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, stared straight ahead, 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, author 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:

* * *

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.

* * *

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.

Children's Silent Screams

The steps to a privately owned pharmacy are unlevelled. A stray cat beside the cracked glass door growls at me and scurries under a blue Kia parked at the curb. I swing the door open, and with the squeaks of hinges, I walk in.

A thin layer of dust blankets the edges of three narrow shelves hung on the right wall. Baby care products pile the shelves: diapers, bottles, pacifiers, lotions, and no-tear shampoos. The whole shop is adorned with smiling young faces: Pampers posters, Colgate stands, and Johnson’s stickers all show happy boys and girls with smiles stretched from ear to ear.

The left side of the store has a large U-shaped table with piles of shampoos, conditioners, toothpastes, sanitary napkins, razors, and gels. The sight overwhelms me. I’m afraid to touch anything. The last thing I want is to disturb the organized chaos that gathers in front of me.

I stare straight ahead at the pharmacist for help. Her head is tilted to the right as she holds a corded phone between her head and shoulder. Her weathered face and receding eyes scream for rest. Her skin knows no makeup and is a stranger to the facial creams that disperse in front of it. Her freckles blend with old age spots, and wrinkles crease as she talks on the phone. She wears a white medical gown on top of a black sixties dress.

I look down at my nails and scrape my cracked purple polish. I slip my hands into my winter jacket and scan the place one last time in the hope of finding a bottle that says ‘Nail Polish Remover’ on it.

Nothing.

“I’m telling you, if I receive any more of this fake stuff, I’m going to be very upset!” the pharmacist says to whoever’s on the other end. “Well, yes, I’ve sent the last shipment back so you better be careful next time.”

She slams the phone down and turns to me. “Sorry about that. Had to knock some sense into my supplier,” she says shaking her head. “Things are crazy these days. But anyways, how can I help you?”

The door opens. We both turn to face a young woman. Her strawberry blonde hair is haphazardly tied back in a pony tail. Strands of fly-aways sway at the sides of her face as she strides forward. She looks around at the heaps of products.

I’m about to tell her to spare herself the trouble and just ask for whatever she’s looking for when she looks at the pharmacist, rubs her palms, and says, “Um...hi!”

“Hi,” the pharmacist says. I take a step back.

“Uh...do you have, like, abortion kit?”

I glance at the baby on the Pampers poster. Its fat cheeks plump in a smile, and a yellow transparent pacifier covers its thin delicate lips.

“No, I don’t sell abortion kits.”

“No? But do you know where I can find one?”

“Other pharmacies have them.”

“So, if I go to another pharmacy here, I can find it?”

“Yes.”

“OK! Thank you.” The woman dashes out.

The pharmacist turns to look at me. She shrugs.

“That’s an ethical decision I’ve made for myself,” she says. “Ever since I started working 40 years ago, I made it a point not to sell contraceptives and these other things.”

“Oh...”

“But, sorry about that. Anyways, what are you looking for?”

“Nail polish remover.” I point at my cracked nail polish and manage to break a smile.

“Oh...these should be here somewhere,” she says. She stretches her body over the counter, and shuffles through the pile.

A middle-aged man and his son walk in. The son looks no older than five. The man, after what looks like a long day of work at a construction site, is covered with dirt. His thin grey sweater covers his boney figure and his rolled up pants reveal thin ankles. His long face is unshaven and salt-and-pepper hair messy.

The pharmacist looks up and sees them.

“They can go ahead,” I tell her and stand behind them.

The man hands her a prescription. She goes to the back, grabs a plastic bottle, throws it in a bag, and returns. The bag goes from her hand, to the man’s, and finally to the boy’s. What happens next, I see in slow motion:

The boy drops the bag.

The boy picks up the bag.

The man slaps the boy.

The boy stands still.

In silence. Not a cry escapes his lips. Not a tear rolls down his cheek.

The pharmacist looks down. I stand enraged. My hand forms a fist, but stays at my side. My jaw tenses, but I can’t say a word.

Before I can do anything, the man shoves his son forward, and they leave the pharmacy.

“I don’t know why I’m still working,” the pharmacist says with her head still down. “Can’t stand it anymore. I’m just counting the days until my retirement.”

I want to ask her about what just happened. About what we were supposed to do, but didn’t.

She hands me a glass bottle with blue liquid, and says, “Here you go.”

I hesitate, take the bottle, pay, and leave. Flickers of elevated lights in the distance pierce the January night sky. I try to take a deep breath, and smell the scent coming from the jasmine trees lining the street.

A honk from a zooming red Toyota disturbs the silence.

*Events and their order are true. Exact location is undisclosed for universality of topic.
Nadia Qasmieh

Haiti

Images on television and pictures online are beyond heartbreaking.

Jonathan Katz describes the devastation in words:

Dazed survivors wandered past dead bodies in rubble-strewn streets Wednesday, crying for loved ones, and rescuers desperately searched collapsed buildings as fear rose that the death toll from Haiti's devastating earthquake could reach into the tens of thousands. ... Bodies were everywhere in Port-au-Prince: those of tiny children adjacent to schools; women in the rubble-strewn streets with stunned expressions frozen on their faces; men hidden beneath plastic tarps and cotton sheets.

My prayers go out to the people of Haiti.

O Summer, Where Art Thou?

Dear weather,

I really like you, and appreciate your change of season. It breaks monotony in 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 Qasmieh

I took these pictures in Ottawa, ON, summer 2008. 

Stinging Strings

A sharp, throbbing sensation in swollen, indented fingertips signals pain. But last evening, it also carried contentment.

I sat in my room, guitar on lap, facing my 18-year-old brother, Joe. He held another guitar in his arms. His fingers danced across frets, changing chords and strumming strings. His eyes closed and head swayed. He played Broken by Seether.

God! He makes it look a lot easier than it really is.

Joe’s instrument is trumpet, but he recently taught himself how to play guitar. And now, he’s teaching me.

“This is E flat— I mean E minor,” I said, holding down the fourth and fifth strings on the second fret. “And this is D.” I pressed down the first three strings. Sharp pain pierced my fingers. I squirmed, released the strings, and squeezed my hand shut to ease the pulsating aches.

I played the piano and clarinet, and figured a background in music would help. But I didn’t have to hurt to close woodwind holes or press board keys. I looked down at my fingers frowning and sniffing. One or more lines drew across the tips.

Why can’t calluses grow right away? Why all this suffering? Argh!

“It’s OK,” Joe said. “Just keep practicing, and in a couple of weeks, you’ll have this:”

Joe tapped his fingers on the side of the guitar. “It’s not very attractive, but it makes it a lot easier ‘cause you won’t feel the strings pricking through your skin.” He smiled.

So far, I’ve learned bits and pieces of I will be right here waiting for you by Bryan Adams, the solo in Broken, and the beginning of Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters. But my target—all time favorite—songs are Iris by Goo Goo Dolls, and Here Without You by 3-Doors Down.

I watched Joe’s pick-less spidery fingers pluck strings effortlessly. I sat back and listened to his playing for a couple more minutes.

Talent defies age. It’s quite nice to look up to someone younger.

I shook my hand, took a deep breath, and pressed more strings. Ignoring the pain, I alternated between chords—until I squirmed again, squeezed my hand, frowned, and sniffed.

I have a long way to go, and a lot of patching up to do for the songs I’m attempting. But with every stab of pain, I know I’m a step closer to getting them right.

“See, music never lets you down,” Joe said. “No matter how little you learn, it feels like you’ve accomplished something.”