Me turn tricks

I cringe at other bloggers when they point out how long it's been since they updated (if anyone was even keeping track). But the blog-o-sphere Interpol are going to send out a warrant for egregious digital negligence on my part for abandoning this site. I'm way overdue for a post. And, to add to that, I feel a little like the U.S. mom who tried to "return" her Russian adopted son -- because I'm thinking about leaving Blogger for the blog hosting site Weebly. It looks more legit, not to add any compliment to the content I put up on this site, and my journalism portfolio website on Weebly was created in a jiffy using their layouts: www.jenniferherseim.weebly.com

But, I'm not willing to transfer to it just yet.

A lot has happened since I last wrote. I graduated

college - a feat that recalled for me the momentous occasion of graduating from high school where I realized how much more opportunity and advantage, which you need in this country, I've been given to get through

school in the first place, and then, the prompt doomfilled insecurities about the future that follow. People talk about how college represents the final severing from child to parent. It's not true.

I joined a roller derby team. Something I've been

wanting to do for a long time - maybe

since I picked up a pair of vintage $3 skates at a thrift store a few years back and they felt like they had been formed from a cast-mold of my feet: the left slightly larger, the right cushioned where the ball of

my foot usually gets worn out. Skating seemed like a good fit too. Not till I started blocking, hitting, cutting and sliding in and out between a pack of tough players did I find myself hooked. It swiftly rose through my list of things I'll miss when I leave the states, out pacing Mexican food, just behind family and friends. Coincidentally, my roller derby teammates belong in those categories, also. My derby name is Peace Corpse - more on that below.

AND, I've joined the Peace Corps. A decision not made lightly. Though I've been nominated for a community development position working in girls education and women's empowerment groups in a french-speaking African country, I haven't been given an invitation yet, so things could still change. Trying not to get too excited since this was my ideal placement.

World AIDS Day 2009

It's World AIDS Day. Not so long ago celebrities shied away from AIDS awareness and society ignored the problem that was devastating many developing countries. The 1980s saw the change in perception of the disease shift from existing in gay communities to it wiping out a country's populous, infecting famous athletes, singers and women.

Then came Bono and a rampage of celebrity activists willing to raise attention to AIDS. Things changed. In an unexpected reversal, recently I read that AIDs related diseases were overshadowing some of the more curable and treatable illnesses such as diarrhea that kill millions of children every year in Africa. The AIDS problem seems to be at a low ebb from its original toll.

However, before this year's change in leadership in South Africa, the nation with the worst AIDS related death record, South Africa continued to uphold political obstacles to drug treatments for HIV/AIDS infected individuals. Worse, their president outright denied scientific fact like the link between HIV and AIDs. Instead, he suggested sick people take herbs and garlic to cure them.

A couple years ago, at a rally for then presidential candidate Barack Obama, I met a middle aged woman excited about the future and change. She was the matriarch of an interracial family and she had lived with AIDS for the past 20 years. Within her story I realized that AIDS could change, not only can we live in a world where it isn't a death sentence, but we already do live in a world where medicine can prolong lives beyond what we thought capable 20 years ago. What will it take to make it happen worldwide?

"Now that you know, you can't pretend that you don't"

I grew up listening to Lisa Ling talk about the important issues in foreign countries that made me think hard about different ways of life. One of her first assignments overseas was in the heart of Afghanistan during the civil war in 1994. At the time she admits she didn't even know where Afghanistan was on the map. Her selfless and sometimes headless attitude toward getting the story has helped create a priceless dialogue for many of the voiceless around the world. She reminds me that it's OK to ignore the shallow broadcast media channels and shun local, easy stories. From her own life I feel like it's Ok, even important, to search out the hard-hitting journalism that may take a lot of work, or sometimes may require a step outside my comfort zone in order to affect lives.

I had the incredible opportunity and pleasure to hear her speak tonight in Columbia, Missouri. Within her speech, which covered the most influential stories in her life (the lost girls of China, the civil war in Afghanistan, following drug trafficking in Colombia...), she also read a personal poem about a story she covered on child brides while in Ethiopia. In accordance with the subject matter it's appropriately sensitive and graphic. At the end of her speech, she faced an auditorium full of students who were already beginning to think about their busy class schedules and talk about their plans for the weekend and she said to them, "Now that you know, you can't pretend that you don't." It's a statement that has resonated with me for awhile now.

Betrothed by her parents
to a much older man
A child of seven
In a far way land

Her dream was to study
to have a better life
But it was already decided
she would be a wife

Twenty fours years her senior
A man she didn't know
He would soon be her husband
and deep down her foe

In some parts of her country
little girls are kidnapped
and raped
Forced to marry
their abductor
They're no longer chaste

The night of their wedding
She wants to run away and hide
Her heart beats wildly
As she lies by his side

He lays on top of her
Her tiny body he mauls
He cannot get inside of her
Her hole is too small

She finds herself pregnant
He wants a son
She's all of fourteen
Her period had come

She carries the baby through
the nine month count
Her body is too tiny
The baby won't come out

It dies in her womb
A hole is torn underneath
She starts to leak urine
A horror she's been bequeathed

Her husband walked out
He couldn't stand her smell
And there's one more
sad thing
I have left to tell

She finally reached a hospital
After two days on a bus
Doctors were on hand
an operation to discuss

They could fix her problem
This brought her great joy
They had to take
the baby out though,
they found out
it was a boy

A day in the life of a
countryside girl
A gift from heaven
Now a bride at seven

By Lisa Ling

Newsy.com: Africa, Aiding or abetting

Breastfeeding is not dirty.

At the end of Breastfeeding Awareness Week it is sad to know that less than 40 percent of infants worldwide are adequately breastfed. Since breast milk is essential in developing a baby's immune system and giving them the antibodies they need, which are not found in formula, more than 1 million infant mortalities every year could be avoided with breastfeeding.

What's even worse, or disgusting to me, is that people would discourage breastfeeding to suit their own personal comfort. A nursing mother is not worried about your own comfort, she is worried about that of her baby's. As an aunt to a 4 month old, I'm well aware and comfortable with the process of breastfeeding. That means I'm also aware of the social stigma some would attach to publicly breastfeeding and the worldwide misconceptions that WHO is trying to denounce through campaigns.

A mother's milk is full of antibodies that are absent in infant formula. The first few years of life are the most important developmentally, yet, the United States is still a far cry from protecting those influential years. If we want our nation to excel, how can we expect the next generation to succeed when we don't offer paid maternity leave, reassurance that new mothers won't lose their jobs, provide free ambulance rides for mothers in labor, or even just lift public support for nursing mothers? It is a fact that breastfed babies grow into healthy adults.

Support mothers who breastfeed. Reject the type of ignorance and stigma that our society attaches to this life-saving act. You can start here, by joining a petition against Facebook's ban on pictures of women breastfeeding. This is exactly the type of outrageous ignorance that WHO is trying to combat in developing nations, and yet, Facebook shows how ugly and self-concerned Americans can be. Change your own perspective, then that of others and save lives. It's that simple.

From the old to the young

She's staring at me with big, pebble-shaped brown eyes framed by baby lashes. They bounce up, down, up, down, as if she's riding a camel in the desert. Instead she's tucked into the full wrap of the woman in front of me, whose smooth face and strong arms make her appear to be in her early 20's.

Her mother hasn't seen me, so it's only her baby girl who stares at me with a confused expression. Her stern look and pouted face reminds me of my baby niece's furrowed expression when we make silly faces at her and she doesn't get the joke. I guess walking behind her my face is silly without me even trying. I smile at her and she reaches out her hand to try and grab me.

"Hi!" I say.

Her mother turns around.

She points a finger at me over her shoulder so the baby can see, turns to the innocent face and says to her daughter, "Obruni." White person. I give another smile.

Moments in blogging territory

Looking through my pocket travel journal from this summer I'm nostalgic but also frustrated that all the little stories I hoped would fill my blog didn't always come to fruition in print. I find myself wondering where that short story is about the man I met at Reggae night who declared that the U.S. was the best place for a black man. I'm searching in my journal for the passage about my first walk to work through the streets filled with hollowed out vans and shells of homes and the palpable feeling of all eyes on me as I made my way through them.

A part of me mostly worries that if I don't form the words on a page I will let those tiny moments slip passed my memory. So, I'm digging into my journal and bringing forth those moments as best I can.

I'm also changing the layout of my blog once again, for the nth time, due to the incessant headache I get when it loads on my page and I see white letters floating brightly in a deep black backdrop. Doesn't everyone feel like they're falling down the black hole underneath Eugene's passenger seat in Wristcutters? Well I do. And I'm slightly embarrassed that it also resembles a 14-year-old's Myspace page. Since it is my blog and I'm probably the only reader besides my grandmother - I'm doing it for us.

Akwaaba OBAMA-Mania in Ghana

Obama comes to Ghana today. Yet, the Obama-craze that flowed through Accra buoyed by Obama faced cloth, souvenirs and even one attention-grabbing "Hotel Obama" hit Ghana weeks ahead of his 24 hour visit.

The decision to make Ghana his first stop in sub-Saharan Africa since becoming President of America is an obvious nod to Ghana's stable government and a slight to its West African neighbor, the economic powerhouse, Nigeria. With massive oil deposits and a large population, why wouldn't Obama make a house call to Nigeria before Ghana? Well, almost everything besides its oil. For instance: corruption, ethnic violence and a lack of good governance. Not to say Ghana doesn't have its smaller but similar problems and a promising oil reserve to boot, but with a successful turn of power from political parties and reputable elections it encompasses the message of hope.

This small West African country went crazy for Obama. Weeks ago I witnessed a 300-person parade in honor of Obama and it was weeks before he even set foot in Africa. His face graced their T-shirts, hats, skirts and banners, often with Ghanaian President Atta-Mills's face reflecting an almost identical profile beside him. The Ghanaian propaganda wasn't very subtle. Messages such as "Obama: WELCOME HOME" made me grimace as a journalist who hears "birthers" in the U.S. claim he isn't American. No matter how many times you tell a Ghanaian that Obama's father was African, but he's African-American, they still feel an insane pride and connection with this man who resembles them. His connection should make him not only a popular icon of hope for Africa but a figure African presidents will listen to. His message needs to address the corruption and lack of accountability prevalent in Africa, starting with its shining star Ghana. Ghana's lesser violence and stronger elections keep it afloat, but a closer look into the police, journalists and government officials shows its flaws and corruption.