Springfield MA walks for Trayvon Martin and an anecdote on racism in Florida—

More than 1000 people attended the Alliance of Black Professionals 1,000 Hoodies Walk for Trayvon Martin today in Springfield, Massachusetts.

Growing up in Florida, I never would have known a Trayvon Martin.

My neighborhood was all-white. The public magnet school I attended had several minority kids, and everyone there knew at least one wealthy minority; but no one would go to New Town – a part of Sarasota now at the heart of an intense international murder case.

This line from a recent story in the Herald Tribune says so much with so little:

“When British tourists James Kouzaris and James Cooper were murdered by a stranger in Sarasota housing projects last year, everyone asked the same question: What were two well-to-do white men doing there?“

In 1999, I was a production intern at Sarasota News Now, the Tribune’s TV outlet. One humid Florida day, I was asked to help with an assignment at a public housing area in New Town. This felt at the time a bit dangerous and definitely foreign. I was intrigued, apprehensive, and I’m not sure I told my parents.

Once there, we toured the complex: some residents navigated damage caused by electrical fires caused by shoddy wiring. Everywhere, roaches and rats scuttled across the floor. There were families with no running water, no hot water. Some homes were flooded from the relentless yearly storms.

The New Town projects were just like the nightmare of public housing I’d grown up taught to picture, and that was messed up.

I’m stunned thirteen years have passed and so little has changed. Hopefully, attention from the Trayvon Martin murder and the New Town  shootings will be a wake-up call finally loud enough for affluent communities like Sarasota, whose famous white-sand beaches glint just around the corner from violent, abject poverty.

Happenstance at Jufuku-ji Zen Buddhist temple—

My first impression of Kamakura was galling – a narrow pedestrian street of tourists crowding food stalls and traditional Japanese groceries. Young men stood with contemporary rickshaws as souvenir staff called out hawking their wares.

On another day this would have been welcome; today I was exhausted. I had set out for Kamakura later than planned. After arriving in town, my only goal became to find the famous Great Buddha and return to my ryokan in Tokyo.

I turned onto a residential street to escape the bustle, making my way on the narrow roads to circle back toward Enoden streetcar. Instantly my mood lifted when I spotted cherry blossoms dotted among sinewy sakura trees – I’d long resigned to the fact it’s too early for hanami. I felt lucky to experience this quintessential sign that spring in Japan has begun.

At a railway crossing signs pointed to several local shrines. I entered the nearest which was under renovation, so I wandered the empty grounds in search of nothing in particular or more sakura blossoms.

After a few hundred meters the footpath wound up a stone wall to a small Buddhist cemetery. Headstones, statues, and numerous wooden stakes appeared well-kept. Offerings of fresh water and flowers lay for the dead.

Travelers are often instructed of sites that are sacred and historic. Rarely does a site feel sacred with no explanation needed. I bowed awkwardly and said hello to invisible spirits, afraid to disrespect the dead by photographing their monuments. I thanked them, overcome with an inexplicable sense of mortality and the unknown, a sudden state of confused spiritual awareness. I was glad to be alone.

From the first set of graves, I could see I was on a hill overlooking the shrine. I walked through other small cemeteries until I came upon a steep and narrow stone path. I climbed on my knees until the path grew too narrow and footholds the size and shape of shoes took me further up the hill.

At the top, I saw a large multilevel cemetery sprawling before me. I was no longer alone – the voices of women tending to the graves echoed from beyond a stone staircase and the smell of incense wafted up from below.

I felt like a trespasser, a rude imposer gawking at tradition from an unfamiliar time and culture.  Tentatively, I descended the staircase wishing to remain hidden. Through tree branches I watched the women talk freely as they burned branches, lit incense, and drew water from a well that they would offer resident souls.

“Are you looking for someone?” I turned to see an older Japanese man standing behind me. He pointed to the stone structure where I was standing, “Do you know who this is?” Startled, I said I didn’t, that I had wandered up the hill and hoped my camera was not disrespectful. He smiled and told me to take pictures – he would show me to the most famous graves at what I now knew as Jufuku-ji.

The grave where I was standing belonged to renowned haiku poet Kyoshi Takahama. I told the man I was studying poetry and loved to travel; he told me he had worked as a German to Japanese translator of poetry and prose and has visited 120 countries. Next, we walked to see Mrs. Hojo Masako, the first shikken of the Kamakura shogunate and wife of the Kamakura period‘s first shogun, Minamoto no Yoritomo. The man asked if I wanted to take my picture in front of her yagura – it seemed that Masako was the most important figure at Jufuku-ji. Her husband’s yagura was a little harder to find, so we asked one of the shrine’s groundskeepers to show us the way – she tsk-ed his ignorance with a smile.

By now, the sun had began to set and it was time to find the streetcar. We only first exchanged names as he walked me to the station. His name is Hasan, or San, for short. San asked my nickname for Kimberly, and we laughed about the ubiquitous nature of “Kim” throughout northeast Asia.

We shared stories of our lives: San is a traveler from Kamakura, who lived internationally in places like New York, Moscow, and Switzerland. At 60, he retired and backpacked the world with his wife. San and I talked about New Zealand, his trips to Sicily and Sardinia, my Italian heritage and about Kyoto, how badly I’ll need to return and see the ancient capital.

Before we parted at the station, San wrote in English the names of the people we had visited and the time they were alive – it’s rare a kind gesture, a piece of paper, can mean so much. We shook hands and paused for a moment of reflection before I entered the turnstile. I was sad to leave San behind.

By the time I reached the Big Buddha, the gates had closed. It was the perfect ending – this day was about finding San and Jufuku-ji. I took a few snapshots of Buddha through the tiny slats between wood planks and turned away toward the sea.

Tokyo and me, anniversary edition: Vermont Yankee and the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster—

In January, I began assisting a local political filmmaker producing a feature documentary about Vermont’s fight against Entergy to close the Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Plant which sports the same type of containment system as Japan’s Fukushima Daiichi. To the dismay of state activists, Entergy recently won their appeal to run the antiquated Vermont Yankee for another 20 years.

The repercussions of the meltdown at Fukushima Daiichi will resonate throughout the global community for decades. As Vermont is stepping up its own fight, reports from Japan reveal Tokyo was nearly evacuated after the damage at Fukushima Daiichi appeared irreparably chaotic.

So, here’s my part: in less than two days I fly out of New York via Seoul to Tokyo to film events that will mark the one-year anniversary of March 11^th’s earthquake. Beyond the obvious draw of excitement and fun (thoughts coming soon), this trip is about learning and growing professionally. Tokyo and I have a history going back years.

Anti-nuclear demonstrations are planned throughout Japan on the 11^th. Activists in Tokyo plan to “send out an appeal to the world to join a 3.11 Human Chain,” and there will be a group at the Diet building. There, it’ll be my responsibility to capture professional footage as the protest unfolds.

People have asked if I’m worried about exposing myself to radiation. The way I see it, I’m visiting Tokyo for two weeks, not moving to Fukushima prefecture. A friend there has procured me a radiation suit if I visit devastated areas closer to the exclusion zone, and I’ll feel very lucky if I get a chance to see for myself the effects that will last generations.

Of course I’m worried about radiation at the Fukushima Daiichi plant – it’s why I’m going to Japan. (PHOTOS: February 2012, Greenfield, MA; Amherst, MA; Northampton, MA)

My Italian-America—

(PHOTOS: My Mom’s family in New York on board the ship to Italy, a trip home made once a year after the war)

I’m part of a large, close-knit family community that came to New York City via Ellis Island in the 40s. Poppy, my maternal grandfather, fled with his family as a child as Mussolini rose to power.

The Rotellis and Agnettis hail from the mountains of the north, a tiny farming village called Fugazzolo where my grandfather’s birth certificate was hand-written by a midwife and descendants still live. Nearby the borders of France, Switzerland, Austria, and a little bit of Slovenia, families like mine were often multilingual.

My grandparents and extended family were eager to embrace a new life in Brooklyn. They moved into a set of townhouses in Williamsburg, the kids enrolled in school, my Poppy and Uncle Frank found union jobs at the docks – but the Old World was hardly left behind. During my childhood, my grandparents and great-grandmother Nonna spoke both Italian and English. “Lascia la essere!” Grandma would say to my nagging mother. “Let her be.”

My grandmother was an amazing cook and pastry chef yet to be duplicated. My Poppy was the glue that held everyone together. A tall, broad man whose work involved treating furs and leather, Poppy worked hard hours at a hard job, had a heart of gold and won everyone’s respect.

I was thirteen when Poppy died too young, and shortly after, Grandma and many others fell ill. By the time I was fifteen I no longer had living grandparents. My great-grandmother, Nonna, outlived both her son and his wife but died shortly after. One heartbreaking loss after the other, my large Italian family began to dwindle. Our once-grand gatherings and homeland traditions became vivid memories the living reference frequently but never recreate.

***

The Abruzzos are Sicilian. When my parents married, it was a small scandal for my maternal grandparents until Dad became adopted as one of their own. My Aunt Frieda and her sisters in Florida reminded me of feisty flapper girls and baked square pan pizza of which I still dream. They remained vibrant into their late 80s and I hope I take after them in spirit. According to my cousin, I have family on my Dad’s side that lives in Naples.

Thus begins the lengthy, frustrating process of trying to obtain Italian citizenship jure sanguinis, or “right of blood.” The research is confusing but addictive – and I still don’t know if I’ll legally qualify.

Tonight I called my uncle, who told me my great-grandfather was from Santa Margherita di Belice, a city on the western coast of Sicily. My paternal great-grandfather emigrated about 20 years earlier than my mother’s family, so I’m crossing my fingers he cannot be found in US census records. I’m also crossing my fingers Poppy had Italian citizenship when my Mom was born, though it’s doubtful. If Nonna was a citizen when she gave birth to him, my mother will qualify first then I.

(Ship manifest and passenger record for my paternal great-grandfather, via ellisisland.org)

The path to Italian citizenship is not simple, nor is it cheap. From researching extensive rules and requirements, I think my biggest hurdle will be that most my ancestors quickly became naturalized citizens of the United States, which would disqualify me.

I’ve heard there are clauses for immigrants who were forced to flee during the war. Perhaps through the consulate governing my grandfather’s tiny village, I may find more compassion.

This is just the beginning. I can’t think too much about how my life would change if I got an Italian passport, but I know it would mean the world.

“A man is invisible,” or, An Author and A Lady—

The conversation was doomed from the start: an Acclaimed Writer of Travel Books was discussing the superior role and responsibility of the writer as traveler. A novelist can experience new places in a deeper, more ethical way most others (especially soldiers) cannot, he said. I was getting uncomfortable.

According to Acclaimed Writer, the majority of travel writing is merely a subjective list of popular visited places and tourist reactions. This happens especially with lady writers, for example, his good friend’s wife, whose book was a boring account of her plain travels with someone else. She hooked up with several men, he made sure to let us know (women always “hook up” abroad; this definition was unclear).

His criticisms of her character mimicked sentiments I’ve heard countless times: women always travel with others, traveling alone makes a better writer. I imagine it helps to be multi-privileged – I explained that I often travel alone, but there are places in the world from which I feel shut out of traveling solo due to my gender. Acclaimed Writer asked “Where?”  Recalling the amazing footage from Michael Palin’s Himalaya and Sahara, I replied that I’d love to visit Pakistan and Morocco.

Maybe I should have known better to name such worn travel themes as the Middle East? Acclaimed Writer launched into an explanation that these areas are now cliché, and then in counterargument asked if I’d feel safe alone in Jackson, Mississippi. I tried to explain that there are parts of most places I’d feel uncomfortable alone – the point is the cultural context is far different for a woman in each place. He agreed, for example “a woman wouldn’t travel alone in South America.”

The problem was that I had just begun planning on it. It felt like a dare; I told him yes there are places for example Amherst where I feel more out-of-my-element than abroad. Someone else tried to change the subject. Another woman spoke up to say she’d lived in India and that men “hook up” while traveling too. By the end, we were all backpedaling. I was inarticulate, frustrated, and flustered. Acclaimed Writer was dismissive, defensive, and thrown-off. This was not a shining moment in my academic career.

Acclaimed Writer seemed to consider us for a moment before commenting that the places he’s been and the experiences he’s had would have been different if he was a woman. “A man is invisible,” he said. To that, I agree.

***

As of last week, I was going to learn about shamanic medicine in the Amazon rainforest of Peru along with a group led by Medicine Hunter Chris Killham and artist Zoe Helene. You can check out the area in the episode “Jungle Tripping” of BBC Channel  4′s Medicine Men Go Wild, the “Peru” episode of No Reservations (both streaming on Netflix), as well as in this section of Palin’s Full Circle. It was going to be a major opportunity.

When I met Acclaimed Writer, I was trying to decide if I would tack a couple weeks onto my time in Peru and visit Cuzco and Machu Picchu alone. Going solo in South America was intimidating and in general, Machu Picchu is not a trip I wanted to make by myself. But, if I’d already be in Peru, I didn’t want to bank on the fact I’d be there again soon with time to spare.

***

I’d prefer my safety be ensured and I am free to explore whatever I want, whenever, without a reasonable chance of harassment. I was on my own completely in Singapore and New Zealand most recently, two places that are known to be safe for women. In the past I’ve navigated other big cities abroad and alone, but I’m a city girl in general, which I think has immunized me to a certain array of sketchiness. It is par for the course I’ve experienced my fair share of minor street harassment both at home and overseas.

Regardless, as with my ill-fated trip to Tokyo, waiting for the “right time” to travel scares me too much to consider. And rightfully so: it turns out despite my resolve, the timing isn’t right for my trip to the Amazon. At least I’m not grounded because I’m a girl or afraid of being alone in a cloud forest.

I often say I’m lucky I can travel at all and that it can change at any time, hoping in vain my awareness will by magic prevent a reality check. Acclaimed Writer was correct to imply many of my trips have been in concession to my fantasies somehow, though for me, to travel itself is a great privilege. Even in those international cities where I didn’t speak the language, I’ve had the information of an acquaintance in the area to “hook up” if need be.

Where would I go if, like Acclaimed Writer, I had the resources and influence to visit anywhere and plan an intentionally thought-provoking Travel Writing Adventure? I can’t view that question objectively, but now I’ll make a point to try.

There are women are far braver than me in their travels, but as I venture further out into the world, I’m facing new gender bias and concerns for the first time. Other than educate myself and coerce friends to come along, I can only hedge my bets and hope luck is on my side.

Its times like this I wish I’d been born male; to just grow a mustache and, as Acclaimed Writer said, become invisible.  (PHOTO: Beyoğlu, Istanbul, Turkey, 07/02/2009) 

Around the world in 5 years? My view from the window seat—

When I think about air travel, I’m struck by grandeur of crossing tens of thousands of miles over difficult terrain that would be impossible on land.

It seems amazing I’ve gone nearly all the way around our planet in the sky, but passion for adventure is no longer required to circumnavigate the globe. Sometimes, a couple of business trips is all it takes to have made the once-fantastical journey.

According to the truest definition of circumnavigation, “navigation of a circumference,” I’m missing all points east between 175.7 (Wellington, New Zealand) and -122.5 (San Francisco, California). Basically, I’ve never crossed the International Date Line.

Ideally, circumnavigation requires crossing a pair of points antipodal to each other, which means they are connected by a straight line running through Earth’s center. Only 4% of land is antipodal to land. According to this map, I’ve come close (Barbados and western Australia, France and New Zealand), but I haven’t been two places that are antipodes.

Circumnavigation should cover approximately 22,858 miles. Earth’s circumference at the equator is approximately 24,901 miles. The shortest path distance between Wellington and San Francisco is approximately 6,740 miles, which means I’m off by about 4,697 miles.

Polar circumference is about 23 miles less. The distance I’ve covered between poles (Tromsø, Norway, and Wellington, New Zealand) is short of circumnavigation by 7,969 miles – a smaller margin than I imagined. Still, Michael Palin I am not.

I may dread commercial flights, but I love  watching the world from above. This weekend, I spent time going through five years of travel imagery to find the most recognizable views of the world from my airplane window.

(PHOTOS, top to bottom: Iowa, USA, BOS->DEN, 09/2008; Lyngen Alps, Norway, BOS->HEL 07/2006; Port of Singapore, SIN->SYD, 01/2011; Utah, USA, BOS->LAX, 06/2010; Singapore skyline,      FRA->SIN, 01/2011)

Whale Wars, my love—

It’s officially summertime and that means the anniversary of my romance with Whale Wars.

(PHOTO: Sadly not mine, © Animal Planet) A few episodes into the 4^th season Animal Planet’s series about Sea Shepherd conservationists’ fight to end whaling in the Southern Ocean, Helicopter Boyfriend in trouble. There’s a dense fog in the Antarctic, and he’s lost both radio and visual contact with the Steve Irwin. I’d be worried, but I already know he escapes unscathed.

The same can’t necessarily be said for the crew of two small boats launched from the Bob Barker that end up dead in the water next to an iceberg, but if I had to bet I’d say no one dies, otherwise I imagine someone would be missing from the crew interviews edited in with hypothermia footage.

I never thought a year ago I’d come to anticipate large-scale sea maneuvers carried out by vessels named after an Australian wildlife personality and a game show host from the USA.

Whale Wars happened to me by accident last summer while browsing Netflix for a new show to Watch Instantly. It initially caught my eye because I have a major thing for Antarctica. I quickly realized it is a good example of the kind of TV I want to make someday and also procured a crush on the helicopter pilot, Chris Aultman (this year he must share my affection).

When a couple of crew members got married on Scott Island, my jealousy was tangible. When Helicopter Boyfriend took the crew onto an iceberg one by one at the end of season 2, I decided I want to hang out the helicopter window and videotape icebergs.

Recently a friend joked that I “just like places that look like they could be another planet,” which is true – a few years ago I convinced her to visit the Arctic in winter. I love the idea of seeing the Southern Cross alongside the Aurora Borealis in Antarctica.

I’m a little disappointed, though, that both “The Devil’s Icebox” and last week’s “Ghosts in the Machine” were woefully lacking Chad Halstead. What can I say? Speed-boat-activism is sexy. I had to re-watch episode 2, “No Escape;” he does some sweet moves in front of a harpoon ship on New Year’s Day. (PHOTO: totally not a speedboat, Paris, France, 2009)

Aside from a stint writing environmental impact statements, my own experience with marine conservation harkens back to days in Florida when I volunteered and went to conservation sleepover camp with Mote Marine Laboratory, a marine research organization in Sarasota founded by Dr. Eugenie Clark.

There, I ate mostly coconuts and accidentally snorkeled over the continental shelf. Mote Marine also aired the JASON Project; the most memorable being JASON III: Galapagos Islands, where Sea Shepherd has a campaign.

It remains to be seen whether there will be another season of Whale Wars – Sea Shepherd managed to stop whalers in Antarctica for the remainder of the 2011 whaling season.

In a time environmental activism is often looked upon with cynicism, it’s heartening to know someone is around to stage direct conservation efforts with their crew of hot, scuffed-up men and women worldwide. By the way, Sea Shepherd, I’d be your best photo/videographer to date.