http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/4834574?n...ir=Parents
Someone please quote from above, I'm on my phone but you're going to love the shit she admits.
Someone please quote from above, I'm on my phone but you're going to love the shit she admits.
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Turns out that we, a group of highly educated private boarding school students were so bad at the most basic construction work that each night the men had to take down the structurally unsound bricks we had laid and rebuild the structure so that, when we woke up in the morning, we would be unaware of our failure. It is likely that this was a daily ritual. Us mixing cement and laying bricks for 6+ hours, them undoing our work after the sun set, re-laying the bricks, and then acting as if nothing had happened so that the cycle could continue.
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I am a 5′ 4″ white girl who can carry bags of moderately heavy stuff, horse around with kids, attempt to teach a class, tell the story of how I found myself (with accompanying powerpoint) to a few thousand people and not much else.
Some might say that that's enough. That as long as I go to X country with an open mind and a good heart I'll leave at least one child so uplifted and emboldened by my short stay that they will, for years, think of me every morning.
Quote: (08-01-2014 09:55 PM)Fisto Wrote:
http://m.huffpost.com/us/entry/4834574?n...ir=Parents
Someone please quote from above, I'm on my phone but you're going to love the shit she admits.
Quote:Quote:
White people aren't told that the color of their skin is a problem very often. We sail through police check points, don't garner sideways glances in affluent neighborhoods, and are generally understood to be predispositioned for success based on a physical characteristic (the color of our skin) we have little control over beyond sunscreen and tanning oil.
After six years of working in and traveling through a number of different countries where white people are in the numerical minority, I've come to realize that there is one place being white is not only a hindrance, but negative -- most of the developing world.
In high school, I travelled to Tanzania as part of a school trip. There were 14 white girls, 1 black girl who, to her frustration, was called white by almost everyone we met in Tanzania, and a few teachers/chaperones. $3000 bought us a week at an orphanage, a half built library, and a few pickup soccer games, followed by a week long safari.
Our mission while at the orphanage was to build a library. Turns out that we, a group of highly educated private boarding school students were so bad at the most basic construction work that each night the men had to take down the structurally unsound bricks we had laid and rebuild the structure so that, when we woke up in the morning, we would be unaware of our failure. It is likely that this was a daily ritual. Us mixing cement and laying bricks for 6+ hours, them undoing our work after the sun set, re-laying the bricks, and then acting as if nothing had happened so that the cycle could continue.
Basically, we failed at the sole purpose of our being there. It would have been more cost effective, stimulative of the local economy, and efficient for the orphanage to take our money and hire locals to do the work, but there we were trying to build straight walls without a level.
Tying friendship bracelets during my first trip to the Dominican Republic in 2009.
That same summer, I started working in the Dominican Republic at a summer camp I helped organize for HIV+ children. Within days, it was obvious that my rudimentary Spanish set me so far apart from the local Dominican staff that I might as well have been an alien. Try caring for children who have a serious medical condition, and are not inclined to listen, in a language that you barely speak. It isn't easy. Now, 6 years later, I am much better at spanish and am still highly involved with the camp programing, fundraising, and leadership. However, I have stopped attending having finally accepting that my presence is not the godsend I was coached by non-profits, documentaries, and service programs to believe it would be.
You see, the work we were doing in both the DR and Tanzania was good. The orphanage needed a library so that they could be accredited to a higher level as a school, and the camp in the DR needed funding and supplies so that it could provide HIV+ children with programs integral to their mental and physical health. It wasn't the work that was bad. It was me being there.
It turns out that I, a little white girl, am good at a lot of things. I am good at raising money, training volunteers, collecting items, coordinating programs, and telling stories. I am flexible, creative, and able to think on my feet. On paper I am, by most people's standards, highly qualified to do international aid. But I shouldn't be.
I am not a teacher, a doctor, a carpenter, a scientist, an engineer, or any other professional that could provide concrete support and long-term solutions to communities in developing countries. I am a 5′ 4″ white girl who can carry bags of moderately heavy stuff, horse around with kids, attempt to teach a class, tell the story of how I found myself (with accompanying powerpoint) to a few thousand people and not much else.
Some might say that that's enough. That as long as I go to X country with an open mind and a good heart I'll leave at least one child so uplifted and emboldened by my short stay that they will, for years, think of me every morning.
I don't want a little girl in Ghana, or Sri Lanka, or Indonesia to think of me when she wakes up each morning. (!!!!!!!!!!!!! ) I don't want her to thank me for her education or medical care or new clothes. Even if I am providing the funds to get the ball rolling, I want her to think about her teacher, community leader, or mother. I want her to have a hero who she can relate to - who looks like her, is part of her culture, speaks her language, and who she might bump into on the way to school one morning.
After my first trip to the Dominican Republic, I pledged to myself that we would, one day, have a camp run and executed by Dominicans. Now, about seven years later, the camp director, program leaders and all but a handful of counselors are Dominican. Each year we bring in a few Peace Corps Volunteers and highly-skilled volunteers from the USA who add value to our program, but they are not the ones in charge. I think we're finally doing aid right, and I'm not there.
Before you sign up for a volunteer trip anywhere in the world this summer, consider whether you possess the skill set necessary for that trip to be successful. If yes, awesome. If not, it might be a good idea to reconsider your trip. Sadly, taking part in international aid where you aren't particularly helpful is not benign. It's detrimental. It slows down positive growth and perpetuates the "white savior" complex that, for hundreds of years, has haunted both the countries we are trying to 'save' and our (more recently) own psyches. Be smart about traveling and strive to be informed and culturally aware. It's only through an understanding of the problems communities are facing, and the continued development of skills within that community, that long-term solutions will be created.
Quote: (08-01-2014 11:11 PM)Emancipator Wrote:
Would Bang doe
Actually with that manjaw, WP&D (Would pump N dump)
Quote: (08-01-2014 11:42 PM)Laurifer Wrote:
Scorpian told it like it fucking is. I saw this same kind of shit in Vietnam with kids at an orphanage. Privileged western kids go volunteer at an orphanage, pick up the first malnourished kid they see, take a selfie with the kid and upload it to facebook, then wait for the likes and comments to come praise them. Worst part is, I kind of felt like one of them while I was there. I'm sure I'll be drowning in this shit when I go to Cambodia next month, fortunately I'll be in a more "professional" position, while in the mean time trying to slay ass.
This basically sums it up. Thanks to whichever forum member originally shared this, I can't remember who:
http://humanitariansoftinder.com/
edit: haha didn't notice runsonmagic beat me to it
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I like plans and schedules. I used to send an ex-boyfriend agendas before we went to events together with his tux rental info, time to leave to pick me up, time to get to the event with 15 minutes built in for buffer because I assumed he’d be late, and a list of reminders that he probably didn’t need but made me feel better. I even used to go to class 20 minutes early just in case it somehow changed in time overnight with no warning. I’d love to be able to pick the time to love somebody; it’d play into my sick obsession with timeliness.
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I’m smart, successful, have a sense of humor, and clean up well. Who wouldn’t want to be with me?
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Who am I? I wear sports bras as often, if not more often, than the cute lacey things I bought to try and make myself feel like an adult. I watch way too much crappy television and when I say “When I was little I ate ice cream for breakfast” I mean that that’s what I had this morning. Sometimes I pretend to be a dinosaur in public and when my mom annoys me I walk really close to her and bark like a dog so she’s both embarrassed and can’t pretend that I’m not her daughter.
I compulsively bite people on the shoulder and call them love nips.
I eat half of a cake, throw the rest out, and then take it out of the trash and continue to eat it like nothing happened.
So, I’m not your dream girl, but I’m ok with that. I think that I’m pretty awesome.
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All of this has led to a few too many bags of candy and greasy slices of pizza, some sad calls to friends, and a general disillusionment towards my formerly favorite subject – dating. They (magazines, movies, friends, etc.) say that if you put yourself out there, it’ll work out. Well, I put myself out there and it’s not working out too dandy.
In fact, I am a hairs breadth away from creating a Dating Pippa Exit Survey. It’ll include 3-4 multiple choice questions and a comments section. Collecting data points on my dating life might be crazy but when every guy you like shuts you down, you can’t help but want to ask why.
I can see it now, a spreadsheet filled with reasons that I am not datable. A crowdsourced data set equally as depressing as it would be insightful. But I’m not a product to be critiqued and improved upon. I’m a woman. I am far from perfect, but I know that I have a lot to offer.
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I got hopelessly lost in Tribeca in the pouring rain as I tried to evade a hooded man who followed me in circles for 10 blocks, stopping and waiting whenever I tried to hail a cab. As I attempted to blend in with other people on the street, their eyes glued to the sidewalk or their cell phones, hands clutching umbrellas, I realized no one was noticing my clear panic.
This isn’t ok. I shouldn’t have to call friends late at night so I feel safe on my walk home or carry my keys like brass knuckles, the blades sticking out between my fingers. The most annoying thing on my commute home should be train delays and someone playing their music too loud, not drunken men asking me if I’m single and trying to touch my hair. You might say that this is unavoidable. That boys will be boys, especially when they drink too much, or that I shouldn’t be out late alone, or that I should learn how to shrug it off better. I think that this is ridiculous.
Quote: (08-01-2014 11:42 PM)Laurifer Wrote:
http://humanitariansoftinder.com/
edit: haha didn't notice runsonmagic beat me to it
Quote: (08-02-2014 12:08 AM)bacon Wrote:
Some choice quotes from her other articles
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He reads me too. He adjusts his hat, crosses his ankle over his knee and asks me why I’m afraid. Afraid to open up, be me, let down this charade of confidence that hides my socially awkward and confused interior. Afraid to admit that the things people most admire about me, openness, transparency, boldness, are just by-products of having no idea how to deal with social situations.
I feel uncomfortable at first, naked on the Q train, but for some reason when he calls me out it makes me like him even more.
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For me Tupac was a phase, for him it was life.
It didn’t work, and it would be unfair to say that I even really tried. He was willing to fight for it, and me? I just kept on walking along the boardwalk, tripping on a broken nail every few feet.
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I received an email the other day from a man I’d gone on a few dates with. I was really excited about him. Excited for the first time in a while. Excited enough that I told my mom I’d gone on a date.
He emailed me over the weekend to let me know that he’d started dating someone else, but that he still wants to be friends and would love to support me in my work. I thanked him for letting me know.
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This is the third time this year that this had happened. The first time, I was told over the phone (directness appreciated), second over text, and now email.
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The next day you friend me on Facebook and message me that you really enjoyed our conversation. You start liking my photos and text me a few times a week. You tell me that I’m “unreal,” “perfect,” your “dream girl.”
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After a while I’ll stop answering your texts right away, a few weeks after that I’ll stop answering altogether. When you ask for an explanation I’ll say that I’m busy. I’m not. I’m sitting on my couch with my dog eating chips and salsa. While you send me ‘sexy’ photos of your abs, I’m trying to get a date for Friday night with a real human man who actually lives in the same city as me.
Quote: (08-02-2014 12:08 AM)bacon Wrote:
Some choice quotes from her other articles
YOU CAN TRY TO PICK THE PERSON YOU LOVE. YOU CAN’T PICK IF THEY LOVE YOU BACK.
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I like plans and schedules. I used to send an ex-boyfriend agendas before we went to events together with his tux rental info, time to leave to pick me up, time to get to the event with 15 minutes built in for buffer because I assumed he’d be late, and a list of reminders that he probably didn’t need but made me feel better. I even used to go to class 20 minutes early just in case it somehow changed in time overnight with no warning. I’d love to be able to pick the time to love somebody; it’d play into my sick obsession with timeliness.
Quote:Quote:
I’m smart, successful, have a sense of humor, and clean up well. Who wouldn’t want to be with me?
I’M YOUR DREAM GIRL
Quote:Quote:
Who am I? I wear sports bras as often, if not more often, than the cute lacey things I bought to try and make myself feel like an adult. I watch way too much crappy television and when I say “When I was little I ate ice cream for breakfast” I mean that that’s what I had this morning. Sometimes I pretend to be a dinosaur in public and when my mom annoys me I walk really close to her and bark like a dog so she’s both embarrassed and can’t pretend that I’m not her daughter.
I compulsively bite people on the shoulder and call them love nips.
I eat half of a cake, throw the rest out, and then take it out of the trash and continue to eat it like nothing happened.
So, I’m not your dream girl, but I’m ok with that. I think that I’m pretty awesome.
I LIKE YOU. I WON’T DATE YOU. BUT LET’S WORK TOGETHER.
Quote:Quote:
All of this has led to a few too many bags of candy and greasy slices of pizza, some sad calls to friends, and a general disillusionment towards my formerly favorite subject – dating. They (magazines, movies, friends, etc.) say that if you put yourself out there, it’ll work out. Well, I put myself out there and it’s not working out too dandy.
In fact, I am a hairs breadth away from creating a Dating Pippa Exit Survey. It’ll include 3-4 multiple choice questions and a comments section. Collecting data points on my dating life might be crazy but when every guy you like shuts you down, you can’t help but want to ask why.
I can see it now, a spreadsheet filled with reasons that I am not datable. A crowdsourced data set equally as depressing as it would be insightful. But I’m not a product to be critiqued and improved upon. I’m a woman. I am far from perfect, but I know that I have a lot to offer.
ON UNWANTED ATTENTION AND CARRYING MY KEYS LIKE DAGGERS
Quote:Quote:
I got hopelessly lost in Tribeca in the pouring rain as I tried to evade a hooded man who followed me in circles for 10 blocks, stopping and waiting whenever I tried to hail a cab. As I attempted to blend in with other people on the street, their eyes glued to the sidewalk or their cell phones, hands clutching umbrellas, I realized no one was noticing my clear panic.
This isn’t ok. I shouldn’t have to call friends late at night so I feel safe on my walk home or carry my keys like brass knuckles, the blades sticking out between my fingers. The most annoying thing on my commute home should be train delays and someone playing their music too loud, not drunken men asking me if I’m single and trying to touch my hair. You might say that this is unavoidable. That boys will be boys, especially when they drink too much, or that I shouldn’t be out late alone, or that I should learn how to shrug it off better. I think that this is ridiculous.
Quote: (08-01-2014 11:42 PM)Laurifer Wrote:
Scorpian told it like it fucking is. I saw this same kind of shit in Vietnam with kids at an orphanage. Privileged western kids go volunteer at an orphanage, pick up the first malnourished kid they see, take a selfie with the kid and upload it to facebook, then wait for the likes and comments to come praise them. Worst part is, I kind of felt like one of them while I was there. I'm sure I'll be drowning in this shit when I go to Cambodia next month, fortunately I'll be in a more "professional" position, while in the mean time trying to slay ass.
This basically sums it up. Thanks to whichever forum member originally shared this, I can't remember who:
http://humanitariansoftinder.com/
edit: haha didn't notice runsonmagic beat me to it
Quote:Quote:
I got hopelessly lost in Tribeca in the pouring rain as I tried to evade a hooded man who followed me in circles for 10 blocks, stopping and waiting whenever I tried to hail a cab. As I attempted to blend in with other people on the street, their eyes glued to the sidewalk or their cell phones, hands clutching umbrellas, I realized no one was noticing my clear panic.
This isn’t ok. I shouldn’t have to call friends late at night so I feel safe on my walk home or carry my keys like brass knuckles, the blades sticking out between my fingers. The most annoying thing on my commute home should be train delays and someone playing their music too loud, not drunken men asking me if I’m single and trying to touch my hair. You might say that this is unavoidable. That boys will be boys, especially when they drink too much, or that I shouldn’t be out late alone, or that I should learn how to shrug it off better. I think that this is ridiculous.