggested that we take a “study break” at the campus coffee shop.

Right.

I mean c’mon, everyone knew that you would be there that night. I had always been good at saying no, but that night was different- perhaps I was a little crazed from all the studying or maybe I was influenced by the teaching of the Greek philosophers I was reading- whatever the reason, that night, I did something different, I said yes. And that first step brought me to you.

You ended up coming back with me that night. And through that night, I realized that you are not only strong, dark and bold, but that you can also be smooth and sweet. I still remember being blown away by how you not only satisfied by desires but stimulated my mind. Maybe I stayed up a little later than I should’ve, but I can honestly say that you were the one that got me through that night. And guess what? The next day I aced my Honors final.

That was the beginning of our young romance. From that day forward, I began seeing you on a daily basis and you even started becoming a part of my circle of friends. I won’t go into detail about the rest of our relationship since you already know what happened. Like with any relationship, we had our ups and downs. There were sometimes days where I was okay without seeing you, but in the end, I’d always come back.

As the days and months passed, I got more adventurous with you, wanting to try new things in new places. My friend who’d introduced me to you that one fated day in the library was surprised, but happy for us. “I always knew you’d give in,” she’d say to me, shaking her head.

Then there was the dry period. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but one day I just freaked out, like completely bugged out. I began to realize that I was slowly losing that independent self-confidence I once had. My friends had already begun noticing this about me, but for a long time I was in denial. Finally, I had to face the facts. I haven't told this to anyone but there were actually times where I felt like I couldn’t go on with my life unless I could wake up every day to your familiar smell or be with you later that day.

And that’s how the break began. It was long and painful, and every time I ran into you at the library or in the coffee shop, I’d be flooded with the memories that we shared together. Throughout this time, you never forced yourself on me, but you were always there, waiting for the day I’d come back to you- back to you like I always had.

But I didn’t, at least not right away. I moved on with my life, finding other things to pass the time and keep me going. I started sleeping longer, exercising and spending more time talking on the phone. I even met a few new guys. I was happy. I thought I’d make it through the summer, but then I got this job at The Star Ledger and the walls all came crumbling down again. It was Sophomore year all over again.

After getting only four hours of sleep, waking up at the crack of dawn, and staring at my computer for five hours straight, I realized that I just couldn’t be without you any longer. I told my boss that I would be back and that I needed to see you and surprisingly, he was very understanding.

“Trust me! I’ve been there,” he said with a good-natured laughed.

I dropped everything that I was working on and headed for the doorway. I walked through all the familiar bends in the hallway and directly to the kitchen where I knew you would be waiting.
And there you were, a perfect, hot, fresh pot of my favorite brew.

Since that moment, I haven’t gone a day without you. And you know what? I’m okay with that now. Yeah you sometimes make me shake uncontrollably and yeah you make me pee more than I ever did before, but that’s okay because when I am with you, I feel like a new and yes, a better person. So I want to just conclude this by saying, thank you Joe. Thank you for all that you have done for me and all that you have gotten me through.

I am proud to declare that I am addicted to you and to proclaim that even if I occasionally go for tea, I will never leave you.

Here’s to us!


Sincerely,

Grace

Is there a pattern of Muslim-Americans getting involved in terrorist attacks against Americans?

Is there a pattern of Muslim-Americans getting involved in terrorist attacks against Americans? If you follow the news regularly, you might come to that conclusion.

This morning I wrote a story about the five American Muslim men that were found guilty today by a Pakistani court for terrorism-related charges. While doing my research, I noticed that almost every story was quick to point out that this was one of multiple examples of American Muslims joining arms with terrorists.

A couple examples in The Guardian and the LA Times.

The technique is frequently used by writers, including myself to convince you, the reader, to continue reading a story by proving that a single event is part of an important trend. But in using this trick, writers often fall into the tempting trap to sensationalize and simplify.

Take the NY Times for example. The NY Times reported today that “the young mens' story follows a recent pattern of attempts by American Muslims to join militant groups fighting the United States military in countries like Afghanistan.”

And to prove their point, it linked to a second article, which cites the following famous examples:

July 2009: A 26-year-old Long Island native and convert to Islam is charged with attacking a U.S. military base and working with Al-Qaeda.

Nov 2009: A Muslim Army psychiatrists opens fire at Fort Hood, Texas killing 12 people.

June 2010: And most-recently, Pakistani-American Faisal Shahzad pleaded guilty to trying to set off a car bomb in Times-Square. Shazad is also a Muslim.

I understand that these aren’t the only cases of Muslim-Americans attacking U.S. citizens. And I also understand that we will never know the exact number of Americans-Muslims that have gone to other countries to get “radicalized” and trained to kill. But even if there were say, 30 such known incidents, could we fairly conclude that there is a pattern of angry American-Muslims turning to extremism and signing up to become suicide bombers?

According to the 2008 U.S. census, there are 1,349,000 Muslims in America. That means even if 30 of these Muslims tried to attack fellow Americans, less than 0.01% would be guilty.

So why have these stories caused such a wave of excitement in the U.S.? The answer is pretty obvious- they hit home. These stories send the message that your nice Muslim friend and neighbor could be secretly plotting a terrorist attack, right under your nose. And when stories hit home, the media will cover it, and cover it until there is not a single American left in the dark (think about the current media obsession with the BP oil spill).

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing in and of itself, but when the media engages in such story-overload, it can give the impression that a certain event is more prevalent than it actually is. That explains why Americans are more afraid of flying in planes than driving in cars which are more likely to end in a crash. And it also explains why Americans might see American-Muslims as a threat.

Granted, there has been an increase of American-Muslims turning to terrorism since the U.S. invasion of Iraq, but I hesitate to accept the claim that an increase necessarily entails there is a “pattern”. Now you might be wondering why I'm making such a big deal over one word, but when one word is published in one of America's most well-respected papers, and repeated by politicians and pundits, it becomes a reality in the minds of Americans and further alienates a predominantly peaceful, hard-working population of our country which deserves nothing less than respect- even if that respect makes a news story a little less exciting.

GraceArts

I promised myself I'd start a blog this summer, but once I started my summer job (which involves 8 hours of staring at a computer) the goal of starting a blog quickly melted away. But even in its pitiful melted state- that idea stuck with me, and here today, I hope to make it a reality.

So what's the deal with my blog title? Well I actually created this blog years ago for my artwork so that once all my drawings and paintings had rotted away in my attic, I'd still have copies stored safely on Blogspot to show future lovers and grandchildren. You can see how well that idea panned out.

Although I don't plan to make this blog exclusively about my artwork (there wouldn't be much of it), I've decided to keep Grace Arts as my blog title. Even though I don't carry my sketchbook everywhere like I did in high school, I very much still consider myself an artist and I'd like GraceArts to be the digital sketchbook where I capture some of those events and memories which make me who I am.