Available March 17, 2009 from Dancing Lemur Press L.L.C., Wolfe’s book outlines the steps required to overcome obstacles and become an effective and dynamic leader. Joined by authors David Ambrose, p.m. terrell, Darlene Wofford, Jocelyn Andersen, Bob Johnson, C. Denise Sutton, and Bill Wilson, her book energizes one’s passion for life. The five Keys guide the reader through developing a positive attitude, learning people skills, raising self-esteem, overcoming fears, and setting goals.

Tying her goal-setting and leadership seminars together into one package, Wolfe hopes to benefit business owners desiring to increase productivity as well as those seeking to improve their leadership skills. Known as “Spunk On A Stick”, her association with a motivation training system gave her the in-depth knowledge of relationships, personality traits and success principles. The author’s enthusiasm, along with the book’s easy to digest content, guarantees many repeat readings. “The book is commended for those who need a devotional style approach to leadership…” states Armchair Interviews.

Wolfe’s upcoming appearances include “An Ounce of Prevention Health Seminar” in D.C., featuring keynote speaker Michelle Obama and NCAEOP’s Annual Conference in Greensboro, NC. The author will also continue to offer her seminars through colleges, organizations, schools and clubs. “Overcoming Obstacles with SPUNK! The Keys to Leadership & Goal-Setting,” ISBN 978-0-9816210-2-9, $13.95, is available retail and wholesale from Ingram, Quality Books Inc. or publisher direct. To place an order or request a review copy, visit the publisher’s site, www.dancinglemurpress.com. Contact Wolfe directly for an interview or engagement or visit her site, www.spunkonastick.net.

# # #

How, precisely did they do this?  Dr. Charles Limb decided it would be good to compare the brain of a jazz musician when he (or she) was alternately playing by memory and going off on an improvised riff.  The only problem was, how, exactly, to accomplish it.  The usual procedure is to put a person inside a MRI machine and measure changes in oxygen that signify various different parts of the brain being utilized.

However, it is just the wee-est bit difficult to fit a jazz musician and his instrument inside a MRI machine.

So what they did was have a special metal-less keyboard designed and then had jazz pianists play both memorized tunes and riffs while inside the MRI.

The results?  Creativity in the form of jazz improv utilized the same parts of the brain as dreaming.  First of all inhibition switched off and then self expression switched on.  The musicians also showed heightened sensory awareness, with areas associated with touch, hearing and sight lighting up.

How cool is that?  That there are actually places in the brain where our creativity comes from just fascinates me.

Dr. Limb cautions that the brain of an artist or writer might well function differently from a musician and he hopes to test artists and writers next.  Um, Dr. Limb?  I’ll volunteer.  Anything to make the process of sitting down to write a little easier.

Apparently what this research will be most useful for is research into brain damage and diseases such as Parkinson’s (which a very close friend of mine just got diagnosed with).

But the lesson seems clear enough to me: all we have to do to be creative is let go of our inhibitions and let self expression fly.  I’ve been in that flow before.  Its the best thing ever, so much so that most of my life is spent in an effort to return to that state.

Suddenly alert; my wife observed (stoically silhouetted through an old curtained window) a past polemic antagonist waiting for a response.

Muttering tersely I asked: “is that who I think it is?”

This was a uniquely eccentric person who had redefined personal rejection by adapting dissonant surgical hardness towards anyone who threatened his transcendent character. Because of untold effronteries, there was, between them, an unapproachable gulf that had for years discouraged trust, or the type of open communication that could (very often) clear the hearts fragile soil of rocks and weeds.

The dogged knocking continued.

It appeared now that I would not be able to accomplish what I had set my mind on doing, nor would my beloved wife. It was unfair, and for a moment I felt incensed with the unwanted intrusion. Never once had we considered encroaching upon another’s privacy, and never had we appreciated those that appeared on our doorstep unannounced. An undesirable thing had become manifest and, with no way to circumvent it, I had to either move with the situation or reject it.

Grumbling irritably I prayed: “Please help me with this; I need wisdom and some kind of direction that is best for all.”

I was accosted at once by an intense shaft of LIGHT.

Being similar to an invisible sword; it pierced the bulwarks of my heart and began removing every quondam obstacle that I had allowed to take root there over the years. Rendered somewhat breathless, and now feeling gallingly timid, I began dealing with a host of carking voices palavering within me with erstwhile preconception. And while this war raged back and forth in my spirit, I sensed a stronghold of negative feelings, past heartache, disdain, grief, and repudiation cleaving from my stubborn heart.

“So, I guess we should do this then huh?” my wife sighed as she fluffed her hair. With a modicum of reluctance I agreed.

Words began as a taut trickle between brothers. Eager to unburden themselves from misunderstanding, festering emotion, cankered wounds, smoldering intolerance, and years of disdain; the openness between them began submitting to a higher purpose.

As it unfolded, two inordinately complex personalities became known; both of them with a childlike desire to be loved, understood, and accepted. Together they shared tales of rejection, confusion, acquisition, and unrealized dreams. Soon the conversation had become a flow of words releasing pure water streams over and around the moss laden rocks of years of indifference.

That morning faith sprang to the occasion as reams of sophistry, chunks of unresolved feelings, misunderstanding, broken dreams, anger, jealousy, and envy were extirpated to prepare the soil for new seeds and seasons between contrary souls now willing to repent and begin anew.

richard lloyd cederberg

Life is all about overcoming.

Living to the fullest requires determination. We must possess purpose and drive. We need set goals and a positive attitude. Fear must be conquered. Leadership traits and people skills are vital. To live a life filled with enrichment and satisfaction, we need some spunk!

What is the secret? We have seen others experience great personal triumphs and satisfaction. How does one achieve this level of fulfillment? Surely there is a pill or potion we can consume that will transform our lives into something more! Unfortunately, life does not work in this manner. True success requires effort, and only we can make it happen.

All of God’s creatures were designed to live for a purpose. Achievement is part of our very makeup. Sadly, many of us get so caught up in the struggle just to survive that the result is an existence rather than a life. We lose sight of our purpose. This is not how we were intended to live, though. We need to rekindle the purpose within and ignite our spirits once again.

Will change be required? Of course! We cannot continue on our current same path. If we expect life to improve, we cannot remain mired in the same patterns. Those habits created our current situation and must be abandoned if we desire different results. It’s irrational to keep using a blue pen and hope it will one day transform into a red pen!

Change will be required in areas outside of the physical as well. It’s not just those daily patterns, but also the habits of our mind that prevent us from achieving more in life. Our attitude is a powerful influence on our world, and the deciding factor in our ultimate success. The ability to deal with other people is an important skill. Fear also begins in the mind. All of these mental traits and behaviors contribute to our overall success and fulfillment as human beings.

Too often, we allow circumstances to dictate our lives. We feel we lack in education or do not possess the right skills to succeed. We point to our upbringing and what we did not possess or experience as a child. Sometimes we even blame others for the conditions under which we now reside. Regardless of the circumstances, though, there is no good excuse for failure. We are the ones in control of our destiny.

Victory is not about waiting for circumstances- it’s creating our own. Wallowing in mud will only make us dirty, and wallowing in problems only makes us helpless. We must assume responsibility and create our own opportunities. Our placement in life can only be attributed to one living person, and the sooner we realize this truth, the sooner we can take control of the situation. Solutions exist for those who seek answers.

Taking control does not guarantee a reduction in problems. Challenges and obstacles occur for all people, no matter what path is taken. However, the ability to handle difficult situations improves with a good attitude and a purpose in life. Like a knight riding into battle, we are armed for success. We notice opportunities and solutions more readily and are not so easily frightened by obstacles.

To break out of mediocrity and live a full, worthwhile life, we need to acquire the five keys of overcoming. These keys work in conjunction with one another to unlock the secrets of personal success. We must master all five elements if the formula is to work properly. There is no one key to true success!

It is said that success is a journey not a destination. We will not master these keys before we begin our quest but rather learn as we pursue our goals and dreams. It is this growth that truly enriches our lives. And since the ultimate destination is the end of our earthly life, we possess ample time to master each key!

Thus begins our journey…

Copyright 2008, Dancing Lemur Press, L.L.C.

Available March 17, 2009

$13.95 USA, Trade paperback, 176 pages

Non-fiction/Self-help

ISBN 978-0-9816210-2-9 / 0-9816210-2-3

When my grandmother started to show, her parents sent her to the city. They dropped her off at the Florence Crittenton Home for Unwed Mothers. I imagine her emerging from the black car alone, tattered suitcase in hand, looking nervously up the set of granite steps. Inside, somnolent girls in the late, leaden months of pregnancy, inward, deliberate, walk slowly through the gray halls.

It is the home of permanent in between; the suppressed energy of smothered potential thickens the air. The girls, all going by pseudonyms, make very little small talk. In the nursery, rows of bundled babies silent as dolls wait, neatly packaged in individual bassinets. Once retrieved, the babies seek out their mothers’ faces, liquid newborn eyes encountering guarded glances. Both mother and child have learned not to waste energy on tears or outward displays of emotion. The bonding and the break are inevitable.

This is how I picture my mother’s birth: hazy trauma of labor, discovery delivered as flat fact — “it’s a girl.” They undo the straps, let the drugs wear off. Hours later, my biological grandmother holds her swaddled daughter, names her Lois. Lois is tiny — less than five pounds — too little to be released to her adoptive family. Over the next six weeks the pair are entangled in the monotony of new life, the seemingly endless cycle of feeding, diapering, and sleep. They calm to one another’s warm, familiar scent. Their gazes become intimate. Bone-deep.

When the six weeks are up, Aunt Ruth, a go-between, my adoptive grandmother’s sister, comes to take the baby. Waiting in the home’s entrance, the young mother frantically bounces her silent infant, dreading the break. Finally, Aunt Ruth appears, says her hello, and waits.

“It’s time.”

The mother hands over the baby. It is as clean as a guillotine strike.

Before she has time to reconsider, she races inside to the central staircase and runs up two flights of stairs to her room. Her breathing is contained, shallow, a precaution against tears. She’s been trying to memorize every inch of her daughter, the moon face framed by white-blonde hair, her blues eyes, dainty toes and impossibly tiny hands, but already the image is fading. She reaches her room and slips inside, leans against the closed door taking short, sharp breaths. A glass baby bottle sits on the bedside table, a remnant from the final feeding. The girl eyes it, finally reaching out. Then, the satisfying sound of glass irrevocably broken, the implied threat of jagged shards.

Taking several deep breaths, the young woman calms. She begins to push the glass into a pile with her shoe and decides to find a broom and dustpan.

There will be no tears.

Everyone believed
She would go first,

With dad,
The last dirty-old-man,
Playing the field
Since he loved women.

Mother wore out the pages in her
Medical encyclopedia
To speed things up
On the highway
Of exotic diseases.

Before turning forty,
She had a hysterectomy
When cancer cells multiplied.

That didn’t help
Her state of mind.

Soon after that first surgery,
She left the Catholic Church
Becoming a Jehovah Witness
Getting ready to join God
Since death was eminent,
A heartbeat away.

After forty, a malignant tumor
The size of a grapefruit
Recruited an army in one her kidneys;
Like the Battle of the Bulge
During WWII,
That nasty Nazi,
A Hitler in disguise,
Was surrounded
And cut off from the rest of her body.
A rare encapsulated,
Parasitical alien life form without a visa
That the City of Hope’s doctors
Exorcised.

After Lola’s fiftieth, she asked
Her three children
What we wanted
From the house
Since death was close and
Father would outlive her to marry again.
I said, “I don’t want to talk about death.
Let’s take one day at a time
And enjoy what remains.”

My older sister and brother
Made out lists
Carting valuables home
Like picking flesh from
The carcass
While two hearts
Were still beating.

My dad died at seventy-nine
With a sour expression on his face
As he gasped his last.
The doctor told him,
“You quit smoking ten years too late.”
He was younger than her.

My brother took
Dad’s tools and the beloved Cadillac
Leaving it wrecked
Beside a road.

She cried a river of tears
After fifty-four years of marriage.
She missed dad.
I missed him too.
He was the quiet one
That listened.

Loneliness settled
Around mother like
A hot summer day
When it hurts to breathe
The scorched air
As one friend
After another
Left this earth
While she lived in that house
Alone in the desert
With her Bible
And five acres
Surrounded by a chain link fence
And sage brush
Two hundred miles from
My condo and job.

She told me once,
“In the mornings
Before I get out of bed
In this silent,
Empty house,
I forget how old I am.
I think I’m fourteen again,
But the mirror
Does not lie
And God
Is always nearby.”

At eighty-nine, cancer
Arrived one last time.
There was surgery
Removing the bleeding
Tumor in her intestines.
Mother lingered for
Two painful weeks
Screaming in agony,
Praying for an end to her story.

The call came during my
Fifth period English class
With students reading
The dramatic, tragic death scene
From Romeo and Juliet.

That day spelled an end
To more than one love story.
Sometimes death is a blessing.

I never told my students.
Let them find out
For themselves.
It’s better that way.

But it would be impossible for you to find even the merest mention of my name anywhere near the book.  Why? Because I ghostwrote it.

Allow me to define ghostwriting for those of you who may still be confused about it (in my travels I find many who are).  A ghostwriter (moi) writes a book for someone else and that other person’s name appears on the book.  If I’m very lucky, the “author” might thank me in the acknowledgments.  On some occasions, ghostwriters get a “with” byline.  As in “Stupid Worthless Memoir by Famous Vacuous Star with Ghostwriter.”

But most of us ghostwriters get nada but a paycheck.  Which is why we do it, of course, because ghostwriting can be among the most lucrative of writing assignments.  You are writing a whole book, after all, not just an article or series of articles for a website.  You are expected to know how to take bunches of information, perhaps some interviews, and vague thoughts and organize them into a readable, informative book.

A great number of business and self-help books are ghostwritten.  Ditto with celebrity biographies and so-called novels.  (You really think Nicole Richie has ever read a novel, let alone written one?)  Rumor has it that some popular mystery series are actually ghostwritten and many readers believe that some of the most prolific romance writers employ ghostwriters to help them churn out the novels.

I can’t verify those rumors, though I suspect they may be true.   I also suspect that many novelists have learned their craft churning out books under the name of a best-selling author.  But I think I prefer to stick to non-fiction.

To my way of thinking, non-fiction ghostwriting projects suit me just fine.  I enjoy learning about different subjects and getting into the mind of the person who I’m writing as.

Last week was the first time I’d ever actually experienced a booksigning where the “author” of the book was signing what I wrote.

I had a blast, met a lot of nice people and reconnected with the folks who hired me.  The thing is, I don’t feel the emotional connection to the book that I would with, say, my novel.  And while I’m proud of the finished product, I’m not so invested in it that I can’t let it go.

We’ll be starting the next book in the series soon and I’m looking forward to attending future book signings.  I wish I could give the book some publicity and send you to the website, but alas, then it wouldn’t be ghostwritten anymore, would it?  (And let me tell you, the whole ghostwriting thing wreaks havoc on the old resume, since I can’t really blatantly list all the books I’ve written.)

Fun as this book signing was, I look forward to the day when I’ll be signing my own novel at a book signing!

My story is no different than the stories told by other immigrant daughters who find themselves straddling between two worlds, the world they know and remember and the world they imagine only through stories. I do not remember Varadero Beach, the sand or the pine trees that lined the coast. I do, however, remember my first day of school, my brother’s first appearance in my life after coming home from the hospital and our two story home in New Orleans, the only first home I remember and the one my parents purchased with great sacrifice just a couple of years after arriving in the United States. The three cement steps leading up to the covered porch, the grand staircase, the small backyard…all of these images remain fresh on my mind. But of my birthplace there are no memories only fragmented stories with an array of indistinguishable characters, questionable plots, and obscure settings that I find difficult to grasp or comprehend.

There is one story, one of the very few stories told by my father on more than one occasion, that plays in my mind like a silent black and white movie. He rarely spoke of his country, what he had, what and who he lost or how he had suffered. Any information I gathered about my parents’ ordeals came from distant relatives I met later on in life. However, this one story was very important to my father, and so he found it necessary to occasionally remind me of our farewell visit to the beach before leaving the island where he took my shoes off while my mother complained and worried about the fate of my recently starched and ironed dress. He, of course, paid no attention to her and insisted on dipping my small feet in the water as the waves gently crossed our path. At this point in his story, he always seemed proud, elated in fact as if reliving the entire moment. Yet, soon a cynical grin would replace his smile and as he lowered his head, he pretended to give his next chapter little importance. Before walking away, he would end with “I knew we would never return.” He was right.

Making a pilgrimage to this foreign place almost seems impossible for me. I admit the idea of traveling there rarely crosses my mind, yet I know the day shall come when I must return to that beach if not for myself then for my father, for I know that although he never spoke the words or perhaps allowed himself to dream in color, deep in his soul hidden perhaps even from his own consciousness, he yearned for home.

It is a simple query that puts me in a quandary. Should I state my origins, nationality or citizenship?

“From my mother’s womb,” I want to tell him in short, but resist the urge.

Nobody asked me that kind of question in Cairo where I grew up. We were a known minority. The usual question was, “Are you Greek?” “Italian?” “Armenian?” or “What nationality are you?” if my name had not given it away already.

Now in Leopoldville, on an expatriate assignment with the United Nations, I stand out with my foreign accent, wavy hair, and possibly body language, gestures and all.

“From Egypt,” I mutter, to keep the conversation short. I wonder why he doesn’t ask the same question of the other students in class – half a dozen from the United Nations, five from the Swiss Red Cross and two businessmen.

“Egypt! C’est vrai?” he exclaims in French. “I thought they were all black!”

I feel uncomfortable in my skin but remain silent.

“Is your husband Egyptian too?”

“I don’t have a husband,” I blurt out, embarrassed to my core. At the ripe old age of thirty I am shelved as an old maid, all hopes gone.

“I want to show you to my friend. He has never seen an Egyptian.”

My cheeks burn. Am I the first Egyptian in town, the discovery of the century, or an antique from Pharaoh’s tombs? Should I be put on display with a distinct label slapped at my feet, “Imported African. Rare species. Handle with care”? How can I explain to my Congolese teacher that I am not a real specimen?

More than three thousand years of history define me as an Armenian, a descendant from the people living at the foot of Mount Ararat where Noah’s Ark settled. The mountain was in Armenian territory for centuries. Politics moved it beyond the national boundaries and we became immigrants. How shall I explain that the DNA in my Armenian blood will survive forever, irrespective of the citizenship I have?

“I’m . . . not a real Egyptian,” I mumble, trying to avert a misconception.

Fourteen pairs of eyes stare at me as if I have just come out of ghost town.

I look at them and shrink at the task ahead of me. How will Idefine in two sentences our family history? My parents are survivors ofthe waves of “ethnic cleansing” that swept the Ottoman Empire fromthe 1890s through the 1920s. Under the pressure of reform, demanded by the foreign powers to improve the lot of minorities, the OttomanGovernment “solved” the problem by reducing them in massive, harrowing, so- called “displacements” into the Arabian deserts of the Middle East. Thus, the “starving Armenians” came into existence – skeletal, homeless, wandering survivors seeking refuge wherever acountry offered asylum. Thanks to this “solution,” half the nation now lives in countries around the world, constituting the Armenian Diaspora.

“Who remembers the Armenians?” exclaimed Adolph Hitler to his officers on the eve of his invasion to Poland. We, and the membersof my parents’ generation do, suffering in silence. The effects of genocide were present in my mother’s glassy eyes and in my father’s angry temper. It affected us all and will probably have its effect on a few more generations. We are the extra- uterine children of Motherland with different citizenships. Once transplanted, always a foreigner. Migration is not our family business, nor is it a national pastime, but circumstances forced us abroad to create a safe haven elsewhere. Icannot explain all this in two sentences. Nobody will understand my dilemma.

“Not a real Egyptian? What do you mean? Where do yourparents come from?” asks a man who eyes me curiously, taking over the queries from the teacher. The determination of my nationality takesprecedence over Lingala. “They come from Turkey.”

“Are you Turkish?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what do you consider yourself?”

Good question. I have been a floater all my life, a thin cloud flirting with the sun, daring it rather to disperse me. How can I explain my ethnic longevity? “Armenian,” I say, with a smirk. I know it will not register.

“Armenian? With an Egyptian passport?”

“It’s complicated. I’ll explain after class.”

The teacher takes over. We start the first lesson in Lingala. I sit there like a freak of nature. How did I end up here?

I am going through a period of adjustment in Leopoldville and an intense degree of cultural shock, coming from a conservative country. I am lost in this Babylon of United Nations. Last week I invited two compatriots from Egypt to lunch as a payback for their courtesy on my arrival. In this remote city of Leopoldville, one suddenly becomes friends with strangers holding similar passports. They treated me likek kin, even though I do not speak Arabic well. They advised me that life in Leo is built around entertainment, to escape boredom. So it was my turn. We walked home at noon, all three of us, from across the street, the United Nations headquarters, to find my meticulously prepared hot lunch in the refrigerator! I was indignant beyond control.

“Why didn’t you cook it?” I hollered at M’bala, the houseboy.

“You say one o’clock!” M’bala shot back angrily, showing his index and grumbling in an incomprehensible language. My instructions were to cook for one hour.

I joined this class as a last ditch effort to communicate with him and other locals. Sometimes, in my ivory tower of despair, I question myself: is this the expatriate experience I dreamed about? Have I done the right thing by changing the course of my destiny?

Living alone should not be a problem, I thought, before setting out on this journey. I lived in Alexandria on my own, about three hours away from home. Working with the United Nations was an honorable solution to leaving the parental roof. I didn’t care for Father’s iron rules but I missed my conversations with Berj, my younger brother. The older one, Kev, had repatriated to Armenia, fifteen years ago. He was only eighteen then. He hoped to find a better life in Motherland and meet our Aunt Ebrouk there, Mama’s much-talked-about sister, who repatriated from Lebanon. Was he looking for the same thing I was – a place to fit in?

Now it looked as if f I had left my identity behind and more than that. Old friendships, community presence, extended family, and a world of minor pleasures taken for granted, like a handshake, a nod of recognition, eye contact with an acquaintance, a smile from across the street, or a hug from a friend had disappeared. Did anybody miss me? Was I already forgotten? Perhaps I should not mention my origins at all, but then I don’t want to mislead this man who wants to show me around as an Egyptian. I know some of my new classmates will corner me with more questions by the end of class. I am not mistaken.

“That’s interesting,” says Walter, the Swiss gentleman sitting to my left, engaging me in conversation as class disperses. He is intent on finding out who I am. Fair hair, blue eyes, five foot eight in height, strong muscular build, he is attractive enough to shake my soul. “How can you be Armenian when you’re Egyptian?”

“Have you heard of Armenians?” I ask.

“Yes, vaguely. I really don’t know who they are.”

“Armenia is in Asia Minor, right below the Caucasus, but we live all over the world.” While I wait for the information to gel, I add, to ease the process. “It’s part of the Soviet Union, you know.”

An eerie silence hangs in the air for a moment:

“Are you a communist?”

“No, for heaven’s sake.”

“I still don’t understand. What’s Armenia like?”

“I don’t know. I never lived there.” “Then where did you grow up?”

“In Cairo.”

“How was it growing up in Cairo?” “We had pharaohs for teachers and rode camels to school.”

Walter’s hearty laughter eases my tensions. I can’t imagine that working for good grades, fighting with siblings, rebelling against parents, and waiting for a knight in shining armor is any different elsewhere. Am I mistaken? For the first time in my life, I feel like a hybrid, not knowing exactly what the Motherland looks like, what our original traditions are and what superimposed customs have seeped into our culture. This class teaches me more than Lingala – the need to redefine myself.

One of the independent businessmen has heard our conversation.

“Did you say Rumanian? I didn’t really catch it,” he butts in.

“No, Armenian.”

Good Lord! With such titans as politician Anastase Mikoyan, composer Aram Khatchatourian, and writer William Saroyan, Armenians should have carved a page in history, but they haven’t. Raised eyebrows size me up. I realize that if I make a wrong move now all other Armenians around the globe will be judged by my behavior. I may not be a chip off the old block. In fact, I may even be the black sheep of my community, but, to the uninitiated, I am now the single specimen that represents the mass. This “where do you come from?” scenario follows me during my vagaries, from the Congo through travels in Europe, my transfer to Togo, my attempted stay in Lebanon, and to my permanent residence in the United States.

As an immigrant, I am the suspicious new strain of virus wherever I settle. The immunization system of the local community produces antibodies to arrest the spread of invasive elements of my type. Landlords look for the transient in me. Educational institutions detect an accent and frown upon certificates earned abroad. They devise elaborate schemes to deny me college entrance, but they don’t know how stubborn and persistent this strain of virus can be. Employment agencies shrug off my international experience as they give me an obscure slot. To preserve dignity, I hoist my ethnic pride and pray. Will I ever be accepted as an integral part of the local community where I will feel comfortable in my skin?

“Why can’t you give up being Armenian?” Caroline, a roommate in my migrant life, asks. Like my classmates in the Congo she is puzzled.

“How can I?” I reply. “My forefathers were massacred for their Christian faith and identity. I can’t betray them.”

I wonder if she understands what it is like. Can one expect pears from a transplanted apple tree? Heritage runs in my DNA. It squats in my womb. I need to keep language and ethnicity intact in order to keep the communication lines open with my extended familyand between the generations strewn across the world.

“My best friend never invites me to her Armenian Club,” acolleague complains. “She’s so clannish!” “She’s doing you a favor,” I offer, “do you blame her?” “How’s that? I find it rude.” “Wouldn’t you feel left out in a community where everybodyspeaks his ethnic language, down to the dialect? Most know each otheranyway.” “I never thought of that.” Should I mention that we treat the seventh generation still asfamily? That nobody is once or twice removed? That our theory ofrelativity is more complex than Einstein’s? Where does all this leave me? Like all children born in theDiaspora I persist on foreign soil by standing close to the local ethnicoasis, the expatriate Motherland, where I feel safe and secure in beingme, while making forays into the local culture. We cajole our parents,but keep pace with the world. We end up living a double life,externally the law-abiding citizen, internally the conservativetraditionalist. No wonder the question “Where do you come from?”follows me from the Congo to California, where I have lived longerthan in Egypt. This book defines my roots and perhaps will help promoteawareness of the problems of many immigrants like me who, forvarious reasons – ethnic cleansing, political dissidence, unfamiliarreligious practice, or, simply, lust for the unknown – travel the world insearch of a haven where they keep their splintered souls together.

Read more…Mary Terzian
website: www.maryterzian.com
Author: The Immigrants’ Daughter
Winner: Best Books 2006 Award
Finalist: National Indie Excellence 2007 Book Award, both in multicultural, non-fiction category

I would like to say a few words about this “Age of Entitlement and Expectation”. Does anyone really know what it even means in today’s world? Exactly what it is? It has occurred to me that we are all surrounded with it every waking moment of our lives, every day. How did we ever evolve to this point? What ever happened to independence and self-reliance?

Could it be that if someone wants something that you might have, it give him or her the right to just take it? We used to call that inappropriate behavior, jealousy, envy and at a stretch stealing. I say stealing because logic dictates that if someone else wants what you already have and they cross the line and take it, what else would you call it?

Have we reached a point in our society that everyone must be a clone of the next? Do we all laugh at the same jokes? Do we all dress identically? Well, in some schools yes. We call that a dress code, or in private schools we call them uniforms.

Is it wrong to be an individual in this day and age when instead we have groups that speak for us? Personally, I have always preferred to speak for myself. I figure that I can explain myself better than anyone else. After all, who knows me better than me? Is there any way to put a stop to it?

This new found attitude has encompassed itself in all of our lives and from the looks of it, it sort of just snuck in when no one was paying any attention. Could this “Age of Entitlement and Expectation” really be jealousy or envy or is it really greed? It just seems a little odd to me how it could have snuck in.

Perhaps we as a society just turned a blind eye and allowed it to happen to all of us. I am not really sure, but I can remember what life was like before it.

It was not always pleasant, but there was always an innocent king of “take it for granted” attitude or hope, as I like to refer to it as, that existed that does not seem to exist at the moment. Where did it go? How can we get it back?

Have we all forgotten how beautiful and wonderful life used to be when we were all independent and self reliant? Have we forgotten about all the freedoms that we allowed to slip through our fingers because we turned a deaf ear? It is time that we begin to pay attention again before we are left without anything.

What will we have to pass on to our children? You know, the next and up coming generation. Humanities gift to humanity. Each individual born is his or her own person. Would you want it any other way?

It really is up to us to teach our children to stand on their own two feet, not to lean on the person next to them. You see, to lean on someone else once in a while is okay, but to indulge in this type of behavior is dependency and that is not okay.

I have always liked independence and self reliance, at least it is a preference of mine. If we do not teach our children independence and self reliance how will they ever learn to stand up on their own two feet and speak for themselves?

What I hear about and even sometimes read in the local newspaper is how it takes an entire community collectively to raise children in today’s society. Again I beg to differ with this opinion because I am still of the belief that child rearing begins with the parents, not the community.

As parents, do you continuously over indulge your children with anything they may want? Do you go broke trying to please them? Do you find no matter what you do for them or what you give to them it is never enough? Try saying no. Try telling your children that if they want something they will actually have to work for it.

If we do not we will be doing a disservice no only to our children, but to ourselves too. We will be raising a generation of human beings that believe that the entire universe revolves around what they want only. Is that really what we all want?

We are beginning to have this already. I see it every time that I venture out, whether traveling locally or long distance traveling. Most people today do not even use the words than you, please and excuse me. It is like these words have been erased from everyone’s vocabulary. Whenever I should come across someone who actually uses these words I am always quite surprised. That is when I see that little ray of hope all over again.