Kathleen Varn's Blog, page 2

Can You Journal Your Way to a Book?

The simple answer is, YES! And I’m humbled and honored to be part of the Innovation Zone at the upcoming Write On! Literacy Festival at the Charleston Library to talk about that very subject:

Attention all book nerds, tech geeks, and creativity lovers: end the summer right by attending the first ever Write On! Literacy Festival at the Charleston County Public Library on Calhoun St.

Featuring headlining authors Nic Stone, Grady Hendrix and Hannah Barnaby, this all-ages festival will include additional author talks, panel discussions, book signings and sales, and a special Innovation Zone where people can explore literacy in all its contexts and potential.

Kathleen Varn

Kathryn Taylor

LILA will be in the Innovation Zone, represented by local authors Kathleen Varn and Kathryn Taylor, who will both be on hand to talk about the writing process, specifically journaling your way to a book, which both authors did; Kathleen Varn with Ameera Unveiled and Kathryn Taylor with the soon-to-be-released Two Minus One.

The first 100 visitors to the LILA booth will also get a pen and a journal all their own, FREE!

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Barbara K. McNally’s “Wounded Warrior, Wounded Wife”

My thanks to fellow author Dean Robertson for this guest contribution that first appeared in its entirety on her site in December, 2016. This was a book I loved as well… Dean’s thoughtful review speaks volumes!

A more unlikely group of healers you couldn’t ask for. There they are, laughing and lounging at a luxury hotel in Southern California, where they have come from all over the country for a few days of rest and rejuvenation that they badly need and have certainly earned…

Another photograph, which Ms. McNally sent me earlier in the week, reminds me of a similar image featured on my review of a very different kind of book, Ameera Unveiled, a thinly disguised autobiographical novel written by a woman, raised in a fundamentalist Christian denomination and forbidden–among other things–to dance. The author, Kat Varn, by the time of the events she narrates, happily married to her “soul mate,” signs up for a belly dancing class and ends up a member of a dance troupe that travels all over the country and beyond. The review, Kathleen Varn, Unveiled, was published here on April 3 of this year. The image is still lovely. It is, like McNally’s photograph from one of her SPA weekends, an image of women together, enjoying, appreciating, and supporting one another and themselves. It is a poignant reminder that women need, and seldom receive, either pleasure, support, or appreciation.

SPA is McNally’s acronym for Support, Purpose, and Appreciation, which is exactly what women provide one another at these twice-yearly gatherings–halving their nearly unbearable burdens by sharing them, even if just for a day. The Barbara K. McNally Foundation, which sponsors these retreats, receives over 300 applications for only 30 slots. Increasing the capacity and serving even more women is one of Barbara’s goals. I have no doubt it will happen.

Ms. McNally’s book, Wounded Warrior, Wounded Wife: Not Just Surviving but Thriving is tied to her retreats, and it is tempting to focus on those small groups of women having the time and space for spa treatments and poolside lunches, but perhaps the most important relief both the SPA weekends and the book offer is the ancient dynamic of telling and hearing stories.

Essayist, Joan Didion, wrote, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live”

(Joan Didion, The White Album) and novelist and theologian, Reynolds Price, declared in his volume of stories from the Bible, “A need to tell and hear stories is essential to the species Homo Sapiens—second in necessity apparently after nourishment and before love and shelter. Millions survive without love or home, almost none in silence … and the sound of story is the dominant sound of our lives”

(Reynolds Price, A Palpable God).

In the Preface to Wounded Warrior, McNally writes, “Each woman has a compelling story about how her life has changed since her husband returned home and where that journey has taken her. Over the past eight years, I’ve heard those stories twice a year”

The final chapter of Wounded Warrior is titled, “The Healing Power of Storytelling,” and McNally writes clearly about the pain and the ultimate rewards of any kind of healing. The honest telling of our stories is never easy.

McNally’s isn’t a new topic, of course. Women left behind while their men go off to war, women nursing those damaged men back to a semblance of health when they return from their battlefields, is nearly as old a subject as war itself.

But somehow, even as wartime posters tout their strengths, women have always been a footnote to those violent conflicts that shape nations, their courage and persistence something more or less expected of them. It is seldom acknowledged that the strength of women is called on, not only to take care of our warriors, but to guard carefully the most dreadful of secrets–that these men are often broken and afraid, that often they have grown to hate the wars they fought, that very often indeed they don’t look much like heroes.

Women are credited with nurturing natures. We learn we are caretakers by instinct. It is clear that the women who tell their stories in McNally’s book have absorbed this lesson well and, in addition to grappling with the care of their husbands, must first work against their guilt at not being able to provide that care with grace and unconditional acceptance. In other words, as women in this situation, Shannon and Carla and Sheila and Amy and all the rest must first come to believe they are human and then come to believe they are warriors.

It is in the telling of their stories to Barbara McNally that many of these wounded wives expose the insidious nature of that assumption. If we take care of those we love just because it’s in our nature to do so, there’s not much strength or courage or endurance required. And, in our culture, there also isn’t much understanding of the pain of women or much credit for acting often against our instincts to do what is right.

Barbara McNally has done what is right. A physical therapist by profession, she often encountered veterans returning with missing limbs, brain injuries, and possibly the worst–mental states that rendered them unable to return to their old lives in any productive, or even comfortable, way. McNally could help them recover their physical capacities, could teach them to work with their physical limitations, even to some extent by working with their bodies could guide them into some healing within. But then there were the wives, sometimes the mothers or siblings, suddenly thrust into jobs for which they were ill prepared, with little or no support and no training. Most of these women are not nurses. Yet they are expected to function as nurses, as home health aides, as physical and psychological therapists, and all while trying to maintain their roles as wives.

In a Foreword to Wounded Warrior, Laura Bauer of the Rosalynn Carter Institute for Caregiving, has written that

“Leading us through their stories, Barbara shines a light on their attitudes, their reflections, and their actions in meeting and healing the wounds war brings.”

And it is as a guide that McNally serves us the best. Her Introduction, “The Bridge from Here to There,” begins:

“While I was driving across the Coronado Bridge, I saw a man jump to his death.”

The stories in Wounded Warrior are told in sections that seem to cover every possible detail of the experience of caring for these men who have, in any sense that matters, jumped to their deaths:

Why Is my Husband So Angry?

Dealing with Post-Traumatic Stress;

Traumatic Brain Injury: My Hauband’s Mind and Memory Hijacked;

Sexuality: Battlefields to Bedrooms;

Stay or Go?;

Not Just Surviving but Thriving; and,

Wounded Warrior Women.

In Chapter One, McNally gains us entry to the circle:

“AFTER THE MORNING spa massage sessions at the Hotel del Coronado, the women gathered to eat lunch, sip water, and stir tea. What began as an informal conversation between a few women about the morning’s relaxing activities soon evolved into something much more serious. Many of the women were now participating in a discussion that drew them all into a tight circle to comfort the storyteller.

Julie told her story through wracking sobs, one hand cradling her round face and the other raking her thick, blond hair.”

Throughout the book, it is not just the women’s stories that pull us in, that grant us the grace of understanding. The magic wand in all of it is McNally’s steady, clear voice, explaining what it looked like, felt like, sounded like to be among those warrior storytellers:

‘“I hate Afghanistan,” she said. ‘When Jason went over there, he was a warm, outgoing person. But he came back angry and withdrawn, and he began taking out all his anger on me and the kids.’

Drawing nods of agreement and sympathetic encouragement from the others, Julie continued. ‘I just don’t understand. I hardly recognize him. This new man fights with recurring flashbacks, rage, overprotectiveness, depression . . . It’s all so hard to cope with.’

Julie, like many wives of wounded warriors, felt abandoned and alone, even though she was still living with Jason. She wondered aloud why he had turned on their family—the ones he loved the most.

The other wives in the group had the same concerns. A firebrand of a woman named Jane said, ‘It’s like we’re all married to the same man with different faces, and he’s having an affair with another woman.’

I thought to myself that the other woman’s name is Iraq or Afghanistan. She may be ugly and battle-scarred, but she still calls out to the men who know her. They can’t resist her call.”

Lexi tells the story of her husband’s depression, fueled by alcohol and drugs, and his slide toward suicide. But hers is a success story, of sorts. Because her three-year-old daughter chooses to go home rather than out for ice cream, Lexi finds Jared in time to stay up all night with him, forcing him to throw up the bottle of pills he has taken. She is grateful he is still with them, but the reader, standing back from this narrative, still sees a woman who is dancing very fast to hold everything together. She is the wife of a damaged husband, the mother of a young child, and a busy career woman. Lexi is grateful. As a reader I would feel better if there were someone to care for Lexi.

“’HOW OFTEN SHOULD we be having sex?’

That’s the number one question the sex therapist received from the women who came to our most recent SPA Day support group.”

Susie has chosen celibacy. Julie votes to “pleasure” herself. Carla talks about looking outside her marriage for sex. Several other women share stories about discussing this option with their husbands. There is discussion of divorce.

“Sheila looked down, her dark hair obscuring her face. ‘I’ve gained 100 pounds since all this happened. Food is my comfort, my pleasure, my sex. I’ve made myself so fat my husband wouldn’t be interested in me, and I’m relieved,’ she admitted.

‘The Prozac kills my sex drive and gaining all this weight, I don’t have to worry about anyone wanting to have sex with me, including my husband. I’ve dealt with him coming home wounded and with his drug use, so I don’t even have the energy to think about sex.’”

Barbara K. McNally’s complex and vibrant book is, after all is said and done, a story of redemption. These women are redeemed by their courage, their persistence, their faith, their just plain “grit.” They’re a tough bunch, these tender caretakers.

They are redeemed by love–for their husbands, for each other, for themselves.

They are redeemed.

This book holds out a hand of hope, of sisterhood, of good practical ideas, for everyone who reads it.

Wounded Warrior, Wounded Wife is available on amazon.com.

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barbara@barbaramcnally.com

barbaramcnally.com, (619) 339-8569

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Gardenias and My Dad

I’m on the cusp of finally wrapping up a story of four little women and their life with the U.S. Navy…. through the eyes of their step-dad. Ironically, I used the gardenia bush that was not fictional, one I grew up with in my childhood and eventually into adulthood.

Even writing the scene of the totem gardenia bush in our backyard, I teared up and tried to suppress the lump in my throat. My writing coach, Shari Stauch, encouraged me to use it to layer each character’s life lesson. So, I did.

Being the fan of symbolism, serendipity or totems… pick your verbage… I decided to Google the gardenia. My step-father purchased a home in my senior year of high school. His green thumb was a gift to our back yard. He turned it into a Utopia for not only Mother Nature but the neighbors. We reaped from his vegetable garden to his infamous banana plants. Many birds bathed in the mists of his irrigation systems. But, among these endeavors— his wisdom to bring a scraggly gardenia bush to a thriving fragrant Spring gift paralleled with his presence in our lives.

He married my mom with four daughters in tow. He saw promise in each of us. He cultivated and groomed the soil of our souls. Looking back, I see the pruning and fertilization of a parent who led all of us into our futures. Resolve, resilience, and resourcefulness were active words. We always celebrated the fragrance of Daddy’s gardenia bush for decades. Now, I look back this New Year’s Day and realize that it was serendipitous… God’s nudge…. that we were blessed to have the wisdom of our step-father’s ability to cultivate the gardens in his life.

I pray we can all find the small messages in our life lessons that say…. stop and smell the gardenias.

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Runnymede – … a night of Funny-mede

The Middleton High School Class of 1976 cried for a ’40th reunion…’ in January, 2016. Not much time due to Charleston, SC becoming the hot event destination with brides flocking in their bridal gowns like our local egrets. But, as the heirs of the Reunion Committees resigned, we went into War Room mode, rolled up our sleeves, pulled out my weary duct taped folder of years of searching for classmates and met to discuss logistics at Bobby Bernstein’s office. Strategically, Bobby

But, as the heirs of the Reunion Committees resigned, we went into War Room mode, rolled up our sleeves, pulled out my weary duct taped folder of years of searching for classmates and met to discuss logistics at Bobby Bernstein’s office. Strategically, Bobby

Strategically, Bobby strolled to the kitchen fridge and brought a cold bottle of Chardonnay and one glass. He sat it in front of me at the head of the table and gave me a healthy pour. What came next befuddled me as we had to choose the date to back into for location, catering, rentals and of course, hunting classmates. We knew it would be sometime near hurricane season. A non-negotiable for a Charleston Fall event. 

Eric Sojourner and Bobby Bernstein pull out their cell phones and begin to discuss the college game schedules in September-October…. I thought, seriously? My face must have shown the confusion and Bobby said, “Drink your wine, Kat!” No conflicts on September 23-24…. just unknown hurricane activity. Bobby copied old information used to find classmates and we knew Facebook would help or hurt. As Babyboomers, we didn’t rely on one plan. Eric and I agreed cost would be a factor and hoped to keep it so inexpensive no one could be left out.

No conflicts on September 23-24…. just unknown hurricane activity. Bobby copied old information used to find classmates and we knew Facebook would help or hurt. As Babyboomers, we didn’t rely on one plan. Eric and I agreed cost would be a factor and hoped to keep it so inexpensive no one could be left out.

We left with each of us having a task. Hunt down venue. For the next few days we struck out since everything seemed to be pre-booked. In walked Timmy Whitfield, telling us his plantation, Runnymede,  was not booked and could be ours. Like dominoes, all else fell into place through wonderful donations from many classmates. We knew there was a risk it being outside for either storm or heat issues. I put my bet on the football theory. (Little did we know Hurricane Matthew would’ve ruined our plans) We spent hours finding classmates and asking for anyone to give us leads. I researched 40th anniversary… rubies. We’re red and gold, fits perfectly. On a plantation? Fireflies in a mason jar. Last minute, Don Hutson has an ice sculpture delivered. Better than a photo booth! Robbin Knight,

We knew there was a risk it being outside for either storm or heat issues. I put my bet on the football theory. (Little did we know Hurricane Matthew could’ve ruined our plans) We spent hours finding classmates and asking for anyone to give us leads. I researched 40th anniversary… rubies. We’re red and gold, fit perfectly. On a plantation? Fireflies in a mason jar. Last minute, Don Hutson had an ice sculpture delivered. Better than a photo booth! Robbin Knight, photographer, gave his time to capture classmates and a couple teachers going through so many memories and life’s twists turns.

In spite of the lack of summer breeze, we all agreed it went too fast. As I looked around, I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed at how much each of us had pioneered through life in some way for four decades. Growing up….there was no instant gratification, electronics and media were secondary to playing outside until the street lights were on. How many of us followed the mosquito truck when it sprayed through the neighborhoods? (Waiting on Akim Anastapoulo to add that to his TV ads)

One conversation I had with Bruce Felt (who I was intimidated by in high school) was how scary it was to be asked on a date. So many unknown social wastelands we had to figure out. His response? “It was just as hard for us.” In spite of it being 40 years of walking the stage, I went from naive girl to wife, mother, legal assistant, scuba diver, photographer, bellydancer and now

In spite of it being 40 years of walking the stage, I went from naive girl to wife, mother, legal assistant, scuba diver, photographer, bellydancer and now grandmother! All of you shared your footprints in some way as I hope I did yours.

Thank you, Middleton High School Class of 1976 for making this a success!

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Facing Stage Fright: This Time with a Book Signing!

My friend and author Millie West and I recently shared a table at the lovely McIntosh Book Shoppe for a two-day book signing in downtown Beaufort, SC — two days of talking up our books and meeting new readers during the Beaufort Water Festival.

The annual festival attracts hundreds of people including vendors and entertainers. When Millie invited me to join her July 20-21 for a book signing, I confess I felt the same pressure as my protagonist in Ameera Unveiled. Spotlight and stage fright. Despite being eager to attend, I couldn’t help those old feelings of nervousness and anxiety.

But obviously it was an opportunity not to be missed. I choked down my trepidation and headed 60 miles south from Charleston to Beaufort.

When I arrived, the staff at McIntosh were friendly and encouraging. Millie and I sat in typical southern summer heat with relief from a box fan. I was impressed with the ease Millie had in drawing pedestrians to the table. She promoted her two novels, The Cast Net and Catherine’s Cross, and I shared Ameera Unveiled.

At the end of the day, we had laughed, signed books, and found new connections with dozens of passersby. The stagefright was gone as I remembered that this is one of the wonderful things I love about being an author.

With my favorite character, Lara Forte!

As I rolled my suitcase back to the car after the long, but enjoyable event, I reflected on our two days. Just as Ameera emerged from her journey by being pushed into a spotlight, I left Beaufort with the same message as my book: Face those forbidden zones. Enjoy the power of female bonds. And never lose your sense of humor.

My sincere thanks to Millie and the McIntosh Book Shop for two special days of book signing in Beaufort!

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Freedom to Dance!

During the afterglow of my belly dance troupe’s performance during the North Charleston Performing Arts Festival on April 29, 2016, my husband flashed a mobile picture of me. Normally, photos of me dancing make me a little nervous, but this time, the internal reaction for me? It was a money shot.

For those that know me or have read Ameera Unveiled, the journey to free myself to embrace the spotlight has come with many battles: The Battle of the muffin tops. The Battle of It’s-All-About-Me. The Battle of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood gap. Sound a little like a Civil War? It was and is! In any uprising to find freedom from oppression, sexism, racism or any other ism…. did freedom ever manifest without a rebellion? There is no such thing as free.

Not to digress, as I stared at my money shot on hubby’s phone, I couldn’t help but revisit my dance journey. The journey to find the Freedom to Dance. Part of my seasoning was mastering choreography, accepting my rank within Palmetto Oasis and stepping onto the battle field (the dreaded dance stage). In 2008, Private Ameera was drafted and participated in Operation Jamaica. She was assigned to gypsy duty under the leadership of Lt. Nasreen and Lt. Parvaneh. Eventually, the Jamaican performance looked tightly put together and sassy. But, I knew my part was rote and my joy was still stifled under the pressure to get it right.

Here I was, eight years later performing the same dance as a duo. Nasreen and Ameera were good friends and had served in the trenches. On April 29 as we dueled as sassy gypsy girls, I finally was able to surrender and abandon perfect choreography for the joy of dancing with my friend. After two and half minutes, we did our final pose and pranced off stage. To my surprise, my dance partner hugged me and planted a big kiss on my cheek in front of the audience.

Still staring at the shot, I realized that standing up to a life’s footprint that denied the Freedom to Dance, I’d finally won a battle. My performance was not relative to the term perfection. I surrendered perfection and embraced being an achiever of excellence—baby step by baby step. I could look at my hubby’s photo and realize that for the moment, I’d won the freedom to dance. His picture painted a thousand words to support my 400 word blog…

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Looking For Lydia? Where Did I Come From?

I took Dean Robertson’s book on my recent dive vacation. I’ll admit it cut into my focus to add to my own writing project, but the questions she posed haunted me for several days…

The women in her book had several common bonds: aging, a Bible study and shared residence at the Lydia Roper Home. As Dean led them through a study of women in the Bible, the complexity of how “life showed up” shone through the pages of the Bible and Ms. Robertson’s book, Looking for Lydia, Looking for God.

“What did she want? What did she get? What did she lose? What are the compromises we make? Are they enough? Do we, perhaps, find even more than we hoped for?”

Those are the questions threaded in the reveal of the lives of the residents of the Lydia Roper Home. Just as the women of the Bible made their mark from birth to death, the core group share their road maps. They shared decades of history growing into women, motherhood, careers– and unanswered prayers that changed pathways.

Dean Robertson tries to learn more of the woman, Lydia Roper, the namesake of the home originally dedicated to care for widows of Civil War veterans. The author is driven to answer the above questions and trace the footprints of Lydia during her ninety years on earth. Dean takes a dusty jewel of a woman’s life and discovers the refraction created in those around her.

My favorite summary of her search is:

“Looking for Lydia is like looking for God, and you’re doing both. We are all looking for Lydia. We are all looking for that something we may or may not find, but the search for which defines our lives. In the course of that search we find frustration, disappointment, loss, and grief, but we also find much that we didn’t expect– work and love and relationships and joy.”

Thanks, Dean Robertson, for allowing us to look and learn about a piece of your life.

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Lights, Cameras, Corset

Only a few more days before Palmetto Oasis Middle Eastern Dance Troupe performs in the North Charleston Performing Arts Festival. Some of the women have marinated and subsequently created dances beginning after the 2015 show. We spend hours on the internet researching costumes and YouTubes. After my son moved out, I converted his bedroom into a small dance room. My husband thinks nothing of several parked cars and entering the house hearing jingling and exotic music. My dog, Chaz, was eager to greet dancers and hang out until he got underfoot. My cat, Hollywood, loves to get under skirts or plop into the center of the room expecting everyone to dance around him.

It isn’t unusual for other family members from husbands to children in assisting with some phase of our shows. After our dress rehearsal, we iron out the kinks– costume failures, dance step challenges or emcee adjustments (to name a few).

During Sunday’s rehearsal, I was changing into my gypsy costume which consisted of two gypsy skirts, coin scarf and corset. Time is precious when changing and I was sliding into my corset and could not figure out why it wasn’t fitting my bust. Our director was tying me up (think Scarlett O’Hara) and informing me the laces were off as well. With no time to really focus on resolving the issue, I joined my partner to run through the dance in the corset as is. Before the end of practice, we’d figured out that I’d put the corset on upside down!

I went home with all my mental notes and knew I had to re-lace the corset. My daughter and engineer son-in-law were over for Sunday dinner. I amused them with my malfunction story…holding up the corset like a show and tell moment. My son-in-law took possession and proceeded to properly lace and balance the ribbons. (Where was my camera?)

Sometimes I question the interruption of rehearsals before our final show, but this time, with the help of all our family and friends– I have this all tied up!

 

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Palmetto Oasis Middle Eastern Dance Troupe Celebrates Powerful Women of Dance

The Palmetto Oasis Middle Eastern Dance Troupe will be performing at the North Charleston Performing Arts Festival on April 30th. Each year, we brainstorm the name of the next show’s theme should North Charleston invite us to perform again.

The 2016 show is dedicated to powerful women, in dance and beyond. Throughout our performance, Palmetto Oasis will share stories of powerful women in dance. I’d nominate our troupe founder and my mentor/teacher, from whom I learned to dance –Sybil Yocum– who I wrote about in Ameera Unveiled. Based on actual events and the tribe I became part of, Sybil challenged each of us to allow dance to “…encourage women’s self-esteem and wellness, inspiring them to bring forth their creativity and passion for life.” ages women’s self-esteem and wellness, inspiring them to bring forth their creativity and passion for life

To help in that celebration, Ameera Unveiled is on sale at BQB Publishing – CLICK HERE to order your print copy. And I’ll be available to sign your copies following our performance.

If you’d prefer to read Ameera on Kindle, please CLICK HERE!

Hope to see you at the festival to join us in celebrating powerful women in history…

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Wind of Change – Staying True to You

I’ve started my parenting tale with two US Navy fathers raising four girls… just like a modern tale of Little Women. Although, Louisa May Alcott’s father was kept away because of Civil war injury, my tale is more complex.

Products of the mixed signals between Russia and America who economically survived the Great Wars, Korean and Cold Wars…. we dependents were at the mercy of little disclosure or access to our fathers’ duty stations. They defended treaties with allies and defended the right to use international waters without acts of violence. They were crowded on ships that shared and operated as one under pressure. Obedience to an oath to serve country… or among those who wanted to get out of subscription.

Little did I know how intricate this simple fact was for not only my parents… but those who blazed the trail behind them. Life’s one constant was change, some closer to global evidence of genocides, religious division and political agendas than we’d know as small children.

I was never raised to think color, race, or creed. I lived through and embraced the desegregation during my childhood in the South. I didn’t know how to make sense of assassinations of JFK, Martin Luther or Robert Kennedy. I lived between the fantasy of Disney and ignorance of political corruption. I was not aware of the egotistical agenda of the Berlin Wall. Vietnam was just a place my fathers went to work.

My innocence was cocooned by parents who were far from perfect. They just kept the lines of the messiness of adult life issues from us. Playing Cowboys and Indians in the woods was not offensive. As I used a stethoscope or pretended to give prescriptions to my siblings, no one worried I was headed to substance abuse. Being on the losing team at recess did not crush my self esteem. Sometimes you lose, sometimes you win. Pen pals used stationery and postal stamps. I waited and learned patience because there was no instant gratification.

I don’t think there is anything surrounding my five decades of life that is new to mankind. But, I still want to follow in my fathers’ footsteps. Never think the smallest kindness is futile. I don’t want to be discouraged by the magnitude of the descent of a country’s moral compass. I will not be afraid to face mindful weigh ins or challenging offensive lines. I aspire to respect someone’s opinion, hopefully being reciprocated the right to mine.

Change was more subtle during my lifetime. I guess I heard my dad’s Wind of Change subliminally and dreamed away. Looking back, I realize the enormous gift of these great adults. Do we leave that ability to dare to dream?

I can’t. I want to look behind and see my footprint carrying on the torch of hope given to me by a great legacy of ancestors.

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