Skip to main content

Hollaback!

As is now apparent from this blog, writing=processing for me.  Shortly after my Incident, I wrote an email to all of my women friends in DC and beyond, recounting the experience and reminding them to stay aware of their surroundings.  (Like many, I never thought something like this could happen to me--as if I'm immune or invincible to worldly dangers!  Turns out there's no Superwoman belt beneath my business suit.)

A couple days after I sent the email, I received a message from the founders of Hollaback DC, a nonprofit org that is fighting street harrassment and sexual assault in Washington (they also work in other major cities).  They had received my email via several forwards, and wanted to know if they could post it on their website.  Despite being in a dark place, I was uplifted that my story was circulating, and of course agreed to their request.  Several weeks later, I received another note from Hollaback, this time with the news that they had used my story in one of their fundraising appeals.  Knowing well the pressures of fundraising for nonprofits, I was touched and thrilled that I had helped!

Hollaback is now taking their fight viral.  A friend just sent me a NYTimes article about the launch of Hollaback's new iPhone app.  I love it!  Read the article here.  The article concludes with the same question I am struggling with: how do we change the cultural basis upon which it is okay for men to harrass women?  I'm glad to know that organizations like Hollaback are proactively addressing this complex issue.  And now I'm downloading their app!
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Name of the New Game

Four years ago I moved home to be a part of a growing movement for civil rights and social justice in the South. I have learned many, many lessons and found great clarity along the way.  In these four years, I have confirmed that the Southern Powers That Be are— surprise —still quite conservative. Not only in political persuasion, but perhaps more consequentially in tolerance of risk, of trying new things, of investing in people and ideas that have moved the needle towards justice and equality.  In these four years, I have also confirmed my long-held belief that— surprise again —the South is not universally conservative. Courageous Southerners (native and adopted!) are working on reversing all manner of injustices incurred in this generation and those long past—from public education to women’s rights to justice reform and beyond. Many are my friends. All of them are my heroes.  And after four years of Life-As-A-Progressive-Southerner-Living-In-The-South, I ha...
Post a Comment
Read more

Things to love in December

December can be a tough month.  Winter sets in, darkness descending on day as if it has any right to the five o'clock hour.  Back off, nighttime.  I'm not finished wearing my sunglasses yet.  Oh, and winter clothes?  I much prefer you in boxes under the bed, thank you very little.  Yes, I have been a victim of S.A.D. in years gone past, but this winter, I've resolved to be a fighter.  With that in mind, here are my weapons of winter war, aka things to love in December: 1. The musical delight of Sarah Jarosz , with the energy of early Nickel Creek and the velvet voice of Sarah McLaughlin.  2. " CleanFlame "--fake firewood made from 100% recycled cardboard boxes.  It lights easy, burns long, and doesn't require Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe, to cut down several trees in order to keep me warm. 3. My grandfather's memory, summarized beautifully by the Times-Picayune here . 4. Yoga.  Any kind, at any hour, even if it means le...
3 comments
Read more

Blink

My grandfather died in his home at the age of 88.  He was surrounded by his wife, four children, a handful of grandchildren and loved ones.  When he opened his eyes for the last time—just minutes before his last breath—my mother was standing on a chair, shouting and waving her hands.  “Dad, it’s me!  We’re okay!  It’s okay!”  A life fully lived, with only despair and joy pulling at the edges of the final passage.   As mom shouted on a chair and my sister held GrandSam’s hand, I was walking across a golf course in Kenya.  I glanced at my blackberry, nonchalant one moment, melting onto the green the next.  Salty sobs on African soil.  I was in Nairobi.  They were in New Orleans.  I felt the distance in my bones.  His departure was crushing. *** I met the man known as Dr. Sam Logan six years ago in Nicaragua.  Of course, I had known him my entire life—GrandSam was the only grandfather I ever knew. ...
2 comments
Read more