Fall 2015 Taft Global Journal

stories - perspectives - travel - culture - service - experiences - food

Taft

Global Journal

ISIS Attacks Paris page 9

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CONTENTS FALL 2015

current events

9 ISIS Attacks Paris 20 Understanding the Greek Crisis 22 Charleston Shooting

Photo by Hadrian/Shutterstock.com

experiences

4 8 12 16

24 25

A Search for My Identity The Cut Medicine in Mongolia The Fifers: Why Do We Do What We Do? Taft in Retrospect An Unforgettable Trip to Spain

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ISIS Attacks Paris

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Why Do We Do What We Do?

service 6 7 10 18 26

Beauty in Service Living the Taft Motto with SEAS A State Where Inequality Hits Home A Journey to Costa Rica Creating Change: A Trip to India

Photo by Anne Kowalski

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Living the Taft Motto With SEAS

A MESSAGE FROM

THE EDITORs

The goal of the Global Journal is to share perspectives of the Taft community gained through experience and service. Everyone is unique and has a story to tell that makes them who they are; these stories are what make Taft the diverse global community we are so proud to be. The Global Journal hopes to be an outlet for these stories to be told.

This issue in particular, with the addition of the current events section, seeks to inform the Taft community about the experiences of people around the world outside of our gates. We have an outstanding team of writers, editors, and faculty who made this issue possible, and we are excited to see the Global Journal become an increasing part of the Taft community in the upcoming months.

editorsin-chief Katie B ’16 James Lee ’16

editors

Zygimantas Jievaltas ’17 Nick Morgoshia ’17 Lauren Fadiman ’17 Marisa Mission ’17 Juste Simanauskiate ’17

writers David Dethlefs

Bruce and Helena Fifer Mani Capece ’16 Juan Lones ’16 Ai Bui ’16 Wengel Kifle ’16 Shasha Alvares ’17 Front Cover Photo by Pal Teravagimov / Shutterstock.com

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A Search for My

Identity

by Juan Lones

by Juan Lones ’16 I found myself thousands of miles away from home. After an exhausting 11-hour sleeper train ride, I found myself in Galicia, Spain. Just about a year before I had learned that I would be spending a year abroad. The unthinkable idea of being sixteen and away from everyone I knew was now the reality. I overcome fear of change with strength and confidence. I was now excited for a five day adventure in a region I’d never would have visited otherwise. And all of a sudden, it was April, and my year trip was slowly coming to a close.

As I wandered the narrow streets of a small fishing town in Galicia, I interviewed various people for an assignment. Not too far from the main street was a río that expanded far out. Various small fishing boats and nets filled the surfaces of the water, as plenty of men walked around, hauling in the shells and fish they had just caught.

A stout Spaniard stood by the old walls of a short building. He typed on his phone, unaware of his surroundings.

“Sir, would you mind if we ask you some questions?”

“No, I prefer you didn’t,” he replied.

“Sorry. We are just American students that need some answers for an assignment.”

He seemed to weigh his options, looking at our foreign faces in odd confusion. What would three American

students be doing in such a small town, so far away from home? His countenance changed to one of slight enthusiasm.

“Yeah sure. Go ahead,” he decided.

After a few questions I asked, “do you identify or feel more Spaniard, or Galician?”

He rapidly shot to an answer and said “ninguno.”

None. He felt no identification with his home. This radical idea that implied lack of belonging confused me greatly. How could it be that a man did not feel he was a

5 unique. It is that acceptance of diversity that translated to universal citizenship.

The handful of days left in my trip made me nostalgic and disoriented. I was now a young man with a completely new perspective, while home was still just that: home.

part of his own upbringing?

“Then what do you feel you are, if you don’t identify as either?” I asked, with immediate curiosity.

“Soy un ciudadano del mundo.”

A year before, I felt myself so connected to the mix of my American and Salvadoran culture. It was who I was; it was who I had grown to be. A year before I would have been so scared of change and the loss of personal identity such as my own heritage. The only truth I knew was that, while I was an American, I was also a foreigner.

I felt at home to the ostracizing feeling of being different.

“I am a citizen of the world,” he stated.

I sought to implement that man’s philosophy upon my own. I knew I had my personal culture and understandings that made me no less human than any other.

This man understood that there was no importance to who they were if they could not realize that they were part of something bigger: humanity.

To my understanding, being a citizen of the world does not mean embodying all cultures. It is rather the attempt to be educated of and compassionate to other cultures to the extent that there is little to no judgment involved in one’s personal impression. I learned that each person is his or herself for his or her own reasons. They were no better, nor worse than any other, but rather

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beauty in

Service

by David Dethlefs, Taft faculty

Guatemala makes the news in the U.S. for unfortunate reasons and, as a result, many Americans associate Guatemala with violence and corruption. While there are serious issues that have plagued this Central American country for decades, it is also a stunningly beautiful land that was once the center of the Mayan civilization--a civilization responsible for grand rainforest cities complete with temples and pyramids.

The remnants of that civilization have merged to varying degrees with the colonial Spanish and Catholic traditions, and have formed a rich cultural tapestry that makes Guatemala a remarkably diverse and unique country.

The natural beauty of Guatemala is remarkable. It has steamy lowland jungles and temperate highlands. Lake Atitlan, surrounded by volcanoes, is stunning. The colonial past is showcased in Antigua, the Spanish capital of Central America, a city with cobblestone streets that is now a World Heritage Site. The highland village of Chichicastenango is one of the largest indigenous markets in Central America.

The annual Taft Guatemala Trip is primarily a service trip and a cultural excursion in and around Antigua.

It is a wonderful opportunity for students of Spanish to practice what they’ve learned in the classroom. At times, one even overhears K’iche (spoken by descendants of the Mayans). The primary feature of the trip is house building.

This past June, Taft built four houses, and also

helped with clothing and food distribution. During the weekend, we visited Lake Atitlan with stops at the Mayan ruins at Xmiche. Before returning to Antigua we visited the Sunday market at Chicastenango.

When I first signed on as a trip chaperone 11 years ago, I had no idea that I was about to join a project that would be life-changing and one of the most meaningful chapters of my career. The opportunity to work alongside students and to witness their enthusiasm for serving others is thrilling.

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L i v i n g t h e ta f T M o t t o

A S ummer with “ S ea”

by Shasha Alvares ‘17 What a better way to spend a month of summer than hanging out with middle-schoolers who call you “Sausage,” (a nickname that sticks!) during a get-to-know-you game? I could not possibly imagine a better way to have spent the whole month of July than by completing the Think Globally Act Locally Initiative, in addition to completing the Global Leadership Institute requirement of volunteering during the summer. I volunteered with the Taft/Pal Summer Enrichment Academy, a program created by the beloved faculty, Ms. Monti and Mr. Clifford.

The Summer Enrichment Academy enabled students to have a better chance of getting into private schools such as Taft.

The greatest part of SEA was the kids who participated in it; they really made the experience worthwhile.

The program ran from nine to noon, and the kids were provided with breakfast and lunch, which they always say is the best part of the summer program and is why they want to come to Taft someday.

I taught sixth graders this past summer, along with Morgan Manz, a Taft graduate, and it was amazing because we managed to build our students’ confidence in their capability to overcome hard challenges, helping drive them to achieve higher goals, and engaging them in classroom discussion.

The most rewarding part about my experience was that, during the first week of July, all of the kids said that they knew that they would never get into a place like Taft, but by the last day, all of the sixth graders told Morgan and I that they really want to be able to go to a school like Taft someday. By the end of the program, all of them were receiving A’s on their vocabulary tests, which consisted of about 55 hard SSAT words. I believe that they changed their mindset about not being able to achieve what seems impossible, because Morgan and I constantly told our students that they can achieve the goals that they set for themselves as long as they work hard to achieve their desires.

The experience not only helped me realize that I am more than capable of making a difference in the lives of others, no matter how small, but also reminded me that I was helping build a future for students who have the limited means to do so in their local community. In that respect, I believe the program was the best way to serve the Taft Motto: “Not to be served, but to serve.”

Photos by Anne Kowalski

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T hAeS ummer Cu t i n the lab

by James Lee ’16

Not going to lie, it did hurt a little bit.

I spent most of my childhood in a community that had pushed me to keep most emotions to myself. My grandparents especially were strong advocates of the idea. According to them, their oldest grandchild, especially as a boy, should never cry--no matter how young his age. “There are only three instances when a man should cry in his life,” my grandfather would tell me. “When he is born, when he is stabbed in the back by a true friend, and when one of his loved ones passes away.” The 2nd grade version of me listened half-heartedly.

Despite his repeated lessons, my eyes did tear up a bit, although inadvertently. My grandfather had forgotten the fourth instance that should justify a man’s tears: when a microtome blade, micro-designed for slicing thin embryos in a biomedical lab, chooses to slice your thumb as an alternative.

When that blade snapped up—mid-slice, I might add—all I could do was watch, as it carved straight through my fingernail and deep into my right thumb. In less than a couple of seconds, most of my hand was engulfed in blood. The skin under a fingernail is inherently weaker and more sensitive than that of other areas in your body. In parts of Asia back in the 50s, pricking the victim’s skin under his nails was even used as a torture tactic. Only recently did I come to understand why it had been so effective. But as much as I wanted to let my eyes tear up just a little bit more, people were watching. I was also 18, and not the 10-year-old kid that my grandfather had talked to. So I pretended it didn’t faze me.

The pain in my thumb only helped me remember why I had applied for the Page Grant the first place. Over the summer, I had gotten the amazing opportunity to be part of a developmental biology lab at the Cornell Department of Veterinary Medicine, where I was able to study gut develop-

ment in mammalian embryos. As I looked at my bloody thumb, I realized this was only a rite of passage—a pre-requisite, so to speak, to the adult world of laboratory experimentation and trialing. I had already stepped into a realm of my true passions, and it was too late to go back.

So when the lab members surrounded me with bandages and concerned faces, I smiled. Sure, my hand was numb, and the mice DNA I had extracted moments before was now completely contaminated with my own. But I had also gained six taxing weeks worth of experience and knowledge. Having enjoyed every moment of my Page Grant experience, I knew even the blade accident was worth it. If it came down to it, I don’t think I would mind getting another cut in a future lab—although I am not sure I can guarantee that I can keep the tears to myself the next time.

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ISIS Strikes Paris

by Katie B ’16

Photo by Hadrian/Shutterstock.com

As of the morning after Friday, November 13th, Paris has become the face of international news. On Friday evening, the jihadist extremist group known as ISIS (the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria) launched six attacks on Paris, resulting in a current death toll of 130 people with over 300 people wounded. Five of the six attacks took place in the 10th and 11th arrondissements of the city. These included shootings at a café, a pizzeria, a restaurant and bar, and the Bataclan Concert Hall (where both a shooting and a bombing took place). The sixth attack was a bombing near the entrances of the State de France, the national football (soccer) stadium in which the President of France, Francois Hollande, was watching the football match between France and Germany.

The President was immediately evacuated; he issued a statement declaring the ISIS attack to be “an act of war.”

Facebook profile pictures changed by the thousands as the world united in support of this devastated country. The G20 Summit leaders were in Turkey debating what the international response will be, but German politician, Angela Markel, reassured the international community, “We are stronger than any form of terrorism.”

ISIS is a pressing concern for both the Middle East and the world at large. This radical Muslim group gains followers through fear, pillaging entire towns and regions in the process. ISIS took advantage of unstable governments in Iraq and Syria to launch its jihadist campaign, which has grown dramatically to up to 20,000 fighters. While there is an element of mob mentality to the bloodshed, ISIS is particularly threatening because the violence stems from religious ideology; literally, ISIS proclaims their actions follow the “Word of Allah.”

This situation involves multiple religious and geographical circumstances that foreign powers must under-

stand, and without that knowledge, the wrong type of intervention may cause more harm than good. I believe the argument made in Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave” applies to how the global community should approach this situation. The allegory implies that all philosophers live inside a cave, but those who question the light will find knowledge outside the cave.

Plato’s analogy applies to the world as a series of caves; every town, city, and country is its own cave, therefore every person has a different definition of what it means to be knowledgeable. If there was universal enlightenment, the world would be a very homogenous place, and the conflict with ISIS would be nonexistent. Everyone’s truth is relative to his or her experience. When approaching intervention, countries like the United States must realize that the territory ISIS occupies is an entirely different series of “caves” in comparison to the Western World. For many people in the Middle East and beyond, democracy is not the default answer to the question of enlightenment; millions of Muslims live by the Quran. Although some do believe in ISIS’s radical interpretation of the Quran, many are simply too afraid to oppose the regime.

A parallel to the terror of ISIS can be drawn to Hitler’s Germany. Hitler took advantage of a time in Germany’s history when the people’s pride had been severely depleted as a result of a poor economic outlook after the First World War. Hitler provided an outlet for the people’s frustrations, and a similar mob mentality took place. Hitler was an excellent persuasive speaker, which meant he could manipulate many Germans into believing his Nazi ideas, but the rest became too afraid to oppose him. Furthermore, Germany feared and despised Russia amongst other nations at the time, which corresponds to the cultural tensions between America and Muslim states. ISIS, like Hitler, capitalized on a frustrated population, whose pride had also been trampled on by a world that prioritizes capitalism above religion.

All foreign powers must approach intervention in the most diplomatic manner possible, especially the United States because of its sensitive history with the region from which ISIS hails. The best hope the world has to contain the ISIS threat is to understand the complexity of the situation and to unite in support of a strategy to prevent further destabilization of the international community.

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CONNECTICUT: A State Where Inequality Hits Home

Connecticut, I’ve always thought, is a funny state to live in—a state built out of contradictions. Although a resounding population of wealthy people live in Connecticut, it is also home to shocking poverty. In fact, the Economic Policy Institute reports that between 2009 and 2012, the top 1% of Connecticut’s population was the sole beneficiary of all income growth. Furthermore, the top 1%, on average, earns about 48 times as much as the bottom 99%. This, of course, leads to an incredible socio-economic gap between the wealthiest towns in Connecticut and the poorest areas in the state, such as Waterbury, Bridgeport, Hartford, and New Haven.

It was in Waterbury and another struggling Connecticut city, Derby, that I spent the majority of my summer this year. In the former, I participated in an internship with the Waterbury Health Department and Brass City Harvest, a program that grows food on reclaimed brownfields and through hydroponic technology to provide much-needed fresh vegetables and fruits to local soup

by Lauren Fadiman ’17

kitchens. In Derby, I worked as a camp counselor at a small day camp that charges only 100 dollars a week for admission and offers more financial aid than it can really afford.

While I always knew about the staggering wealth divide in Connecticut, my summer experiences put this polarization in perspective.

The economic parallels between my two summer experiences are, in my opinion, the strongest common denominator. I’ll begin with my camp counseling experience, as it was there that I really observed poverty on an individual level through the kids I worked with. I was assigned to work with Yellow Group who were the seven and eight-year-olds. They hailed from several different towns near the camp: Shelton, Oxford, Newtown, Ansonia, Naugatuck, Seymour, Beacon Falls, and, of course, Derby.

Even these towns—the majority located in the Naugatuck Valley—show wealth differences, with Shelton and Oxford, especially, trending wealthier, and Derby significantly less so. One of the boys in my group was from either

11 Ansonia or Derby, who turned seven about two weeks into the summer, described his birthday party to me. I don’t remember precisely what I asked him—perhaps, “Where was your party?”—but I clearly recall him saying to me, “We had the party at home, because we can’t afford to have it anywhere else. Mommy says, ‘Maybe someday.’”

That was tough to hear, and it turns out that this seven-year-old boy’s experience was not unique at the camp; more than a few kids would report birthdays with only one or two inexpensive gifts, or wear the same few outfits day after day. That is not to say that the kids appeared unhappy with their lives; on the contrary, it seemed that the kids I worked with were boundlessly energetic and enthusiastic. But that is to say, receiving one present on your seventh birthday is often a mere surface manifestation of the larger issue of American poverty.

I was able to view Connecticut’s wealth disparity even more clearly during my internship with Brass City Harvest. Just a mere 10-minute drive from Taft, Waterbury is home to thousands of people who live in what are known as food deserts—areas in which there are no supermarkets in walking distance, no forms of transportation like cars or buses to other markets, and no corner stores carrying fresh, healthy produce. At Taft, we have access to healthy food every day. In many neighborhoods in Waterbury, families can go days or even longer without eating a fresh salad—and certainly not from a lack of desire. There are two specific experiences that I wish to discuss: first, one of the deliveries I helped make was to a local soup kitchen. As I’ve stated, Brass City Harvest’s main goal is to provide access to fresh Connecticut produce for the locals in need. When we would drop off this food, however, the sheer number of people in need would always astound me. One day in particular, we witnessed more than a hundred people lining up at a kitchen—a very humbling sight for someone privileged enough to have fresh vegetables on the dinner table each night over and above all our other food options.

The second specific experience I wish to refer to occurred while I was helping sell produce from other Connecticut farms at the Brass City Harvest farm stand.

One aspect of poverty I had not originally realized is how disproportionately it affects the elderly with set incomes; many people who are poor or on welfare are, in fact, senior citizens. These people are not “welfare queens,” as aggressive media often portrays them to be. While I was selling food one afternoon, I was approached by an elderly woman who was—she informed me—going both deaf and blind, and struggling to get by. She couldn’t consistently get to a grocery store, and when she could, she was unable to read the packaging on foods. She was, however, incredibly excited by the tomatoes I was selling at the stand—the prospect of having access to fresh food in her own neighborhood was, frankly, life-changing for someone living out of cans. This was, again, humbling.

The main thing I took from my summer was that poverty affects the elderly and children more than anyone else. Brass City Harvest accepts WIC and senior citizen vouchers, as well as SNAP—without those programs, many people would neither be able to afford nor have access to fresh food for their families. I also learned that people, for the most part, want to lead healthy lives. The people who came to the Brass City Harvest food stand could have just as easily spent their vouchers buying canned or junk food, but they chose to spend their money on fresh produce for themselves and their children. Even if they can’t afford to throw their kids birthday parties, most parents want their offspring to be as healthy as possible.

Next time you make a joke about “welfare queens,” or complain about your tax dollars being wasted on government-funded programs like WIC vouchers and SNAP, first remember this: these programs allow sevenyear-olds and 77-year-olds to experience tomatoes and lettuce and squash and corn and beans. We as a country are one people, which means we are only as happy and healthy as our lowest common denominator.

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Medicine in mongolia Reflections

by Zygimantas Jievaltas ’17

June 20 My day of arrival at Ulaanbaatar mesmerized my mind and made me understand the cultural depths of this world that I’m not familiar with and should still have to discover. At no time in my life have I felt so utterly isolated and away from a common environment. This is not a notion of misery or loneliness, quite the contrary, as it requires me to expand my understanding of how various cultures function in their natural environments, forcing me out of my comfort zone into a mental state of being lost and not knowing what to expect. Even as I was looking through the window of my landing plane, seeing only light blue sky in harmonious contrast to the grayish green steppes, I realized that this beautiful natural scene was a landscape completely alien to me. The nature of this country has for ages dictated the unique lifestyle and mentality of the Mongolians, which in many ways differs from Western approaches. Even the way they drive, from their “optional” traffic lights to steering wheels placed on either side of the driver’s seat, I knew I was in for quite the culture shock.

June 22 Today was the first official day of our program, which consisted of one medical lecture and a volunteer orientation.

We were introduced to the medical system in Mongolia and given a general overview of what we’d be doing. The lecture conveyed a sad truth about Mongolia’s healthcare system, which is very poorly equipped and underfinanced, not to mention the almost non-existent

infrastructure that drastically affects healthcare accessibility. Yet, thirty percent of the country’s population is nomadic, potentially living far beyond the reaches of urban amenities in Ulaanbaatar. This means that the only accessible medical service to them is of a local “feltcher,” a general practitioner/shaman. The nearest hospital for people was often Ulaanbaatar, as far as 600 miles away from the vastness of Mongolian fields. When you take into consideration the fact that most roads in Mongolia are unpaved and sometimes hardly passable, it becomes clear that all that is left for the nomads is the hope to never get sick… or to flock to the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar in the winter season and that way increase the likelihood of survival.

However, this seasonal increase of “urban” dwellers is the source of another major social, environmental and medical issue. The winter temperatures in Ulaanbaatar can drop as low as negative 40 degrees Fahrenheit, therefore Ulaanbaatar inhabitants that live in the impoverished ger districts (slums consistent of wooden shacks and traditional Mongolian tents—gers) resort to burning coal and virtually everything they can find. The smoke of burning coal, wood, rubber, and even plastic floods the icy streets of Ulaanbaatar making it not only the coldest capital of the world, but also the most polluted city in the world. It is easy to see that Mongolian herders, desperate to maintain their unique ancient lifestyle, are faced with an annual winter dilemma: risk getting no medical attention at all or move closer to urban amenities, but live in extremely hazardous conditions.

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June 23 A physician has to be adept to work in a variety of different environments and conditions, committing to helping the patient in any manner possible. Today I had the opportunity to assist a doctor conducting medical check-ups at a Buddhist nunnery that also serves as a soup kitchen to local homeless people. We had the responsibility of measuring the blood pressure and heart rate of the patients before they saw a physician for an actual consultation. Even doing something as basic as these tasks gave me sense of what it feels like to work with different patients.

June 24 Today I had the chance to experience the sense of emergency, which is faced by most physicians on a daily basis.

Being part of a Mongolian ambulance crew and responding to the emergency calls was one the most interesting things I’ve done in Ulaanbaatar so far. All participating students were divided into groups of two or three and sent out to accompany a Mongolian emergency crew. The experience at first seemed peculiar, as it didn’t reflect what I would expect an ambulance emergency would be like.

Starting with the vehicle, it virtually didn’t have any medical equipment apart from a stretcher and an oxygen cylinder. Then there was the way the call was approached: no sense of hurry whatsoever, the sirens were not turned on, and the driver was cheerily chatting with the paramedic.

It turns out, that in Mongolia the sirens are only turned on occasionally, as the cars usually don’t make way for the

ambulance. So, we sped down Ulaanbaatar’s bumpy roads to the ger district, up the twisty roads we climbed, down the hills we rattled. Not only did I have an opportunity to familiarize myself with the Mongolian ambulance operation, but also with the absence of paved roads. The most interesting patient that I had a chance to observe was a lady, who thought was having a stroke. As soon as the paramedics found out the potential cause of the emergency, everything seemed to liven up and become more serious.

Luckily, after a standard checkup, it turned out the lady was not in fact having a stroke, she was just suffering from extreme hypertension. There was a wave of relief after finding out that the patient’s life was not hanging by its thread, but it also made me understand the degree of responsibility that any medical personnel must carry, as they are directly responsible for somebody else’s life and must be ready to react at any time. Furthermore, this experience was also valuable in the sense that I had an opportunity to enter regular Mongolian homes and see the “real picture” of their domestic lifestyles. Life in the ger district is tough: small huts set on dusty terrain, with no greenery or water source in close proximity, yet what might sound as extraordinarily difficult is approached with acceptance or even enthusiasm by the Mongolians. They seem to appreciate what they have and not fret about what is unapproachable.

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June 25 After familiarizing ourselves with the Mongolian first and second level hospitals, being part of an ambulance crew and doing care work at a homeless shelter, we were finally able to put our scrubs on and enter Mongolia’s central Shastin hospital on the fourth day of our program. To make the medical observation session more efficient and interesting for all of us, we were divided into two rotating groups of people, each of which went to different hospital departments. The group that I was with had to go to the radiology department and observe various ultrasound visualizations of the abdominal region. The most interesting case that I had the opportunity to see was of a man with only one functioning kidney. A couple of years back, one of the man’s kidneys had been removed; therefore the remaining kidney adapted to the physiological changes and assumed the function of two kidneys. We could clearly see this adaptation, as the diameter of the kidney functioning for two was a lot larger than the predetermined standard. After viewing various patients with either liver or kidney problems, we were taken to the Intensive care unit. I have to say that the thing that struck me at the ICU was the medical equipment, which was surprisingly equivalent to the machines used in European or American hospitals, the majority of which was donated by a foreign charity. It was incredible to see how much progress has been made through international cooperation. Hopefully Mongolia’s work with physicians from Korea, Japan, Germany, and France will facilitate a day when Mongolia’s health care system can thrive without international support.

June 26 The key word today was focus. Just as a painter uses focus and precision to make the right stroke with a paintbrush, a surgeon uses a scalpel to make a clean and precise cut.

With someone’s life on the line, failure was not an option.

I had the opportunity to see just that today. Going into the operating room and observing a reconstructive surgery of the skull was mind blowing, as we had an opportunity to see textbook knowledge actually applied in practice. That day I learned that being successful in this field is not only dependent upon your ability to absorb information and utilize it...surgery is a skill like any other. You might have all the theoretical knowledge there is, but without the right set of skills, you’ll fail. The second half of the day introduced us to a different kind of reality, a reality of children who had very few options. We were taken to a very special organization on the outskirts of Ulaanbaatar which functions as a daycare/school for impoverished kids. The founder of this center had realized ten years ago that many children of

Ulaanbaatar’s poor would spend their days wandering the dusty paves of ger districts, while their parents were scavenging for food in the city dumps. These kids were cold, hungry and with no focus or guidance in life. When they would return hungry to their homes late in the evenings, all they would find would be drunk and abusive parents. One time, the founder found a little girl tied to a fence poll with a chain around her neck. This left such a profound emotional mark on her, that she decided to open a center for children, where they would come during the day to learn, play and have a modest meal. After being among enthusiastic and happy kids, who appreciate the little that they have, I realized that one focused woman potentially saved a lost generation; she gave those kids hope and the ability to dream of a brighter future. This comes to show that even little actions can have a great effect, and I was honored to be a part of it.

15 June 27-28 Our Mongolian weekend was aimed at developing a deeper understanding of the country’s culture, history and nature.

The first thing we got to do was see astounding panoramic views of the entire city from Zaisan Hill, an experience which disclosed the socio-economic differences evident in this still developing and incredibly polarized society. Extensive training programs and broader investment in improving education is essential if sustainable economic development (not the creation of another Nigeria) is sought. All the available capital could be utilized for creating or expanding industry, developing infrastructure, and establishing a sustainable service segment, which currently is being administered by shrewd foreign investors. Even the already mentioned Oyu Tolgoi Mine was built mainly by Chinese contractors, not Mongolians. The excess of cash, if not invested wisely, could end up being a curse rather than a blessing for the Mongolian people.

On the topic of cash excess and wise investment, nothing paints the picture brighter then the story of one wealthy Mongol who had a dream. We visited the statue of Mister Battulga, one of the country’s most controversial businessmen turned political leader. He didn’t spare 10 million USD of his private funds towards the realization of his dream: the creation of the Genghis Khan statue complex outside of Ulaanbaatar. Standing at 40 meters high, the stainless steel statue is the largest of its kind on this planet and, according to an ancient legend, sits precisely where Genghis Khan found a golden whip and was inspired to unite all Mongol tribes. As our group stood at the top of the statue overlooking the surrounding steppes and taking “selfies,” we not only got to feel the historic grandeur of this nation, but also got an initial glimpse of Mongolia’s nature which we were about to experience at our next stop— Terelj National Park. As I stood amongst the breathtaking mountains, flora, and streams, I thought to myself, “I can’t wait to come back to this place someday.”

June 29-July 3 The following week of our experience focused mainly on the concepts that we had been introduced to previously, including care work, observation, and cultural exchange.

Something that I won’t forget for a long time is observing the application of sterile pads and compresses on an eightyear-old girl with third-degree burns. Seeing iodinated bandages gently being wrapped around a patient so young made this the most difficult procedure I have had to watch.

I admire the physicians’ emotional resilience and commitment to patients, and hope I can emulate that when I become a doctor. Doctors have the rare gift of knowing precisely what they’ve accomplished each day, and can

grasp the profound impact they’ve had on others: they have healed or even saved lives. Nothing beats that. Even going into the homeless shelter for the second time and measuring the heart rate and blood pressure of people with serious chronic illnesses made me feel as if I’d done something, something with my own hands, something that is appreciated by other human beings and perceived as direct help.

We go round in life far too often being wrapped up in decorum, talking about things that don’t have, and never will, have any direct influence on our lives. What made my two weeks in Mongolia so special was that the observations, realizations, and tasks I accomplished were not abstract or intangible; they were real.

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Why do we do What we do?

by Bruce and Helena Fifer

HELENA: We are here to entertain the question, “Why do we do what we do?” In our case, the better question is: “Why wouldn’t we do what we did?”

And furthermore, we would keep doing it if we could!

BRUCE: Helena and I have been fortunate enough to have been given a number of PEG travel grants in the last few years, and we have used those to travel to Italy to develop a program for Collegium that we call “Living the Arts,” a week-long residency program in the small beautiful mountain town of Faicchio. And then last winter, we were granted a six-month sabbatical.

When Linda Saarnijoki told us in February that our sabbatical for the following winter/spring had been approved, she added: HELENA: “Have a great time.

Just don’t stay home.”

BRUCE: And so we hatched “The Plan”: A two-month domestic trip, driving across the country from New Orleans to Berkeley, and staying with

old friends as well as members of Helena’s family, and then a three-month trip to Italy, a country we love and wanted to further explore.

BRUCE: We would use Rome and its environs as our base, and then take trips to meet up with people in Sicily, Vienna, Tuscany, Amsterdam, Cinque Terre, and Bologna, where we took Chris Browner to see a 3D production of the Magic Flute; there IS no better opera companion!

This was our plan, and it turned out to be a fantastic one. Our domestic trip was as fun and as memorable as our trip to Europe. Besides California, which we never tire of, we also loved seeing places like New Orleans, Austin, San Antonio, Roswell, Santa Fe, Sedona and, of course, the Grand Canyon. Singing services with the choir of Men and Boys at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco was as fabulous as I thought it was going to be, in terms of the caliber of the musicians, the program, and the Great Space of the Cathedral, but the Grand Canyon was bigger, more beautiful, and definitely more overwhelming than we could ever have imagined. Even so, nothing could prepare us for the power of that majestic natural wonder.

You haven’t really lived until you’ve gone to a Mariachi mass in San Antonio, Texas.

Taft Faculty

HELENA: Bodega Bay is a little creepy, just like it was in The Birds.

BRUCE: The van driving around LA advertising Topless House Cleaning probably doesn’t consist of some old guy with no shirt on with a mop in his hand.

HELENA: And the next time we visit Stevenson School in Pebble Beach we are hoping to know a little more about golf, or at least, know that the AT&T Pro-Am is a Golf Tournament not a phone company convention.

Sometime after we were granted our sabbatical Bruce brought up the idea of keeping a blog for our family and interested friends, but I ignored him.

“There is no way I am keeping a blog; I can’t even write thank you notes,” I told him. “No one is going to care what we are doing, and there is no way that what we are doing each day will be blog worthy.”

Yet he kept pestering me, and before I knew it I had taken over the job of writing

daily entries. I still complained that I had nothing to say, and yet I found I often went way over our “a thousand character maximum” blog.

BRUCE: Each day I, as the photographer and photo editor, was on the prowl for 10 blog pictures- which was the maximum allowed. Keeping a blog forced us to reflect daily on the experiences we had. More often than not, our reflections were positive and our posts were cheery! Every church, chapel, or concert hall I walked into was a potential Collegium concert venue!

HELENA: Bruce is also a fabulous cook, and as we had the world’s tiniest kitchen in Roccantica, he had to be alone when he cooked. It was perfect for me.

BRUCE: Helena, on the other hand, never tires of walking, exploring new neighborhoods, finding new wine bars and cheap eateries, dollar stores, and meeting up with her old friends. Despite, or perhaps because of our different interests, we make a good team and challenge each other to embrace new experiences.

HELENA: Three church services in one day is too many.

BRUCE: A 12-mile hike around and up into the hills above Bologna? I’m going to die.

17 HELENA: We are not driving up that mountain to see a marble quarry. There are no guard rails.

BRUCE: We forced each other to consider a different perspective.

HELENA: Evensong can be wonderful!

BRUCE: Falafel on the Left Bank is cheap and delicious!

gave us pasta lessons.

HELENA: Marcello and Nella, who lived across the tiny square, became our guardian angels, taking Bruce (whom they called Bruno) to the foot doctor when he had an infected toe, and the dentist when he broke a tooth. Although Nella spoke English fairly well, Marcello’s one English phrase was BRUCE: “SHUT UP.”

At the end of May we left Roccantica and Italy and headed north towards England, stopping for five days in Paris.

Ah, the food, the museums, the boulevards, the lights! And unlike Rome, even the METRO was pleasant.

We arrived in England in early June for the last eight days of our sabbatical feeling

HELENA: Did we laugh enough today?

BRUCE: It was really fun. All of it. We flew all over Europe and walked miles and took long bike rides around big cities. We became experts at figuring out public transportation. If you need to know about the bus routes in Rome, ask us!

Every day, we woke up feeling immensely grateful to be with each other and determined to make the most of our time away from Taft. And we also made some new friends, particularly in Roccantica, the tiny town an hour north of Rome, where we rented an apartment for three months.

Of the three people we got to know well in that little mountain town, only one spoke English, but we still managed to communicate and share some wonderful meals and summery evenings in the piazza together.

Ada, our next-door neighbor,

exhausted but determined to pack it all in. We took a train to Winchester College, one of the oldest if not the oldest college in England, to visit an old friend of Willy’s, Ralph Townsend, who is the venerable (and wickedly funny) headmaster there. We enjoyed yet another outstanding Evensong in Winchester Cathedral, and a true Harry Potter-esque formal dinner in the Great Hall of that magnificent old school. It was an awesome, intimidating, and inspiring end for both of us as teachers and artists.

BRUCE: So to get back to that question: Why did we do what we did?

So much of life is circumscribed by obligations and other fixed points, while our sabbatical represented a stage of weightlessness that was both a gift and a challenge. It was a challenge to give our life meaningful structure for six months.

It was a challenge to go live in a country that we love, without really speaking the language.

But the payoff was that we were inspired and rejuvenated every day by the schools we visited, the museums and ancient ruins we spent hours walking through, the theatrical productions we saw, the music we heard, and most importantly, the people we met.

As teachers, we all ask our students to challenge themselves, in the classroom, in the fields, in the dorm, and in their interactions with each other. If we are going to encourage them, we have to be bold ourselves.

HELENA: Bruce challenges Collegium by giving them an obscure choral piece. It’s what I do when I take a chance on a play that the kids haven’t seen a million times. It’s what we do even when we are not sure that our students can handle the music, or the play or the material that we have just handed them. As teachers and artists, we are forced to take risks all the time.

The sabbatical was small pota-

toes compared to the risks we take with our students, as we stand in front of them to teach and coach them every day.

The irony is that as parents, we challenge and encourage our own children in the same ways, but sometimes we wish we hadn’t. Our son Sam was diagnosed with Juvenile Type 1 Diabetes at the age of

11, and now, at the age of 23, he wants to sail around the world, both for the thrill of it, and to raise awareness for Type 1 Diabetes. We’ve taught our kids to value travel and what it does to engage and open their minds. But his trip has presented us with a quandary.

Having encouraged our son to go after what he wants and not let his diabetes get in the way of pursuing his goals, we are anxious that his goals are too ambitious.

Sometimes Bruce and I want to say, “We didn’t mean this! Can’t you choose something a little safer?”

We worry about him, but we also admire him. And since we thrive on venturing into the unknown, why wouldn’t we want the same for our children?

“Why do we do what we do,” has been a central question throughout our sabbatical and our careers as teachers and artists.

Our answer...“Why not!”

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A JOURNEY to

by Mani Capece ’16

COSTA RICA

Traveling seemed like such a mellow term for me before I left for Costa Rica. From my experience, a vacation usually meant a time of relaxation. My family and I would spend our days resting on the beach and floating in the gentle waves. I’m very thankful for every opportunity I’ve had to spend my breaks in tropical places, but my normal vacation failed to meet the full expectation of the word “travel.”

In history class, Taft students are required to read about the age of exploration, where people traveled into unknown territories, without brochures or online reservations before their arrival. In these old stories, people expanded their minds and enhanced their perspectives of the world. When l traveled, I felt like the only thing changing was the pigment of my skin.

I longed for a deeper experience that could really stick in my memory. Costa Rica was just the place to quench my thirst.

Our first morning was a brutal 6:00 AM wake up to go whitewater rafting. After a long bus ride, we arrived at a large hut to have a buffet-style breakfast.

I loaded my plate with gallo pinto (rice and beans) along with sweet plantains and some of the freshest mango I’ve ever tasted.

After we had our fulfilling traditional Costa Rican breakfast we boarded the bus again and reached a river at the end of the jungle’s winding dirt roads. We walked down to the riverbank while our stiff bodies maneuvered a rocky path in the downpouring rain.

Raft guides briskly handed us our paddles and helmets, and we made our way into the boats and onto the river.

The boats listed relentlessly as we hit each rapid, the intensity increasing as we got further down the river. I constantly felt like the raft was about to crash into the rocks on the riverbank. Interestingly enough, it always calmed down at the last possible second.

No one wanted to fall in the river, especially during a rapid. I was fortunate enough to stay on the raft, but my raft-mate, Michael Wasserstein had no such luck. While floating into one of the most intense rapids, he lost his balance and was eaten by the moving current. Michael had fallen off the back of

the raft and the current pulled him under the boat. I thought he was certainly going to die below the raft as there was not much space between the bottom of the boat and the rocks that guarded the river’s floor.

I saw Michael’s legs, chest, and shoulders go under the water as another raft-mate yanked on the straps of his life jacket, barely keeping his head afloat. The raft suddenly hit a rapid and turned the boat so that the current was not working directly against Michael.

Luckily, we were able to pull him out of the water and return him to his station without a scratch.

We paddled down the river for three hours that day. My back was sore and my face was crispy from sunburn. “A small price,” I thought, and kept smiling from ear to ear the rest of the day.

Photo by Digital Media Pro / Shutterstock.com

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The next morning we were able to sleep in a little bit because our excursion was much closer to the hotel. We ate pretty much the same breakfast as the day before and I was still in awe of the freshness of the fruit. We left at 7 AM to go ziplining through the jungle canopies. It was my first time ever. The tour guide gave us our equipment and lead us down the trail. Within moments, we were surrounded by the jungle. The guide pointed to a seemingly average green plant that was hanging off a tree,

“That’s chocolate,” he explained.

I took a good look at the plant, and felt a mixture of confusion and skepticism. I had little time to think as the guide swiftly shifted our attention toward the tree tops.

“White-faced monkeys,” he said, “three of them.”

We all watched with amazement as the animals leaped and swung their way around the canopy. If I was ever bored in the jungle, all I had to do was wait for three seconds, and by then something already grabbed my attention. It wasn’t long before we reached our first zip line. I felt goosebumps form on my skin as I saw the long line thread a narrow space between two trees. The guide showed us the basic form that would help to keep us straight and thus avoid hitting any trees. The guide then hooked us up one by one and pushed us down the line. He had a strange habit of asking us if we were ready, right after we left the platform.

“What if he had said he wasn’t ready?” I asked, seeing that he clearly let the people down the line before they could answer. The guide shrugged his shoulders and said, “pura vida.” This was a saying in Costa Rica that directly translated to “pure life”, but it is often used as sort of the Costa Rican YOLO.

It wasn’t too long before my time had come to go down the line. I held the rope tightly and for some ingenious reason, I closed my eyes. I felt the push off the platform and the breeze steadily increasing against my face. Terrified, I snuck a peek of the landing and noticed that I was about to pass in between two trees. I shut my eyes and braced for the impact. To my surprise the wind on my face decreased and I found myself standing on the opposite platform, safe and sound. I was exhilarated. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t compare myself to Tarzan when I flew through the canopies almost 100 feet off the ground.

We went on eight more lines, each one different and more terrifying than the last. Costa Rica changed me by forcing me to go out of my comfort zone. Every day I was eating exotic fruits, speaking a different language, and facing a new excursion. Never before had I been on a vacation where I really experienced the culture and landscape of a different country. After returning to the States, I felt like I had truly gained more wisdom and had developed a new taste for adventures. Before, I was used to returning from every vacation relaxed and tanned. But I came back from Costa Rica exhausted, with multiple cuts and bruises, and a whole lot of good stories to tell.

Understanding

Photos by Yiorgos GR/Shutterstock.com

The Greek Crisis

by Juste Simanaukiate ’17

Since the 1990s, Greece has experienced a bumpy road in terms of its finances. Up until then the country had consistently run significant budget deficits while using the drachma (the basic monetary unit of Greece until the introduction of the euro). As a result of this economic mismanagement, Greece joined the Eurozone in 2001, rather than in 1999, like many other European Union nations.

After this decision, Greece came into a period of growth, from 2001 to 2007. However, many economists’ prognoses predicted this economical increase as unsustainable, because during that time period Greece mostly profited from the cheap loans provided by the EU. The unstable situation resulted in a financial crash in 2008.

Not only Greece, but many other European countries were likewise affected by this unfortunate situation; however, since the European Central Bank (ECB) controlled Euro currency, Greece was unable to climb out from the pit as it had in the past by printing more currency.

Previously, this way of dealing with the issue would have risen the economy, but this time the plan was unsuccessful and soon Greece’s unemployment ascended to 28 percent.

In 2010 the Troika (ECB, the International Monetary Fund and the European Commission) began to provide

Greece loans in exchange for spending cuts and tax increases. Even though this moderately grew their economy, Greece could not recover from its enormous debt.

Shortly, the EU’s allotted bailout for Greece amounted to a total of nearly $260 billion. Over the years, Greece dug deeper and deeper into its various loans taken from European partners and the IMF, all while trying to repay other loans. All of this became an endless circle of indebted money revolving around Greece, of which the country could no longer self-reproduce.

Greek citizens felt the effects of this economic situation through shortages of food, medicine, and gasoline, which drastically deteriorated in the week ahead of the referendum, leaving everyone wondering exactly what the Greek Prime Minister’s strategy was. In fact, following the referendum, the maverick Greek Finance Minister, Yanis Varouvakis (who had called creditors ‘terrorists’), resigned and a more moderate sounding Minister, Euclid Tsakalotos, took over. At the referendum on July 5, 2015, Greece rejected an austerity package that European leaders insisted that the country implement in exchange for continued financial assistance. With 90 percent of the vote tallied, 61 percent of voters rejected the European program.

For the present day, European leaders have reached

21 agreement over a third Greek bailout after marathon Vassiliki Thanou, a top judge and the country’s first female talks in Brussels. Greece has won conditional agreement prime minister, was sworn in as the country prepared for to receive up to €86 billion over three years, although early elections on September 20, the third time Greeks this is not yet assured. would go to the polls this year.

The idea is to start debt relief this autumn. Despite Currently, a bleak debt forecast for Greece increases rumors earlier this summer about Greece leaving the pressure on Europe to grant the country softer loan terms, Eurozone, they have been proven untrue. Jean-Claude exacerbating tensions among its creditors as they try to seal Juncker, the president of the European commission said a new Greek rescue deal within days. The new forecast, preduring the debate in Brussels, “The past six months have pared by European Union officials in a document seen by The been difficult. We have looked into the abyss...But today Wall Street Journal, predicts distinctly higher Greek debt than the message of today’s Euro group is loud and clear: on Europe had previously hoped, and shows just how far Greece this basis, Greece is and will irreversibly remain a memis from escaping its marathon of a crisis. European Stabilber of the Euro area.” ity Mechanism Managing Director, Klaus Regling, said on However, the IMF has been refusing to participate August 27 that he expects the International Monetary Fund in a new bailout until there is an “explicit and concrete to participate in the third Greek bailout bringing as much as agreement” on debt relief from Greece’s Eurozone credi- €16 billion. Although the IMF’s involvement isn’t clear, and tors. the fund has said Greece’s debt level is unsustainable and In addition to the overall chaos in Greece, the requires “significant debt relief, well beyond what has been country underwent snap elections after the resignation of considered so far” by Eurozone governments. its prime minister, Alexis Tsipras, followed by a rebellion On the top of the Greek Economic crisis, the EU’s borby members of his left-wing Syriza party who objected to der control agency, Frontex, says 23,000 migrants arrived in the conditions of Greece’s third international bailout. On Greece last week alone - an increase of 50% on the previous August 21, just seven months after he was elected on a week. Growing numbers of refugees are stranded in a country promise to overturn austerity, Tsipras’ resignation came that is ill equipped to help them, let alone absorb them. on the heels of Greece’s third EU bailout. On August 28 As a result, Greece is now stuck in a crisis within a crisis, which makes it harder to predict when and how Greece will overcome and save itself from this perplexing and complicated situation.

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“Hate cannot drive out hate: ONLY LOVE CAN DO THAT.” -DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

by Marisa Mission ’17 At first glance, 21-year old Dylann Storm Roof, sporting a blonde bowl cut, does not look like a man inclined to pull a gun on a Bible class, much less shoot nine members of that class. At 9 o’clock on Wednesday, June 17, in Charleston, South Carolina, that was exactly what he did. Rising unexpectedly from his back row seat, Roof announced that he was “there to shoot black people,” and then proceeded to do just that. When Tywanza Sanders appealed to him, saying “You don’t have to do this,” Roof replied with a damning accusation: “No, you’ve raped our women, and you are taking over the country…I have to do what I have to do.”

Six women and three men were slain that night, the oldest being 87 and the youngest, Sanders, 26. Four of the victims were reverends, one of them being Senator Rev. Clementa Pinckney, the gentle, thoughtful pastor of the church. Eight died on site, and the last man passed away at a hospital. Some believe the attack targeted the Christian community, but Roof’s words and actions, augmented by his belief in white supremacy (established in his Facebook posts), point to a chronic issue that is present and growing: racism.

South Carolina, one of the first states to secede from the Union in 1860, has a long history of racism and racial hate crimes. The second English-American colony to import slaves, Charleston was colonized by white plantation owners who shipped African slaves overseas from Barbados. Obsessed with exploiting the fertile land for

Photo by Darryl Brooks / Shutterstock.com wealth, colonists used slavery as a means to promote white supremacy, which is likewise what prompted Dylann Roof to open fire.

Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, where the fatal Bible class was held, also has a long and violent history. Founded in 1787, the church was investigated in 1822 in connection with what could have been “the largest slave revolt in American history.” Denmark Vesey, co-founder of the church and a free African-American, was secretly convicted and put to death by slaveowners for his part in the conspiracy, and a mob burned the church down. Worship continued in secret until the church was rebuilt by Vesey’s sons after the Civil War ended. Since then, the church has become a treasured part of the Charleston community, hosting the oldest black congregation south of Baltimore. This history—combined with the fact that Roof was a Lutheran, and that Charleston was founded for and is known for its religious toleration—makes it clear that Roof’s attack is not one on Christians.

Racism is permanently etched in our nation’s history, and although it seems that our country has made significant progress, these assaults point to a frightening pattern of regression. Roof’s massacre is just one in a string of racial crimes, the trend of which has escalated in recent years. Even in the immediate aftermath of the shooting, three bomb threats resulted in the evacuation of several buildings, including churches where prayer vigils were being

23 held for the original victims. The brutal crimes and threats are reminiscent of times when verbal and physical assaults on individuals, combined with the bombing and burning of churches, were common tactics used to terrorize the African American community.

Far more inspiring, however, was the response to Roof’s massacre: forgiveness. Family members of the victims confronted Roof during a bond hearing, some declaring their horror and sadness, but in the end, stating their forgiveness.

The community wants to show, just like Martin Luther King Jr. before them, that “if Roof [is] about hate, then they [are] about love.”

Forgiveness of the man, however, does not mean absolution of the crime or its root causes. Black leaders and civil rights activists across the country were outraged, calling for the removal of the Confederate flag that flew above the South Carolina State House for over fifty years. Roof had been pictured proudly with the Confederate flag, as well as other white supremacist flags, and many felt that the flag not only dishonored those who had died, but also could be seen as a symbol inspiring others to follow Dylann Roof’s path.

The church shooting pushed the controversy to the forefront of lawmakers’ priorities, and after three weeks of long debates, a bill was passed on July 9 to remove the flag to

the Confederate Relic Room and Military Museum, near the Capitol. Some are relieved; Democratic South Carolina House Representative J. Todd Rutherford commented, “It means the world to us that we can move a symbol of division off of our front yard.” Others, however, are resentful, believing that not all views were taken into proper consideration during the hectic debate. The flag was taken down within twenty-four hours of the bill’s signing.

Nevertheless, this gesture won’t erase racism or stop hate crimes. While hundreds of years of oppression and prejudice seem impossible to fix, it is important to remember everything the United States has accomplished: from the Union’s victory in 1865, to the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960’s, to the protests in Ferguson just last year. Change is possible, but it is important not to forget the nine innocent men and women who were slaughtered in a house of worship at the beginning of summer, and the implications that this massacre has on our nation as a whole.

Photo by A. Katz / Shutterstock.com

24

Taft in RETROSPECT

by Ai Bui ’16 When I first heard “Roger that,” I asked who Roger was.

When I first came to Taft, needless to say, I was completely and utterly lost.

I’m from Vietnam, where McDonald’s is considered a luxury, and people never miss the chance to take pictures whenever they walk past the grand Starbucks located in the middle of the city like some kind of national monument. My old public school was a place where cheating was essential to survive the 13 academic subjects every day. In my previous society, sports were for the ones “unable to study,” and any kind of non-academic activity was frowned upon. Transitioning from such an environment to Taft—the land of varsity-everything-athletes, unlimited laxative-laced dark roast, and burger Thursdays—I felt naked.

I was stripped of all things familiar and all things I’ve learned to face. I couldn’t just drag myself through classes until 10 PM and call it a day. I couldn’t just stay up to work and regain my sleep in classes peopled with 50 fatigued teenagers. I couldn’t just pass without studying.

But for someone whose entire class preparation was making sure my desk-mate nailed the to-be-tested materials, it was incredibly difficult. I learned to struggle my way through a couple of Taft 40s (thanks to Mr. Mooney), while taking pride in these dignified failures. I was dumbfounded when nobody came into the classroom with thighs that were inked with font

0.5 scribbles before a history test. Ambivalent between the shame of my past and the excitement for my future, I slowly adjusted to the thing called “honor”—a strange concept that I never grasped, and would never have, in my old education system.

During my transition, I was also stripped of my language, my culture, my food. How do you hold a knife? Why do you bless other people when they sneeze? Why do you put dry, sugary bits in milk and eat it as your breakfast? I didn’t get it.

Everything was strange, and everybody was speaking a tongue I had only been teaching myself, and every meal was cheese on top of some type of grain-product.

But I soon realized the magic of the froyo machine, or of sushi-filled art gallery openings. I learned the tricks to “Asianize” anything with ample available resources. I pinned in my head whichever pronunciation mistake my roommate had fixed for me. I maintained my identity while gaining my stance as an international student: celebrating my differences while embracing the inclusiveness that Taft has to offer.

Lastly, I was stripped of my past to a nakedness that swallowed me whole. I was vulnerable: unprepared for anything coming my way. Didn’t know what to expect, what to do, what to say. My experiences through 14 years of living rendered useless, and I was as baffled as a baby trying to fit in a world full of adults, or even worse, a world full of reckless and spontaneous teenagers.

I was throwing myself into the tornado of new responsibilities and expectations, fully aware that I was completely unarmed. Taft builds for you an image that you are both scared of and striving to live up to. For me, the image has been pretty obvious, even to an oblivious goof like me: sunny, smiley, gentle—all in all “cute.” I dreaded that word. It made me feel uncomfortable, unqualified, and unfit. It made me feel again the baby nakedness that has really never disappeared—the sense that I am just as clueless and defenseless as I was when I first set foot at Taft.

However, in unconsciously trying to suit myself to this image, I’ve slowly accepted the word as a trademark. I came to like it. It encourages me to be cheery to others even on the roughest days, and to contain my anger when made upset. It pushes me to be a person others not only expect me to be, but a person I aspire to become: the person that takes on any challenges with a smile on her face.

(Wengel Kifle images, article next page)

An unforgettable trip to spain

25

by Wengel Kifle ’16

This past summer was the best summer of my life.

The reason was my trip to Spain with Taft. I first heard about the new program in Nerja, Spain two years ago when Mr. Koshi introduced it to my class. I felt ecstatic.

One of my biggest dreams was to travel to Spain.

Thrilled to hear the news, I told Mr. Koshi that I was interested. However, Taft would not start the program until the summer of the next year. This served to be a bit problematic. I was taking two languages at the time, Latin and Spanish, and could not take both the next year. Much to Mr. Koshi’s disapproval, I made the difficult decision to drop Spanish and continue with Latin.

Later that year the announcement about the Spanish trip finally arose. I was not taking Spanish that year and thus had been out of practice for a while, but I ignored my doubts and was still intent on experiencing Spain. I was the only one in the group who was not currently taking Spanish. But my friends, Mr. Bender, and Mr. Koshi encouraged me, even though I was not a Spanish student.

Summer after junior year is usually stressful and busy with the college processes, but I decided that all of that could wait. I took the first two weeks of summer to recover from the previous academic year, and prepare for Spain. The feeling was surreal as the final date approached. The Benders and Koshis, along with the 18 students, arrived at JFK to begin our trip.

We arrived in Malaga and drove down to Nerja, where the program was stationed. Upon arrival in Nerja, we met our host families and walked over to our new homes. Jalissa Rodriguez and I were roommates, and we were welcomed by a very sweet old lady. Her name was Lola, she took us to her home. We met her kids, her grandchildren, her dog, and her husband. They were incredibly welcoming, but they did not speak English.

We could only speak in the universal language of food.

To our delight, our host mom was a great cook.

We chatted with the family, laughed with the kids, fondled the sweet dog, and ate as much as our stomachs could take. Later that evening, we met with the rest of the Taft group on a beautiful sight in Nerja called El Balcon de Europa. The balcony looked breathtaking under the clear, vast evening sky. There were tall shining lights, along with palm trees to line the walkway, and the coast of Nerja’s small beaches right below you. There were also many small shops and restaurants that preceded the balcony, and we all tasted heavenly Spanish ice cream at one of them. The Balcon served to be one of our favorite spots during the trip, and one of our most

frequently visited because we used to pass through it every day on our way to the beach and classes.

We were split up into different classes, depending on the level of Spanish we had taken, and enrolled into the La Escuela De Idiomas. There were people from all parts of Europe, even the States. Our Spanish teachers were great, and they really contributed to our authentic Spanish experience. The school was in a beautiful location, and our “classrooms” consisted of an outdoor rooftop patio, and an outdoor area under a gorgeous canopy of flowers and vines.

After classes we would go home to our host families and enjoyed authentic homemade Spanish meals.

Paella, rice made with seafood, chicken, or vegetables, was a signature meal. After we were full and rested, we made our way down to the beaches. Since Nerja was located in the southern tip of Spain, we were right next to the water and we sure took advantage of that. We visited the beaches practically every day and had unforgettable adventures. We rented small boats that we steered by pedaling, and went around with them in the water, stopping by some huge rocks every now and then to dive off of them. The beach also offered jet skiing, which I certainly took full advantage of.

On top of jet skiing in Spain, another stand out memory of the trip for me were the field trips that we took to other cities. We went to Malaga, Granada, Frijiliana, and saw the beautiful cities, their stunning castles, wonderful restaurants, breathtaking cathedrals, and the museum of Picasso. We added the famous caves of Nerja to the list too. Those caves were indescribable.

My dream of seeing Spain was more fulfilling than I ever could have imagined.

Calling Nerja home for three weeks was one of the best experiences of my life, and I am so glad I took the opportunity to go. I long for the beautifully designed streets lined with the flower adorned white homes and different designs to admire on each one. I miss the gorgeous beaches and the buffet of delicious ice creams, the balcony and the people. I miss the wonderful teachers and the lovely family that took care of us for those three weeks. I am so grateful to Taft for fulfilling this life-long dream, and I am proud to be a part of the very first Spanish immersion program.

I’ve often said that one of my favorite things about boarding school is having the opportunity to have these life-changing experiences. The world is a big place and there is so much you have to see. It’s possible with Taft, so make sure you get out there.

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Creating change

A trip to india

I have always been fascinated by people that look for opportunities to push past their comfort zone. For the most part, I try to do the same. I am proud to say that seeking to leave my comfort zone has become an instrumental part of my selfconsciousness, as well as something that defines my life in the profoundest of ways. Perhaps this is why I was one of the first Tafties to apply for the Poole Grant last year. I was confident that working on an international community service project was the best way to spend my much needed summer break. I wanted to travel to a country where people don’t understand my language, where social norms are rather different from the ones I am used to, where things considered polite in the West are overlooked as offensive and vice versa, and where the climate makes me thankful for our inclement New England weather. In short, I aimed to use my Poole grant to not simply leave my comfort zone, but to venture out of it. As the word suggests, there had to be a venture involved; one that would make me drop my personal bias, question my views and principles, and alter the way I think about my country and the world.

Five months and a week later, there I was, aboard an Emirates flight bound for New Delhi!

To find yourself amid a highly dramatized materialization of your thoughts is utterly groundbreaking. What I observed were Walmart-style mega stores and street vendors trying to sell home-made souvenirs, five star hotels and slum neighborhoods, white-collar workers texting on smartphones and naked kids begging pedestrians for money, gracious women clad in colorful saris and shameless baboons roaming the streets. I was utterly transfixed. The drive to Jaipur opened my eyes, empowering me to ponder upon concepts of inequality and social reality. I have seen poverty in every country and part of the world, no matter how affluent and socially advanced. And yet, what I saw on my way to Jaipur still captivated me.

When I finally got to Jaipur, I was met by a lady in her 40s named Amita. A beneficiary of India’s economic rise, Amita struck me as a polite and highly educated woman who also happened to speak impeccable English. She was quick to introduce me to her husband Pranay, founder and acting secretary of Sankalp Volunteer. Sankalp got its name from a Hindu word with an English equivalent of “take a pledge.” As Pranay and Amita point out, this pledge has to be about creating an equal, peaceful world where people live happily and harmoniously side-by-side. Their non-governmental, not-for-profit organization has been in business for over nine years. Sankalp recruits volunteers from first world countries to help out with the implementation of its myriad community service projects. From a jungle of options, including an opportunity to volunteer at a

by Nick Morgoshia ‘17

local orphanage and teach tech classes in village school, I settled upon working with slum kids at a charity daycare.

My class was comprised of two,- three-, four -and five-year-olds that have had no prior exposure to English. As citizens of a country with over 1/3rd of world’s extreme poor population, all of my students came from illiterate households, lacked access to clean water and indoor plumbing, and survived on less than a dollar a day.

I started off by teaching my students the alphabet. At the end of my internship, nearly every kid in my class was able to recognize letters and identify sounds that they stand for. It is worth mentioning that a few bright, motivated students were even able to write some letters.

We also took a look at words and phrases that are useful in everyday communication. I taught my students how to introduce themselves and ask for a person’s name, age, and home country in English. Some students have mastered this better than others, but almost all of them are now able to initiate basic conversation and be understood by an English speaker. Since kids in my class were pretty young, all we did in math was learn to count from one to 10 and write numbers.

For the life-skills classes, another volunteer teacher and I got our kindergarteners toothbrushes, toothpaste and soaps. Each of our students was handed a toothbrush and soap, with us demonstrating how to properly clean their teeth and wash their hands. On my last day with the kids, I bought them chocolate bars and cookies. I handed chocolate to Carrie, a new volunteer who my students had yet to meet.

In order to get their treats, kids had to greet her, introduce themselves, ask where she was from and use that magic

27 word, please. After we opened chocolate bars for them, kids kept smelling and touching chocolate before making their first bite. It broke my heart to learn that none of my students have had chocolate in their lives. At the same time, seeing how well most of them handled the greeting and introduction part gave me hope that their lives may eventually get better.

My students possessed distinctive characters and personalities at their young age. Frankly, I have never seen people that are as nice, helpful and kind both to their mentor and each other. At the end of each day, older kids would take time to help their younger schoolmates put books into their bags, tie their shoes and follow them home to make sure they got there safely. During recess, kids would go outside to get us, their teachers, flowers. Tears filled my eyes when a boy in my class bought himself a bag of crackers for ten rupees (less than one tenth of an American dollar), and insisted that I share it with him. My students have definitely had the most profound effect on me during my internship. Through their example, I was privileged to see that bad conditions do not make people bad.

I could only wonder how the kids manage to remain so nice, kind and welcoming in the face of the harshest of conditions. Some will argue that they are just children, and their cheerfulness, kindness and innocence will be diluted as they get older. To them I say: I have

worked with many different kinds of people in many different countries and circumstances. I am confident in saying that none of them have inspired me as much as my Indian students. Moreover, many adults I encountered in India, including my students’ only full-time teacher, Usha, were as personally fascinating as their young compatriots.

Three weeks of volunteering was anything but sufficient to pull my students out of poverty and self-perpetuating misery. The knowledge I have given the kids is not nearly enough for them to make it to college, find a job and raise their kids in a better environment than they grew up in themselves. However, by imparting to my students what I deemed worth knowing at their age, and doing so with great passion and motivation, I was able to prepare them for the next school year. I am confident that thanks to being able to recognize

letters, count from one to 10 and communicate basic ideas in English, my kindergarteners will have a head start once they are in the first grade. Being prepared for the first grade improves their chances of doing better in the second grade, doing better in the second grade in its turn, increases their probability of making it through elementary school and getting accepted to a secondary education institution. Ultimately, being prepared for the first grade also increases their chances of attaining the kind of future I wish for them as a teacher. Maybe I am being overly

optimistic, but I hope that some kids in my class will do great things with their lives. They will go to college, have careers, and become respectable men and women in their communities.

On my 16-hour plane ride to New York, one thought kept occurring to me over and over. I was fascinated how the experience of being outside my comfort zone was able to change me this much in such a short period of time. Perhaps venturing out of our comfort zone is something that all of us ought to do.

Every Taft student has to venture out of his comfort zone in order to gauge his individual strengths and weaknesses. Every Taft teacher should be willing to venture out of her comfort zone to grapple with new types of challenges, experience new things and enrich her teaching style. Only through venturing out of their respective comfort zones will America and India be able to come up with solutions to their unique national challenges.

Only through venturing out of our comfort zone and questioning the status quo will we be able to make the world a better place. to st

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