Words

I sat with a ninth grader yesterday. He had been studying all week, solving every math problem perfectly. But last night, his breaths were short, hands were trembling, and mind couldn’t recognize a simple equation.

“Relax. You’ll be fine,” I told him. “You’ve studied so hard and you know your stuff. Just think positively and you’ll do great!”

“So if I have good thoughts, I’ll do good on my test tomorrow?” He rubbed his eyes.

Before I could smile and blurt, “You got it!” a twelfth grader from across the room jumped in, “But that never works.”

The clock ticked. The photocopier buzzed. The mini fridge hummed.

The twelfth grader sat on a dark oak desk. A Parts of Speech poster hung behind him next to a Tutoring Centre: Polices and Rules chart. His pen drew swirls of blue ink on his exercise sheet.

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, I thought I was gonna fail my test last week, but I got an A. So I wasn’t thinking positively at all and I ended up with a good mark.”

The ninth grader’s eyebrows rose. The side of his upper lip curled in a ‘Huh?’ expression.

I blinked. Three times. “You thought you were going to fail while you were studying?”

“No! I thought I’ll do fine while I was studying, but then when I wrote the test, it was hard and I thought I did bad.”

I let go of the breath I was holding from the moment he said, “But.” I knew I could steer back this conversation, at least in front of the ninth grader. I wanted his spirits to be high going into his test.

“Oh OK! So that’s exactly what I’m saying. When you were studying, you already gave off positive vibes. You worked hard and felt well prepared, right?”

“Riiiight.”

“And even if you thought you were going to fail after you wrote the test, didn’t you, deep inside, hope you’d do good?”

“Yeah.”

“There! Other than the fact that you studied hard, which you have done,” I glanced at the ninth grader, “you were thinking positively all along.”

Case solved. Point proven. Thank you.

Many of us underestimate the value of maintaining a positive attitude. Negativity, in all its forms, is destructive. I’m talking about feelings of doubt, worry, frustration, fear, anger, irritation, and disappointment. I bet you got nervous just by reading this list. These negative emotions limit our ability and distort our rationality. Now think about being confident, calm, happy, content, safe, and satisfied. Isn’t that better?

We should choose our thoughts before speaking. Not just for our own sake, but for those around us as well. Words transmit vibes, and being pessimistic and downbeat is contagious.

Sharing two cents shouldn’t be merely done for the sake of arguing. The context and consequence of what we say are what matter most – not how confident we sound when we give a rebuttal at the wrong time for no deliberate purpose other than to flex muscles.

Think before you speak. Such a simple concept. We should use it more often.

In related news: Breathe, relax, and be happy :)

Crete, Greece, Oct. 2011

Outlook

"I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires."

Khalil Gibran

Santorini, Greece, Oct. 2011

Unrest in the Middle East

What an eventful month it’s been in the Middle East.

At least 10 people died in a flood in Jeddah, a heavy sandstorm blanketed skyscrapers in Dubai, and strong aftershocks of a 7.2 magnitude quake rocked The Gulf.

Oh…by “eventful” you thought I was referring to the revolution(s)? I guess the region’s shifting political power can also swamp remnants, becloud prospects, and shake structures.

After Tunisia’s ex-president Zine El Abidine Ben Ali fled the country he ruled for 23 years, many anticipated a domino effect. And so far, that revolution seems to be sparking others.

Local and international media outlets have been following Egypt’s unrest and scurrying to report breaking news. But coverage is inadequate.

Above cartoon is from www.zapiro.com

Citizen journalism is not given the chance to play its part. Tunisia’s Jasmine Revolution extensively used social networking sites, but mainstream media cannot rely on Twitter, Facebook or YouTube to find top stories about the Egyptian uprising. Mubarak ordered the disruption of telephone and internet services.

Al Jazeera stepped up, played a key role in reporting the Egyptians’ unrest and even offered its news to other networks for free, but Egypt’s satellite Nilesat cut off its broadcasting signal today. Authorities revoked Al Jazeera's license to broadcast from the country in an attempt to silence its reporters.

Nile TV and other Egyptian networks are airing shots of empty streets and quiet cities, instead of images of angry protestors and banners that order Mubarak’s departure. How long will it take Mubarak and other oppressors to realize that freedom to disseminate information is a pillar of justice? People have had it with oppression.

Protests have already erupted in Algeria, Jordan and Yemen. The domino effect is gearing up. Regardless of the causes and political demands of these unrests, citizens are after basic civil rights: better infrastructure, more job opportunities, less corruption.

Time will tell who the next Ben Ali may be. And at the rate events are unfolding, we might not have to wait long to find out.

O Summer, Where Art Thou? - Repost

Why this repost? Because it feels like -30°C in Toronto right now.

* * *

Dear weather,

I really like you and appreciate your change of seasons. It breaks the monotony of life. However, I've been thinking lately about how uncomfortably cold it's getting, how I can't feel anything with gloves on, how bulky layers are, how gloomy the sky looks, and, most importantly, how the sun sets at 5. I think I'm ready for longer, warmer days, for a nice evening walk, for a good tennis match.

I'd like to see trees dressed again.

I'd even like to see moss climbing their trunks.

I'd like to see vines blanketing walls.

I'd like to see fountains full of life.

I'd like to see the sun shining.

So please consider warming yourself up.

Thank you,
Nadia

Kind Words

When I unexpectedly received a reference letter from Craig and Marc Kielburger for participating in Free the Children, I turned to my friend and said the first thing that came to mind: Never underestimate the power of a kind word. That’s because my next thought was, “Phew! What an ending to a tough month.”

The moment I opened the gently bent envelope and scanned the printed words, I felt a boost. I needed that boost.

I had just graduated and was going through hours of confusion, days of doubt and weeks of hesitation trying to map out the next few years. I had to shuffle through many options and prioritize my life: Should I continue with my business or hunt for employment? Focus on work or search for PhD programs? Attend to my personal life or build my professional life? (Did you ever think that having too many options can almost be as bad as having no options at all?)

But when I read, “Through her writing, there is no doubt that Nadia has helped countless others better understand the world they live in,” I felt like everything was going to be OK. I thought, “Hmmm… If I helped others understand the world, I sure can help myself figure out my life, right?”

I actually see the impact of a kind deserving word every day working with kids. No matter how confident or cocky some children may seem, they need encouragement. We all do. Children are vulnerable. We all are.

If kids don’t understand a lesson, have trouble answering questions, are afraid of joining teams, or are scared to participate in activities, talk to them. Point out their strengths. Show them their improvements. Imagine with them where they can end up with all the work they’re putting in. A positive thought is powerful. It really is.

I’ve watched children’s backs transform from crouching to straight. Their eyes changed from wandering to alert, their fingers turned from quivering to steady, and their heads went from lowered to held high. Encouragement clearly boosts their spirits.

Of course, when I say ‘children’, I could really mean anyone... regardless of age. Haven’t you heard Wordsworth’s quote, “the child is the father of the man”?

So share a kind word, will you?

Snow Day or No Snow Day?

On Tuesday at 3:27 p.m., I received a Breaking News Alert from Boston.com stating that Boston schools are canceled Wednesday because of the "approaching" snowstorm.

Well, we never get that here in Toronto. Schools and businesses don't get canceled a day in advance. Even though "parts of southern Ontario are getting blasted with heavy snow", we currently have a "storm watch".

Students who are aching to postpone writing their biology test or submitting their history essay are saying, "No fair!" They will just have to wait until the morning to hear the verdict.

So while kids spend the night praying for a snow day, some of us can relax in front of a fireplace, watch the snow blanket the streets, and wait to see what the morning will bring.

Sushi Rolls and Swimsuits

Thursday night, Manny, Clinton and Amy slide into their seats in Kuni Sushi Ya, an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant in Toronto's Chinatown.

Amy looks ahead, past Manny and Clinton, to an enclosed area and studies the dark oak chabu-dai, a low folding Japanese dining table, and the bright red tatami, rice straw mats.

"Oh...cool!" she says. "Why didn't we sit there?"

"It's uncomfortable. For me anyways. Maybe next time," Clinton says. His dark hair forms tight curls and light brown eyes glisten. His lips are full and beard is trimmed. He wears a short-sleeve orange shirt with What Are You Looking At? printed in black blocks.

He grabs a pad and pencil, and jots the first set of trays to order: Salmon sashimi, and California, Cucumber, Dynamite and Red Dragon rolls.

A waitress approaches the table. Clinton rips the first sheet of paper and hands it to her. 

"Hey, Amy," Manny says. His chlorine-bleached dirty blonde hair is messy, and skin is tanned. "Did you see that?" He nods towards the wall. 

Samuel L. Jackson's signature dances in black ink.

"He was really here?" Amy says. "Wow!"

Manny smiles. But his smile quickly disappears. He places his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands. He exhales. Sharply. Clinton and Amy glance at him.

"I still can't believe what happened yesterday at the competition," Manny mumbles. His hands travel to the back of his head where his fingers intertwine.

"I...I'm sure it wasn't that bad. You came in third, right? That's still good." Amy shrugs.

Manny shakes his lowered head, looks up and rubs his face. His eyes follow the waitress as she makes her way from the counter to their table. She sets the trays down, turns and reaches for the other table's orders. Her knee-long red uniform drapes her body.

Three wooden trays with two-inch legs sit in front of them. Amy reaches for raw fish. She struggles with her chopsticks.

"Hey, would they be offended if I ask for a fork?" Amy whispers.

"Nah. Just ask," Clinton says.

"Well...hmmm...I'll just try some more. I'm sure I'll get to know how to use these things," Amy says.

She slides both sticks between her thumb and index finger. She makes sure the bottom stick stays still at the base of her thumb, while her fingers grip the top one. She motions the top stick up and down.

"Hah! There!" she says.

"Hold them a bit higher," Clinton says.

She does and reaches for sushi. She wedges a piece between the sticks. Halfway to her plate, the roll plummets on the table.

She sighs and asks a waitress for a fork. The waitress sympathetically smiles before heading to the kitchen.

Amy turns back to Manny and watches him staring ahead. She feels his gaze traveling beyond the walls of the restaurant.

"What happened, Manny? You're great at swimming, right? And you trained. A lot."

The waitress returns with a fork.

Amy looks at Manny munching. "So...what happened?"

"Okay...this is what happened," Clinton finally blurts. "He forgot his full-body swimsuit and had nothing to wea–"

"I didn't forget. I just. I couldn't find it," Manny says. He sets his chopsticks on the edge of his white plate and rubs his palms. "I looked for it everywhere, but I couldn't find it. My friend said he'd lend me his. But his size was, what, three sizes smaller than mine."

"Oh...so what happened? How did you race?" Amy grips the fork and stabs a Cucumber Roll. The filling explodes and the rice band unravels. "Heck, forget this!" She sets her fork next to her chopsticks and grabs the piece of sushi with her fingers, dips it in soy sauce and shoves it in her mouth.

"I struggled in the change room. I had to get in the suit. Man, it was painful. I was...like...you get the picture. Anyways," Manny scratches his head. "I go to the pool, stand in my assigned spot and wait for the call to start. I hear the first beep, and get into the ready position. You know? When we bend down to get ready to dive?"

Amy gasps. 

Manny nods slowly. "Yup. All I hear is zzziiipppp...and people bursting into laughter behind me. I never swam faster than I swam that day."

New Year's Resolutions

I stopped making New Year’s resolutions. I now make New Month’s resolutions, New Week’s resolutions and even New Day’s resolutions.

I figured if the occasion isn’t too significant – “Oh my God! There’s a whole new year ahead of us! No, no! A whole new decade!” versus “Oh look! It’s March 1^st! Isn’t that nice?!” – then not reaching the goals I’ve set won’t be too disappointing. No one will really notice. No one asks about your March’s resolutions. No pressure.

But the truth is: 1) I like spontaneity, and 2) I got sick of saying, “I’ll start next month!” or “I’ll get to that next year.” So if I wake up one day thinking, “Hmmm… I should spend more time in the kitchen,” I turn to my possessed blue VAIO and search for new recipes to try. I don’t wait for January 1^st.

I started acting on my spontaneous goals about two years ago. My resolution that February was the oh-so-famous ‘become healthier’ one. I joined the gym, avoided fast foods, dropped all refined foods and added organic produce to my diet. I replaced white rice, white pasta, white bread, and white sugar with their whole grain/wheat varieties. I lost weight and felt better.

I then decided to upgrade my healthy lifestyle to macrobiotics. I’ve been reading about balanced meals and trying them for six months, but the changes I’ve made so far have made a big difference. I chew my food longer (a staple of macrobiotics) and that cut my portion sizes even more. I eat less animal protein and dairy products, and more grains and in-season vegetables.

The problem? I have a sweet tooth that’s sometimes hard to satisfy. Many online dessert recipes claim to strictly follow macrobiotics, but it’s irritating to see white flour, margarine or shortening listed as an ingredient.

Last night, around midnight, I got one of my spend-more-time-in-the-kitchen impulses, so I decided to tweak an apple crisp recipe to suit my macrobiotic diet:

Ingredients for Topping: 1 cup of organic oats ½ cut free-flowing organic brown sugar ¼ cup whole wheat flour 1 cup of chopped walnuts 1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon A pinch of grated nutmeg A pinch of sea salt A drizzle of extra virgin olive oil

Ingredients for Filling: 5 of your favorite peeled, cored and sliced organic apples ¼ cup of agave nectar 1 tablespoon of lemon juice ½ tablespoon of whole wheat flour ½ teaspoon of cinnamon A pinch of grated nutmeg

Preparation: Preheat the oven to 375°F. Topping: Combine the oats, sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt, and nuts in a mixing bowl. Drizzle olive oil and stir until combined. Set aside. Filling: Mix the apples, agave nectar, lemon, flour, cinnamon and nutmeg together. Transfer the mixture to a baking dish and sprinkle the topping evenly over the apples. Bake for 30 minutes or until the apples are tender and topping is golden brown.

The verdict? Success. And it works well for breakfast too...or so my family thinks. I woke up and found the pan devoured.

My spontaneous resolutions have worked for me so far. But if anyone asks about my New Year’s resolutions, I look them in the eye and say, “I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.” J

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

My Luck With Technology

I’m cursed when it comes to technology. Seriously. It’s as if a self-destructive aura forms around anything electronic on my premises. And whenever I complain about how my brand new VAIO laptop keeps unexpectedly disconnecting from the internet, my youngest brother Joe shrugs and says in the most matter-of-fact tone, “Shoulda got a Mac.”

OK…so he was trying to convince me to get a Mac for a long time. I understand his excitement about his two-year-old MacBook Pro. He hasn’t had any problems with it and “it works beautifully.” But I didn’t listen.

I should’ve transitioned to Apple after I was beyond frustrated with the constantly-freezing Dell I had before my blue VAIO. I even publically voiced my frustration on:

1. Twitter: “Transcribing interview. Loading circles goes round. Breathing & counting to ten. Typing 1word/min isn’t helping. My laptop doesn’t hate me, right?”
2. Facebook: “Nadia is picturing her laptop in 50 pieces…bundled in the corner of the room…ready to be taken to Laptop Graveyard.”

But I still didn’t listen.

I didn’t get a Mac not because I wanted to impose my older-sibling superiority and prove who’s wisest. I really never do that. I didn’t get one because I had to get a PC for my editing business. Tracking changes and formatting files on a Mac aren’t compatible with my clients’ PC environments.

But that’s a V8 moment right there: Most of my current clients own a Mac. Homer Simpson put it best when he said, “D’oh!”

And don’t get me started about smart phones. I recently bought a BlackBerry Torch. Yes, Joe has an iPhone 4. While he admits that having a sliding QWERTY keyboard is very convenient and emailing is better on the Torch, he cannot quit talking about how browsing is much faster on his iPhone and how the Torch’s touch screen lags and isn’t as clear.

I can easily prove Joe wrong and tell you I’m happy with my Torch. But I’m not.

I don’t have anything against BB Torches. Many of my family and friends have them, and haven’t had any problems. It’s just MY Torch. It’s possessed. 

Here's the story short: The touch screen doesn't work properly and isn't very responsive. I have to reset it every time it stops working. This started from the day I bought it. I got annoyed resetting every other day and went to replace it a week ago. Fortunately, I had purchased a two-year warranty because I know my luck with technology.

But every time I enter the store, it magically starts working again! After I say, “Oh…but it wasn’t working a minute ago,” I get sympathetic stares…you know, the ones that come with the tilting of the head? Then, I hear a reply that goes along the lines of: “Sorry! We really can’t replace it if we don’t see the problem.”

*Sigh*

Joe ends off every night chanting, “Shoulda, woulda, coulda…” But I’m not too sure how a Mac or an iPhone can survive my technologically challenged luck.

Who's Naughty Greedy or Nice

Thirty-year-old Mark stabs the last piece of steak with his fork and shoves it in his mouth. He chomps, swallows and looks up. Twenty of his colleagues sit around the table whispering office gossip and sharing travel plans.

Delicate red lanterns hang above them and large green wreaths decorate every restaurant wall. Santa Claus is Coming to Town blasts from ceiling speakers.

Mark stares at the table in front of him. He watches a senior in gray pants, white shirt and black suspenders scramble from his seat and saunter to the buffet.

The buffet – Asian American appetizers, main course meals and desserts are lined up – is drenched in aromas elevating from sizzling seafood, poultry and vegetarian dishes. The place buzzes with people laughing, babies crying, forks clicking and plates clacking.

In the kitchen, a waiter dressed in black pants and red shirt, drops plates on the floor. He scurries to pick up the pieces. His boss screams in Chinese.

Mark sees a teen in hip-hugging jeans and a black V-neck sweater carry her plate back to her seat. A waitress hurries to fill up her glass with water. Two other waiters set up a new table in a corner, while another leads in a family of four.

Mark gulps his sparkling drink, gets up and heads to the buffet. Time for dessert. He scans the rows of cake: angel, cheese, fudge, ice cream, and cupcakes. He sees chocolate mousse, caramel flan and rice pudding.

A 9-year-old girl behind him struggles to scoop ice cream. He turns around. His eyes move across the titles above her head: mango, vanilla, cherry, cappuccino, mint and spicy. He rubs his hands together and heads to the rack for a plate.

The dessert plates are too small. He grabs a main course plate. His index finger taps the side of his mouth. Hmmm…where should I start?

A bright burgundy colour catches his eye. He stares at the shiniest, juiciest bunch of grapes he’s ever seen.

He cuts through 15-year-old twin sisters, reaches for the grapes and pulls. Okay…so now they’re the biggest bunch of grapes I’ve ever seen. He bends the vine with two fingers to break off a smaller piece. It doesn’t break. He frowns, puts his plate on the narrow stainless steel edge and retackles the vine with two hands.

Then, he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to face a waitress.

“Uh…sir,” she whispers through her thick Chinese accent. “These aw fake grapes…yo know…fo decoration…”

“Oh...right.” He glances behind his shoulder hoping no one else saw what just happened. “I knew that.” 

Mark returns to his table with a slice of melon. He lost his appetite.

 *True story. I used a pseudonym to spare him global embarrassment.

Through words and pictures...

A Sunday night spent reading Khalil (Kahlil) Gibran and flipping through old photos:

"I wash my hands of those who imagine chattering to be knowledge, silence to be ignorance, and affection to be art."

“Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens.”

“Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.”

“But let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of heaven dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls." 

Cartoons on Facebook

Like many of you, part of my Facebook news feed this weekend looked like this:

Hundreds of Facebookers posted pictures of their favorite cartoon character(s) and circulated the note: “Change your FB profile picture to a ‘cartoon from your childhood.’ The goal? To not see a human face on FB till Monday, December 6th. Join the fight against child abuse. Copy & paste to your status and invite your friends to do the same...”

I can narrow people’s reactions towards this initiative to three:

1. Those who think it’s a great idea and changed their picture right away.
2. Those who are annoyed or furious because they don’t think changing Facebook profile photos will help abused children.
3. Those who think it’s fun joining the crowd regardless of the goal.

I have to admit that getting bombarded with images of cartoons I grew up watching, from Disney creations to translated anime, was reminiscent. I’m also for fighting against child abuse – all kinds of abuse.

But I don’t think we should keep allocating specific times to raise awareness about issues. Such efforts should be ongoing. And I didn't change my profile picture to my favorite cartoon character, not because there are too many to choose from, but because I don’t think this ‘cartoon’ idea fits well with this initiative:

1. The cartoon concept transcends childhood. Some cartoons target adults. I saw photos of Family Guy and South Park as profile pictures, but I sure hope kids these days aren’t watching them.
2. Many cartoons’ content is drenched with violence. Animated or fantasy violence is still brutal. Many studies have shown how fighting scenes in Power Rangers and even Pokémon make people more violent. Ironic much?

All analysis aside, I hope this cartoon meme has gotten people talking about child abuse instead of merely discussing who was the coolest Smurf or the strongest Ninja Turtle... 

Silly Bandz

Over the past several months, I’ve been seeing elementary students’ arms covered in rainbow-colored bands. 

Boys and girls twist and turn their wrists in display of their Silly Bandz collection. They gossip about their newest sets and trade this blue mermaid for that hard-to-find shooting star. Some stand in groups, stretch a tie-die silicon band, and let it plummet on the desk. They frown, twirl it around, and stare in awe. They glance at each other and whisper, “What could it be? Is it Justin Bieber?”

Some shapes are still a mystery to those kids, but what boggles my mind is how these Silly Bandz are not officially banned from school life.  

I don’t want to sound like an old, mean, strict parent—I’m not old, mean, strict or a parent—but I’m very concerned about these kids’ health.

Quite honestly, I was fine with this fad. I thought, why not? These Silly Bandz are just another craze like how Pokémon cards, Yo-Yos or Tamagotchis were in the past. But then I saw this:

This is how a third grader's hand looks after adorning tens of Silly Bandz for several days. Circulation to his arm and hand was completely lost. The before picture may seem nice and colorful:

But his arm, after, was literally purple. My jaw was down to the ground. All I could do for 10 seconds was shake my head. While he was busy shooing off other kids from touching his Bandz, I begged him to leave them off.  

A number of schools in the US banned these Bandz, and several teachers in Canada made it a classroom rule to not wear them or play with them during class time. Maybe teachers aren’t doing enough. Maybe parents aren’t around much. The bottom line is purple arms aren’t a pretty sight.

Thankfully, I saw this kid again a couple of days ago. His arm was bare.

“Hey, Nadia! Look!” he said flaunting both arms. “I still have them in my pocket, but I’m going through Silly Bandz withdrawal!”

I smiled … until I heard him talking about his next obsession: Call of Duty: Black Ops.

*Sigh*

Foster Child by Choice, Adoptive Mother by Chance—Behind the Scenes

When I first asked Shanika Acosta if she’s done anything the average person usually doesn’t, her answer was “no.”

She said she’s just a normal person, and that life’s good.

I can’t tell you how many people responded with, “No, life’s good” to “Is there anything interesting going on in your life?” Everyone assumed ‘interesting’ meant ‘ bad’.

“Come on,” I said. “I’m sure everyone has something unique about them.”

Acosta froze, glanced away, looked back at me and said, “Well, I do have an adopted daughter. I started taking care of her when I was 16.”

“Wow! Really?” I blurted.

“Hmmm, yeah,” she said, “I guess that’s different, isn’t it?”

She sounded as surprised as I was.

So for three months, Acosta shared her story with me via several interview sessions, multiple phone calls, and numerous e-mails. I studied her photos, letters, and legal documents.

I wrote the story for Harvard’s ALM in Journalism program news reporting course. The comments I got from professors Mark Pothier, Boston Globe’s senior assistant business editor, and David Beard, editor of boston.com, guided me through various drafts. One of the course’s guest speakers, editor of Telling True Stories Mark Kramer, also saw the story’s potential early on.

Acosta’s story is really ten in one. The more I knew, the more questions I had, the more astounding information I found, the more overwhelmed I got. The trick was to filter out the excess and include what highlights the essence of her experience as a foster child and a mother figure. The experience and feedback of Pothier, Beard and Kramer helped shape the story, and I’m grateful for their encouragement and support.

My focus went from abuse to education to the neighbor effect, and, finally, to an in depth profile. Isn’t the writing process magical?    

Foster Child by Choice, Adoptive Mother by Chance is published in El Planeta, the leading publication for the Hispanic market in Massachusetts. It has been translated to Spanish for print, and appears in English and Spanish online.

Acosta was nominated for El Planeta’s Powermeter 2009, which awards 100 of Massachusetts’s most influential people in the Latino community. And so a simple “no” turned into a great story of struggle and success. Who would’ve thought...

Haymarket - A Cheap Ticket Around the World

Like many working at Boston's Haymarket, 23-year-old Kristina Bramante's Saturdays start at 2am.

After loading and unloading trucks, setting up stands, piling up packs of strawberries, pineapples or whatever is available for the day, and marking negotiable prices, a long, “crazy” day at work starts. 

“Something crazy happens here every [Satur]day!” Bramante says. She started working at the market a year ago. “Just this morning I had to call 911 because a man had a seizure.”

On Blackstone Street, vendors of different ethnicities invite people of equally diverse backgrounds to dig for a bargain. Empty boxes line one side of the street, while a stampede of bodies sneaks its way between stands, hunting for the best deals. The smell of fruits and vegetables swarms the air, before a whiff of stench prickles from the garbage truck parked at the corner of Blackstone and Hanover.

“Everyone thinks you’re out to get them, to rip them off, when you’re not. You’re just trying not to work for free when you’re working 12 hours a day,” says Bramante just when a lady with frizzy, short, bleached hair offers $1.50 for a $2-container of pineapples. Bramante shouts, “Go for it,” and grabs the change.

“But if you really wanna see crazy,” Bramante says, “be here around 5pm, when everyone’s agitated. Then, you’ll know which ethnicities fight with each other.”

Haymarket is no short of an ethnic melting pot. North African women, covered in long, floral clothing from head to toe zoom by, carrying half-a-dozen bags full of tomatoes, string beans, cucumbers, and a medley of berries. Elderly Asian couples, with their hands clenched behind their backs, eye the stack of broccoli for a fresh bunch. An Italian vendor whistles and shouts, “Common guys! Get strawberries! 2 pounds, 2 dollahs!” before a Mexican seller mimics her volume with, “Papaya’s from Mexico! Common! It’s good!”

Ahmed Eitelheg, a man with salt-and-pepper hair from south of Morocco, who has been coming every Saturday ever since he immigrated with his family in 1990, says that being at the Haymarket “is good communication.”

Likewise, George Conterados, a 27-year-old Mexican who has been working at the market for 7 years says, “There’s not too much [trouble]. It’s easy to get [trouble] here.” He nods around at the people selling produce and at others passing by. “But I haven’t got any.” He carries empty boxes to the garbage truck. 

But for vendor Ghada Helmy, a 32-year-old Egyptian, it’s a different story.

“There are Moroccan, Haiti, Spanish people, Italian, Brazil. It’s good, but some not so good,” Helmy says while selling $1-watermelons. Her curly brown hair is tied back. Her eyebrows sag. She half-folds her arms and rests her chin on her left palm. “Some tell me, ‘Go back to your country.’ And some give away free stuff. You understand me? Not good for me when I try to sell, but where to go to make
complain?”

Beyond the frustration, which may sometimes tense the atmosphere as the long day reaches its end, lies a commonality. Everyone, regardless of racial background, agrees on one fact: Haymarket is where you want to be to find good quality food for cheap.

“I love Haymarket. You can find the same quality as in the supermarket, but with huge discounts, especially if you buy in bulk,” said Vasilios Roussous, a 34-year-old from Belmont who has been coming to the Haymarket for a few years.

“I like [the diversity] here. I think it adds a lot of character to the market and to the city.”

Written for Feature Writing course at Harvard Summer School 2009

By Nadia Qasmieh

The Narrative in Reporting

I love spine-tingling, heart-thumping, body-tensing, nostalgia-arousing stories. There’s just something captivating about individual words forming a pensive canvas of the senses. And yes, I’d give anything for the cliché winter night, to curl under a soft blanket in front of a sizzling fireplace, hot choco in one hand and a good book in the other.

No one is interested in everything, but everyone is interested in something. That’s where narratives come into play. They turn the boring into the intriguing. They stimulate the senses, making the hard-core technicalities appeal to human nature.

Journalism shouldn’t be an exception.

There’s a myriad of topics a journalist can report on. When it comes to business, and sometimes even politics, I hope to come across a piece that helps me make sense of all the numbers and facts. I hope to have the information put into a context that extends beyond concrete data, and produces meaningful rhetoric through thoughtful detail.

“As the business changes, narrative journalism may be the only thing that saves papers,” said Marc Lacey, a correspondent in theTimes’ Mexico City bureau, according to Poynter.

Good narratives give you a return on your time: Besides walking away with a new piece of information, you can also take in a lesson or two on quality writing.

I wrote the story below for my Feature Writing course at Harvard Summer School 2009 with the senses in mind:

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A Taste of Morocco in Cambridge, MA

 By Nadia Qasmieh

A small painting of a Moroccan sunset hangs in Cambridge’s Tajine restaurant. Blends of yellow, orange and red spread from the horizon, while sailboats sprinkle across the waters and sway amid the calm waves. A clay house is tucked between slopes of mountains, its window overlooking the shoreline.

The canvas is the base of a tajine, a glazed clay pot used for slow cooking in North African kitchens.

“Morocco is known for its beautiful sun,” says co-owner Samira Ben, who has been living in Cambridge for 11 years. “It’s known for its Mediterranean Sea from the north, the Atlantic Ocean from the west, and its mountains all around.”

But Morocco is also famous for its cuisine.

Tajine serves authentic Moroccan dishes in a city that craves a taste of the exotic. The restaurant’s simple decor is adorned by items that give a dash of Morocco. But it is the flavors and the aroma of food, surrounded by Rai and old Arabic music, which amplify the cultural ambiance, transferring customers to the Land of the Setting Sun.

“I’ve been in the food business for about 18 years,” says owner and chef Sati Ali over the tunes of a mid-twentieth century Arabic song. “Most people in this area that I know were asking for a different kind of food. There is Indian, Asian, Greek, but not Moroccan, so it had to be something different.”

Ali received his culinary education in France, and has been living in Cambridge for 15 years. He opened Tajine on July 1, 2009 after successfully running his Somerville breakfast and lunch restaurant, Sound Bites, since 1991.

“The spices and flavors that are used in Moroccan cuisine are different. We use mostly saffron, a combination of cilantro, parsley, garlic, fresh herbs, and a combination of the sweet and the savory, like this dish.”

In the dining room, Ben lifts a brown tajine’s conical lid, and Ali points at a fragrant beef and lamb stew. Steam rises revealing a hearty dish. The lamb chops are so tender that they fall off the bone. Juicy pieces of beef are infused with cinnamon and cardamom. The savory taste of meat is coupled with sweet hints of prunes and caramelized onions.  

“In the Moroccan culture, from one city to another, food is completely different. This [the beef and lamb stew] is from Casablanca, where I grew up, which is also a melting pot of all the Moroccan regions,” Ali says. “Other people come to Casablanca because it’s the biggest city and they share what they know about their food. In Casablanca, you can find more of a variety of foods than other cities in Morocco.”

According to Ali, the Moroccan cuisine has really developed, especially in the last 30 years. It is a cuisine that has, over the years, allowed for the room to include diverse tastes from countries like Italy, France, and Portugal.

“Moroccan food is a balanced cuisine,” Ben says. “And since we’re here in Cambridge, where there is a mix of many cultures and many races, we try to keep that balance. Our dishes are not too spicy and not too sweet. So people can eat it and be happy with it.”

Tajine has been relying on word-of-mouth. Ali plans to advertise in the future, but his current customers include neighbours, or people who have travelled to Morocco and enjoy the Moroccan cuisine.

“This is maybe my sixth or seventh time I come here,” says customer Mustapha El Karouni who studies English at Harvard Summer School.

El Karouni was born, and lives in Belgium, but likes to stay in touch with his Moroccan heritage. He sits on a dark stained oak chair, while papers scatter in front of him. Next to his papers, an empty white and blue-edged plate sits on top of a burgundy placemat. He devoured his beet salad, made of bite-sized pieces of beet, finely chopped onions and parsley.

“I love the Moroccan cuisine. And I like the context here [at the restaurant]. I like the music, and the tea,” El Karouny says.

 For Ben, having Moroccan food in America reminds her of back home.

“In Morocco, the tajine with prunes is special. It is a royal dish,” Ben says. “And we have the couscous every Friday. It’s a Muslim holiday and the people come back from the Mosque. They gather around one big dish, we call it Kasrya. The family gets together after they pray and they eat the couscous, and after the couscous, they follow it by some cookies and Moroccan tea.”

Next to the door, sits a large tea pot on a tall stand. The gold and silver pot and stand are etched with fine curves. Even though it is an embellishment in the restaurant, people in Morocco use such a pot for large gatherings to make Moroccan mint tea – sweet, fragrant tea with chopped pieces of fresh mint.

The mint in the tea Tajine serves comes especially from California. But it is flavored with saffron and spices straight from Morocco.

“Back home, I used to take food for granted,” Ben says. “I was like a spoiled girl. I’d wanna eat this; I don’t wanna eat this; I don’t like the flavor of this. Now, I say to myself, ‘Wow. I used to give my mom a hard time.’ So now I appreciate what she’s done for me.”

Next to the sunset painting, a large sun decorates the wall with its transparent burgundy heart, and dark brass rays. Ben turns on the light, and the sun’s heart glows in a restaurant that has the taste of sweet tea lingering on its customers’ palette, and the smell of fresh mint swarming the air.

Tajine is located in the Harvard Square neighborhood at 1105 Massachusetts Ave., and opens everyday from 5:30 p.m. to 10:30 p.m.

Words are Eternal. That’s the Beauty of Writing.

I was organizing my bookshelves today. I lined Psychology: Themes and Variations, and Human Resource Management against Human-Computer Interactions, and The Art of Play Production. OK, so the subjects don’t go together, but the books’ heights do. Esthetics, people.

After placing a couple of photo frames and candles to fill empty spots on the top shelves, I spotted a thick paper folder holding a heap of stapled papers at the very bottom. I pulled it out with one hand. But one hand wasn’t strong enough. The papers scattered on the floor.

Sitting cross-legged, I went through the pile. There, in front of me, were the non-fiction stories I wrote for my first undergraduate writing course.

I was instantly reminded about why I love to write, and why I choose to document events.

Remember the time you found old photos and went through them, one by one, reminiscing about the good old days? Well, this is the same. Stories are like pictures. They are pictures. They capture a moment in your life, and stand as a token of your past, the people you knew, who you were, what you had to go through, and who you’ve become.

The written word is strong. And permanent. Gilgamesh, the king of Uruk in Babylonia, spent his life searching for the source of perpetuity. He achieved eternity, but not by being physically immortal. It was through his epic—the oldest written story on Earth—that he’ll always be remembered.

At the time I wrote these stories, I didn’t think they would mean anything to me, or that I’ll ever come back to them. But I’m really glad I have them. I don’t mean to use a cheesy cliché, but they do keep the past alive.

Below is one of these old stories. The kids in it moved overseas a year after this incident. That was 2002. I hadn’t taken pictures with them, but this story paints them well. Adorableness overload.

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Babysitting Lana and Sam
By Nadia Qasmieh

10am Thursday, the doorbell rang—once, twice, three times. Our neighbor just had a baby and needed someone to look after her other two kids every morning for a couple of weeks. Children had always been part of my life since I tutored, so I offered to babysit.

“COMING!” I yelled as I sauntered down the hall.

I opened the door. Lana, 5, and Sam, 3, stood in the doorway. Lana wore a yellow summer dress with a light yellow raincoat. Her pink Barbie bag peeked behind her. Her brown hair was held up in pigtails, and curled down the sides of her face. Her big hazel eyes glistened.

Beside her, Sam stood shuffling his feet. He wore a gray, striped, short-sleeved shirt, and gray shorts. He gripped his raincoat in one hand. It looked like he dragged it up the driveway and the stairs to the door. His straight brown hair covered his forehead and stopped above his big green eyes. His cheeks were puffed and blushed. He, too, carried a bag.

“Hi! Come in.” I smiled.

Lana stepped through first and surprised me with a hug. Sam threw his arms around us.

“How are you guys?” I said.

“Fffffine. Sank you,” Sam said.

I helped them take off their shoes. They handed me their coats to hang.

I took their hands and led them to the basement. I turned the TV on and changed the channel to Teletoon.

“Yay...Elmo’s World!” Sam said and slumped on the couch. Lana sat next to him.

Cups of orange juice and water, and bowls of chips and popcorn filled the coffee table in front of them.

“Nooo!” Sam screams a couple minutes later. Lana had changed the channel. Sam stood, placed his hands on his hips, huffed and puffed, then spotted an X-Box controller, and picked it up.

“I wanna play this,” he said.

“How about coloring? Huh? Coloring is fun,” I said.

He slammed the controller down and walked over. I gave him a page to color and placed a box full of crayons and markers beside him.

Lana got on her feet, lost her balance, and bumped on the coffee table. The table shook and the drinks spilled.

“Oops...sorry,” she said and walked towards my 1994 Casio keyboard.

She turned it on, increased the volume, and pressed the DEMO key. Music blared out. She sang along and walked to where Sam sat.

“I wanna color too,” she said.

As Lana sat to color, Sam got up, grabbed the popcorn bowl and walked around the place while munching. Popcorn trailed behind him.

“Scooby dooby do, where are you...” he sang.

Lana put down her crayon and picked up the book I had placed for Reading Time. She flipped to the back and said, “I wanna do this.” She pointed to a page with block letters.

“Well, for that one, you have to cut the letters out and glue them to make words.”

“Ya, I know.”

I photocopied the page, grabbed a bunch of blank paper, scissors, and liquid glue. I cut. She glued.

“I’m goin’ to the bathroom,” Sam said.

“OK,” I told him while cutting around the letter H.

Lana fidgeted and grabbed the letters from me before gluing the ones she already had. Her hands flew everywhere. The glue bottle toppled over. Glue smeared over everything.

“At least the letters are glued down, right?” I said.

“Oops...sorry,” she said.

“That’s alright. Let’s clean up.” I took a deep breath. Then Sam tugged my shirt.

“I love you,” he said.

“Awww...I love you too.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Didn’t do what?”

“I don’t know...But I didn’t do it.”

He grabbed my hand and led me to the bathroom. It was flooded. The sink overflowed and water ran down to the floor. A bar of soap floated in the toilet. Kleenex covered the counter and the floor. My head throbbed.

I cleaned up, took the kids upstairs, and helped them put on their shoes and coats. The doorbell rang at exactly 2pm. I opened the door and their dad stood in front of us. Lana and Sam ran and hugged their dad.

“So how were they today?” he asked.

“Wonderful!”

I needed Tylenol.