Twenty-something in a Global Village

The Secret History of the American Empire by John Perkins

New York: Dutton (Penguin Group Inc.)

June 2007

            John Perkins writes out of guilt.  Carrying on in the tradition of Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, The Secret History of the American Empire is a form of atonement for the author to right his wrongs after what he feels were years of exploiting the weak as an employee of major corporations.  However, this time around, he aims to do more than merely confess.  His purpose is to effect change.  Perkins maintains a positive perspective, despite the fact that the bulk of his account revolves around a depressing theme of the destruction of the earth and its inhabitants, perpetrated largely by the greed and materialism of the United States.  In the Prologue he states, “I want to emphasize that you will not find gloom and doom in these pages” (2).  He stresses optimism and the necessity of positive action.  While his work has the potential to inspire would-be movers and shakers, it is somewhat weighed down by the blurring of the timeline of events and a heavy reliance on his own memory that leaves a question mark in the area of credibility.  Still, the book carries enough weight to be a powerful tool for advocates of economic, social and environmental responsibility as it is both a history of American imperialism and a resource for how people can begin to change the existing system. 

            Perkins purpose in writing this book is outlined in both his Prologue and his concluding chapter.  The author expounds on his previous work, which was a biography of his years as an “Economic Hit Man” (EHM), to include confessions from other EHMs and members of corporations, governments, NGOs and the Peace Corps.  These reports are linked to the history of how the United States has used the developing world as an extension of their own resources, and the violence, unrest, and extreme poverty in developing countries that have occurred as a direct result.  In doing so, Perkins hopes that he can spread the idea that things must change, and that every individual has a responsibility to do his or her own part to effect this change.

            In order to accomplish his aims, Perkins organizes his account into four regions, with Part 5, entitled “Changing the World,” being reserved for his main message.  The regions include nations in Asia, Latin America, The Middle East and Africa.  Most of these are former European colonies, now developing countries who have struggled economically under loans from the IMF and World Bank.  Each section covers both the history of economic colonialism in the area, as well as his personal accounts of his own sins and those of other “Economic Hit Men” and jackals.  While EHMs use their influence to pave the way for Western corporations to exploit resources, jackals employ threats, violence and assassination to enforce the West’s economic empire.  Perkins employs all forms of writing-narrative, descriptive and expository- in order to give us a complete picture of the history, setting, and problems of the regions he describes.  He is a gifted storyteller, and as such uses every tool in his arsenal to appeal to both the emotions and intellect of his readers.

            The first section (Asia) sets the tone for the rest of the book.  Perkins describes Asian cities where the population is ravaged by either a foreign government or foreign investors who mould their country into one which forces them into either unemployment or work in one of Asia’s notorious sweatshops.  Against this backdrop, corporate executives and corrupt government officials live lives of shameless opulence, chuckling to themselves at their own fortune and cunning.  Near the end of the section, Perkins describes an encounter with the Dalai Lama that informs both his decision to become an author, his work with non-profits, as well as the content of the rest of the book.  The Dalai Lama’s encouragement to, “practice compassion,” (65) shows in Perkins’ willingness to treat even the greatest economic offenders with respect and forgiveness.

            The next section on South America continues the trend, but with the addition of what Perkins refers to as “Maya killers,” men who are either bodyguards of the corporate elite or part of a dictator’s military, mainly trained at the School of the Americas (now the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation, or WHINSEC) and whose main role is to subjugate an oppressed population.  It is in the South American division of the book that Perkins’ fascination with and sympathy towards indigenous cultures comes through.  The author of several books on aboriginal cultures, Perkins lauds the indigenous movements of Latin America, praising political leaders who take pride in their heritage.  He points to men like Che Guevara, Hugo Chavez, and Evo Morales who rose from the indigenous community and stood up to Western imperialism as being the forces of unity in the continent that have inspired people groups all over the world to hope for change.  The importance of the earth to indigenous cultures also becomes a theme, contrasting sharply with the lack of environmental responsibility most foreign companies in Latin America display. 

            The Middle East is where Perkins really channels the post WWII spy thrillers, which he alludes, may not have been so far from the truth with their back alley deals and silent assassinations.  Espionage plays a big part in this section, as Perkins essentially attributes the creation of EHMs to CIA agent Kermit Roosevelt Jr., a precursor for private sector employees sent to create favourable conditions in developing countries for Western corporations.  The story of the Middle East in Perkins’ account is mainly one of a race for oil, a race that has caused rampant unrest and war in the area, as well as the kind of culture clash Samuel Huntington described between the Christian West and the militant Islamic parts of the Middle East. 

            The next section (Africa) is closely linked to the Middle East, but adds diamonds, gold, copper, tantalum (coltan) and uranium to the list of resources that the United States aims to control.  Perkins links the modern exploitation of Africa to two events: the rise of independence movements searching for a way into the new world economic system and the OPEC embargoes of the 1970s that left the United States and other Western Nations searching for new sources of oil.  Africa had what the West wanted, and in many cases African leaders were willing to give in the demands of the United States in order to either fill their own pockets, or make a misguided attempt at jumpstarting their country’s economy.  Including Africa as the last region is also strategic in terms of his message.  Africa’s history of slavery, colonial exploitation and genocide is a useful springboard to ensure we are paying attention to the last part of the book, the one Perkins fittingly titles, “Changing the World”.

            In the last chapter, Perkins attacks what he feels is the main detractor to people standing up to corporations: fear.  He describes the social justice exploits of everyone from college and high school students to reformed executives to prove that it can be done.  Perkins relies largely on the actions of the Rainforest Action Network (RAN), an organization he is intimately involved in, as inspiration for how NGOs are forcing corporations to become more environmentally and socially responsible.  The last chapter concludes with a call to action that assures readers that they have the necessary tools to start making a difference. 

             The division of the book into these regional stories is the main reason that the dates of events get lost in the shuffle.  Perkins jumps from one decade to another depending on which story best suits his theme at the time.  For those to whom the sequence of events is important, this structure can be off-putting.  The jumble of history, personal encounters and second-hand accounts can become confusing if you are attempting to take the book as a true historical work.  However, this tactic also gives Perkins an air of world-worn wisdom as it emphasizes the scope of his work as a Peace Corps volunteer, EHM, non-profit worker and public speaker.  

            Despite the organization of how they are interspersed in the work, Perkins’ addition of well-known historical facts, public figures, and big-name corporations lend credibility to his work.  If his experiences are indeed as he says, Perkins is an authoritative source for telling the story of American economic imperialism.  The main detractor from this writing tactic is his penchant for recreating entire conversations, some of which occurred thirty or more years ago.  Although he says in the prologue that he has attempted to recreate these events using his own personal correspondence and notes, as well as historical records, one has to wonder how much has been lost to the passage of time.  While the dialogues have the benefit of making the book a more interesting read, recounting them complete with facial expressions and pensive silences take away any chance of this work being accepted as a true history of events.          

             As a best-selling author, Perkins ensures that The Secret History of the American Empire has something for everyone, both the older generation, worried about their future, as well as the younger generation, worried about their present and the responsibilities they now must shoulder.  The author understands the American public well.  For more critical readers, he lays down cold hard facts and statistics.  It is difficult to fault his critique of the brutality of sweatshops and the intervention of the United States in foreign governments, as these are views that are held by a large percentage of the world, including many academics who have written extensively on both subjects.  However, he also makes sure that the average reader, picking his book off the shelf at a Coles on whim, is not easily bored.  Using cliff-hangers at the end of each chapter, much like a best-selling work of fiction, Perkins style reads like a suspense novel about the shady history of our modern Western affluence.  His final chapter also goes beyond the boundaries of age and race and speaks to readers from the developing world in order to mobilise and encourage them towards living more sustainable lives.  A list of ideas for how to do so and appendices of charities, NGOs and advocacy groups dominate the end of the book.  Perkins leaves no room for excuses of ignorance from his readers.   

            While The Secret History of the American Empire may not be useful as a credible academic source, it is a powerful interpretation of the experiences of individuals and countries that have come into contact with the ruthless greed of American imperialism.  Despite the content, Perkins keeps his promise of maintaining optimism throughout the book, and ends with an assumption that we are going to answer his call to action.  His urgency is effective.  If we take anything away from his account, it is that the corporations of the United States, in collusion with the American government, have been allowed to use the earth and the people in it as they please for far too long, and that some kind of change is necessary.  John Perkins has made, and continues to make his change with speaking tours, his non-profit the Pachamama Alliance, and notably, his written works.  “Today is the day,” (329) for us to decide what ours will be.  

The loverly Sarah from Australia has awarded me this.  I recently discovered her blog http://kiss--and--make-up.blogspot.com, and think she is possibly one of the most humble, gorgeous, and adorable bloggers I know.  Also, for those of you who want to read my more rambling musings, you can check out http://sunkissedplumeria.blogspot.com .  Whereas I use this blog for writing practice, that one will be more for my more..."creative" writings and photos etc.  Speaking of my new blog...I have posted a Halloween look that goes along with a youtube video I made.  Happy Halloween everyone and thanks again to Sarah!

This was published in my school's magazine, but I have taken out the specifics of where I am, and I think it applies to pretty much every university or college!

As school begins again, many students will continue their education in the same way they did last year. Namely, they’ll go to class, go to work, go out with friends and go home, without bothering to involve themselves in the many opportunities our school has to offer.  Even the majority of first year students will fall into the pattern of ignoring events, clubs and student oriented services after Orientation Week.  The decision to not become involved in the university or college community is not necessarily a bad thing, but it does mean that students miss out on golden opportunities to make connections and form real work experiences.  Here are some examples of how extra curricular activities are essential to enhancing your university-gained assets:

Clubs: A lot of clubs are geared toward your program of study.  You get to build relationships with like-minded people outside of the formal classroom setting.  As well, some clubs involve members of the faculty and special speakers that can help you on your journey of deciding how in the world you are going to use your degree.  Getting involved in project-oriented clubs can help you decide which direction you want your future to take.

Intramural sports:  Let’s face it, as students we can let the Frosh 15 take up permanent residence on our frames.  But health is vitally important to how we perform in our academic life.  Why not have some fun while you take care of business?  Most schools have a wide variety of sports teams, from inner-tube water polo (which I have heard is really fun) to women’s football.  Look for sign-ups in the beginning of the school year, or check out your school’s website to find out more.

Student Council:  Before some of you dismiss this option completely, think for a second how many times a day you hear students complaining about student facilities, the food in the cafeteria, school activities and events, etc.  Has that student ever been you?  Being on student council is a way to get your voice heard about everything from the fees we pay to the events we hold.  It’s a great way to make a difference at your school (and pad your resume while doing it- just kidding, but seriously it is an amazing opportunity).  You definitely don’t have to be interested in politics to take part.  Most student councils have a website, so do some research, drop by the office and find out how you can get involved.  Your student council won’t bite, I promise.

Special Events:  On that note, student councils go to great lengths to provide fun and enriching events for our student body.  Granted, not every event is going to be for every student, but there is bound to be at least one dance, concert, movie night or sports game that attracts your interest this year.  We’re all busy, but sometimes it’s good to take a break and do something you enjoy, even if it means going out of your comfort zone and meeting new people.  I can say from personal experience that school events can be where you make some amazing friends.  We could all use those!  And who knows, that guy dozing off next to you during the movie could be Canada’s next Minister of Health.  So wake him up and start talking.

These are just a few ideas on how you can get involved at your school in things that you love and excel at.  So check out clubs week, peruse your school’s website for more opportunities, drop by the student council office and, most importantly, welcome back!

My story is Africa.  Every other statement about my life begins and ends with that.  I’ve travelled a lot for someone my age, and have been blessed with experiences most people only dream of.  But among all those experiences, Africa is the backdrop to each and every poignant moment of my life.  I owe much to the continent that accepted me as one of its own, and to the Africans of every colour that made me a part of their family.

It began when I was seven.  My family moved from Newfoundland, Canada to Dakar, Senegal, West Africa.  You could not find two places on earth more different from each other, save the fact that the ocean and fishing are a way of life for much of both areas.  Despite its strangeness, I took to my new country immediately, and the six years I spent there (five as a child, one as a young adult some time later) are the strongest building blocks of who I am.  Realizing this, and wanting to experience more, I travelled to South Africa last summer and lived there for a month.  That is a story for another day, but for now I can tell you that my time there, though short, also shaped my character and personality in drastic ways. 

I miss home desperately.  There are times when I am in Africa, sitting in the dust listening to a local pastor, or laughing at school children in a rural orphanage, when I feel the strangest urge.  It is as if I need to grab handfuls of red earth and rub it into my skin.  I know each time I come home that I will have to leave again.  I open my eyes and ears wide to absorb every piece I can into my innermost parts, so that I can carry them around inside me, no matter how far away I may be. 

When I return to Canada, the pressures of my responsibilities with school and advocacy involvement make me forget, sometimes for days, the reality that my African brothers and sisters live in.  But then a news report or something familiar will catch my eye, jog my memory, and the ache starts as fresh as if I had just left home.  A part of me is still there across the ocean, and it bleeds and breaks with every fresh wave of violence, disease or famine that sweeps the continent.  I feel a deep guilt knowing that brothers and sisters who are just like those whom I have come to love are suffering.  Meanwhile, I sit in a temperature-controlled classroom, writing notes as my professor talks of Africa's fate.

My guilt comes from one of the most important lessons I have learned.  Because of Africa, I know that the colour of our skin is just like the wrapping paper on a precious gift- you have to get past the outer layer to find the treasures of friendship and community inside.  I identify myself not by how I look, but by who I relate to, what I believe in, and what I hope to become.  Racism is a foreign thing to my heart, only because of the influence of the courageous people I met and came to love and respect in my African journey.  Africa is my adopted home, and the people there are my people.  I grew up under their powerful examples.

Africa pulses in my blood like a drum beat.  It’s a rhythm that only those who have been there can understand.  It’s a hard, violent, and beautiful sound.  Just like Africa itself, it is torturous but breathtaking.  It causes pain, but its presence in me helps me look at the world through eyes that are wide open and willing to offer the same grace that I have been shown time and time again.  Africa helps me understand community, family, loyalty, equality, and faith.  It helps me understand myself. 

Hey all!  So I am going to take a little diversion from my articles to tell you about my youtube debut!  My friend Adriana Flores and I have just uploaded a cover of the song "Falling Slowly" from the movie Once.  The song was originally recorded in the movie as a duet between Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. 

I will be posting a new article just as soon as I can!  I also may post some of my poems and song lyrics from time to time.  Hope you enjoy them! 

Here is the link to our video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j45_PVC0e-8

I am so sorry friends that I neglected to tell you I would be away from a computer for a month and a half!  I am in Toronto working at an inner-city ministry as a lifeguard and camp counselor.  But rest assured I am building up material and blog posts in my little moleskine notebook!  Happy Summer all!
Some upcoming posts:
The Way You Make Me Feel- how the emotions in MJ's music bridges generations
Part 1 of A Blonde African's Diary
That's all for now folks!  It's off to yet another week in the forest for me :)  Canoeing, reading, playing guitar, sitting on the dock and lifeguarding...I am gradually building my tan despite my spf 50 sunscreen! :)
Happy Summer.

              I can sum up my early relationship with my dad in one word: hero.  My dad was my hero.  I saw him as the protector, the fun-maker, and the thinker.  When we would have guests over, I would sometimes prefer to sit on his knee or beside him while the other kids played.  I would listen and watch with wide eyes as he talked with other adults, giving his opinion with the smile that crinkles his eyes and scrunches up his nose.  When others talked, my dad would listen with careful, humble consideration.  I can always tell in his eyes how hard he is thinking about what people are saying.  And whether he agrees or not, his eyes always hold the same respect.  From him I learned to always look at both sides of a situation, and to value others’ opinions no matter what my own might be.

            Up until I was ten years old my father had no sons.  Living in Africa, I grew up with a healthy appreciation for adventure.  My dad recognized this and fostered it.  So alongside my dolls I played with the bow he had made me, sharpening my own arrows with my mock Swiss Army knife and targeting passing sheep (until Dad stopped that practice and I had to resort to aiming at rocks and bushes).  I was a warrior princess, Robyn Hood’s equal.  My Dad’s confidence made me feel strong.  “I don’t want my girls to be wimps,” he would say in a playfully rough voice, gently punching my arm. 

            My dad may have given me soccer balls and bows and arrows, but he never made me feel that I had to choose between those and my more feminine playthings.  He cared for and protected my sensitivity, cradling me whether it was my heart or my knee that was wounded.  He also made me feel beautiful, telling me often how pretty I was.  I remember so many times in my awkward teenage years, I would come out of my room ready for a concert or for church and he would look at me with tenderness in his eyes and say, “My girl is so pretty.”  I knew that he meant it, and somehow his approval made everyone else’s not so important.

            For my graduation, my father wrote me a beautiful letter.  He told me how proud he was of me.  Then, near the end of the note, he told me that I was his first heroine.  My father’s heroes are men like Blaise Pascal, C.S. Lewis and William Wilberforce.  When I read those words that placed me next to people of such accomplishment and passion I began to cry.  My dad thought me worthy of the title- heroine- and suddenly all the dreams I had to change the world were not so very far off.

            My father has also instilled in me a great sense of heritage.  He tells me stories and talks about my family’s history in England and Wales as if it were part of our everyday, modern lives.  A writer himself, Dad has recorded stories for me of my grandfather who I knew only briefly as a child before he passed away.  In this way I have learned a lot about my dad, and in turn, about myself.  He helps me discover where I have come from in order to better discern where I am going. 

            My father is a sensitive man, but he does not cry often.  In fact, I know of only a few times he has shed tears.  Of those times, I have only seen one.  It was the night I left home and flew back to Canada to begin university.  I had a hard time believing that Dad was even crying until one of the girls I was travelling with confirmed it.  Those tears spoke more to me than all the parting words we exchanged.  They meant that I am cared for, that I am important, and that I will always have someone to protect me when I am vulnerable.

            Through the past few years, as I have tried to take my place in a world full of heartache and failure, my dad’s encouragement and confidence in me has rested in my heart like an anchor, able to withstand even the ugliest storm.  I have come to him many times with my head spinning with questions of history, theology and social justice.  He patiently unravels my ideas, discusses each point, and researches answers he doesn’t know.  It has also been a great honour when I have been able to share with him things that I have learned or beliefs that I have developed.  I don’t strive, as some do with their own fathers, to win his approval.  He is proud of me now, and that in part gives me the confidence to take on tasks that may seem insurmountable.  He tells people proudly that I am in a program in university studying to “save the world.”  I may roll my eyes, but I cannot help but smile because he too thinks it possible.  I’m not alone in dreaming that God can do all things.  I’m not alone in hoping for a better place for those who are hurting.  My dad is there too, and his prayers and confidence mean everything to me. 

I like shopping almost as much as the next 22 year old woman.  What holds me back?  An insane case of “buyer’s remorse”.  After growing up in West Africa and three intense years of studying the environmental and social impact of our consumer lifestyle, I think hard about each item I buy and often chastise myself for any frivolous purchase, big or small.    

My story starts with a pretty commonplace episode in the life of Meg (hint: I broke something).  After ruining one of my old, cheap makeup brushes, I grudgingly admitted that I was going to have to buy a new one.  This seemed like an utterly ridiculous waste of money, and I was torn between on the one hand wanting the right tools to look appropriately cute, and on the other hand simply not wanting to shell out the 8-20 dollars it was going to cost me.  So, when I stood in the aisle of the makeup section of a department store, staring forlornly at the brushes, my eyes lit up when they landed on a number of packages stamped with the name “eco tools”.  Here was a way to console my conscience AND look chice while doing it!  With a bamboo handle, recycled aluminium ferrule and cruelty-free synthetic bristles, plus a price tag that even my student budget could handle, this brush seemed made for me.  Needless to say, I bought it.

As was bound to happen, even as I was heading home with my purchase (stuffed in my purse of course- no plastic bags for this tree hugger!), the guilty thoughts began nagging at me.  What kind of carbon footprint did the production of this brush cause?  Where was it made?  Were the materials really recycled and sustainable?  What if I had used the seven dollars as a donation to an eco charity instead?  Did I really need to wear makeup at all?

Now, I realize that these questions probably sound a little silly to some.  So I spent a few bucks, what’s the big deal?  But it is a big deal.  Every year, Westerners spend ridiculous amounts of money on things they don’t need, rarely use, and will eventually throw away.  I won’t go into details, but the sheer scope of product consumption in North America is a leading cause of global warming.  Perhaps for that reason, every once in a while most people experience the inevitable case of buyer’s remorse.  Green products fill this conscience gap and allow consumers to feel good about spending money on products that they need or want but which aren’t as harmful to the earth.  In reality many of these products still harm the earth at some point in their production.  My brush came in a plastic case.  Luxury organic foods are often put in the same disposable packaging as regular food.  Maybe these products are somewhat better choices, but the real question is why do we buy them in the first place?  There are always going to be things that we need, and for those items buying a greener option is a step in the right direction.  But do you really need that Plant Love lipstick when you have 13 at home?  Will your sister love you more when you buy her the sustainable edition Keds to sit in her closet next to her 4 other pairs of tennis shoes?  After asking yourself those questions, here is one more: Is “buying green” just another way to stave off shoppers' guilt?

As for me, in the end, I kept the brush.  A girl needs the basic tools to look her best, right?  But the incident has taught me an important lesson about thinking carefully before buying products.  Now I ask myself if I really need the product, or if I just want to have it and will do anything to convince myself that I am doing something good for the earth while forking over the cash.  In conclusion, my sincerest apologies to those adorable recycled material flats that I have been wanting.  You’re just going to have to wait. 

I’d like to start by quoting the subject of this today's piece.  “I am all for everyone having a voice, I just don't think everyone has earned the microphone. And that's what the Internet has done.”[1]  Well Aaron Sorkin, I guess we’ll find out in the next weeks and months whether or not I am deserving of this microphone.  Here’s hoping…

To keep you all dangling in suspense (all 3 of you reading this page), I’m going to begin this little number with the history of the expression, “Hats off,” as told to me by the web site of the Australian Army.[2]  In the age of chivalry, knights would remove their helmets or lift their visors in a gesture of respect and vulnerability when meeting another knight, or an opponent they were about to tilt against.  I have also heard that in the time of Charles Dickens it was customary for men to tip their hats, or even remove them in the presence of a lady.  Sidenote: that’s one tradition I would love to bring back.  All in all, “Hats Off” nowadays denotes respect, gratitude, and admiration.  These are three emotions that precisely describe my feelings towards writer, producer, and actor Aaron Sorkin, who is at least part of the reason why I have rediscovered my love affair with words.

            The West Wing was the first TV show that I didn’t understand, which perhaps says much about our entertainment industry as I was about 12 when it first came out.  However, I didn’t start watching the show till it became a late-night routine for my parents while I was in junior high or high school.  I would sometimes sit with them and watch, confused by the fact that I was captivated by a show that seemed to revolve around…well, nothing a high schooler is typically interested in.  It was about politics, but it wasn’t boring.  It was like watching the news, but it wasn’t.  They used thinly veiled references that I didn’t catch and talked about issues that I had hardly heard of.  I ate it up.  That is the power of any script Aaron Sorkin touches.  Sometimes you don’t understand why you love it.  You just do. 

Often Sorkin’s work leaves me pressing pause on the DVD player to go and look up an icon, an event, or an artistic work one of the characters has made reference to.  This third-culture-kid needed a Western cultural guide, and I can think of no one better for the job than one whose characters drop lines from classic literature like some of the ladies at my school drop “In Touch” headlines.  My friends may tease me for my attachment (ok, addiction) to The West Wing, but the show makes me believe in political honour, and demand it in my own government.  It is perhaps part of what influenced me to vote for Glen Pearson, an MP that is making waves in Parliament for his refusal to play dirty politics and drop cheap accusations on his fellow politicians. 

The West Wing also makes me want to be a part of something bigger.  When I was first introduced to the characters of Amy Gardner and Ainsley Hayes, I wanted to stand up and cheer.  They are two women who stand for their convictions, sometimes in the most unconventional ways.  The other night my friend (a feisty young feminista and, might I say, talented script writer herself) were discussing how these fictional women have become powerful ideals for us of what we could someday achieve as women of conviction ourselves.  It may sound pathetic to find your inspiration in fiction, so rest assured that I have “real” role models as well, among them journalists Stephanie Nolen and Naomi Klein. 

This column has probably reached the limit of any browser’s attention span.  So let me end by saying that my point is this:  By creating entertainment that doesn’t just make us laugh and cry, but makes us think and wish for a better future, Aaron Sorkin goes beyond the typical boundaries written in glitzy Hollywood ink.  As realists say, art imitates reality.  Sorkin, for anywhere from 40 to 90 minutes, ignites our imagination with a world that has so much potential.    What shocks us as the credits roll, is that this world he has imitated, the world where things can and do change for the better, is ours.

Dear readers,

First off, I would like to thank you for taking the time to read my blog.  

A little about me:

I am a Canadian who spent my childhood in Africa, but went to high school in Toronto, Ontario (the city with the CN Tower- I know, pretty cool,  eh?).  Currently I am a fourth-year university student doing a major in a program that I fondly have dubbed "Hippie School," with classes such as How to Save the World 101.  I have always been preoccupied with how our actions affect others, and how they can change our communities for good.  My program of study has given me the tools to take that preoccupation to the next level.  It has opened my eyes to how our world works, taught me to be open to the ideas of others, and to think critically.  

A little about this blog:

I have always loved writing.  My purpose is to just have an outlet where I can keep writing in preparation for applying to a grad program in journalism.  I have put my interests in the tags, and those will be primarily what I write about.  To reiterate: politics, globalization, the environment, religion, culture, fashion, pop culture, the media.  I am most interested in how my generation is dealing with the issues of our time.  Our attitudes and actions today are a good litmus test of how we will deal with the responsibility of being the movers and shakers of a world with some pretty messed-up problems.

As an introduction to me I hope that this has served its purpose.  I will be posting my second piece very soon (as it is already written) to really get started. 

Happy reading!

with hope,

Meg