Toya didn’t flee from country to country. Her first language is English. Yet what this Pittsburgh woman made of her life is inspiring, incredible and illuminating. Even without meeting this woman face-to-face, her story drew me in. Take a look.
You may accuse me of being quiet.
(This is partially true. I feel that my tendency to be an extreme extrovert has weakened with time).
The words are still spilling out, though! The reason for my silence on my blog and other social media outlets is all the planning and tweeting and writing I’m doing for Kiva Zip. If you don’t know what that is, I will cast no judgment if you go now and make a $5 loan! 😉
That being said, I still wistfully think about my former reporter life. Having conversations via Twitter is not quite the same as face-to-face.
Then the opportunity came in the form of a meeting with a Cambodian woman who was forced to take refuge in Vietnam and then immigrated to the U.S. She and her husband want to borrow $5,000 to help their small sandwich shop succeed.
For a little while, philanthropy and reporting are going hand-in-hand. Meet Ki.
A few months ago, I was moved by a young girl skipping rope in a refugee apartment complex in Denver.
While she and her family may be struggling daily in ways that I can’t understand because of my unsolicited abundant life, they have changed the life of my friend Molly. Not only her life, but those of the people around her, like me. I’m still blinking in disbelief because I so often choose to close my eyes and the light is only going to keep streaming in.
enjoy this reblog:
Yesterday, I went back to visit my former apartments. The beauty and chaos of the 3-tiered brick-on-concrete low-income-housing buildings located right off the intersection of Colfax Avenue and Route 225.
Sandwiched between streets that have only letters for names, construction projects, and strip malls with cell phone stores, liquor marts, and fast-food joints are the Shadow Tree Apartments.
I suppose the name comes from the few scraggily evergreen trees clinging to life in the middle of the cement courtyards of “A” and “B” buildings.
I haven’t visited often this past year. Not as often as I’ve wanted to, and certainly not as often as I’ve thought to.
There was the time I showed up with bags of items to drop off that were given to me by my sister’s former roommate (the contents of which were quickly claimed and made new homes to grinning faces). I saw an 8th
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