Dear Mrs. Obama,

Wow, what a cool appearance on I-Carly (debuted January 16, “iMeet the First Lady.” How exciting to use such a popular platform to spread the message about how important it is to support military families.  It was a brilliant marketing idea (I understand it was yours) to reach the 5.5 million people who watched the episode, making it the week’s top telecast with all kid and tween demos.  The show served as a great Public Service Announcement to support military families.

On the other hand, I’m sorry you couldn’t have put in a plug for anti-racism and healthy relationships—in particular non-violent resolution to conflict.  Without denigrating what you did and the positive message you spread, I’m wondering if you’ve watched the show lately.  While we (me, my husband and our 10 year old son) have watched the show for at least a couple of years, (and we didn’t want to miss seeing you) 2012 is the year we say goodbye.

Why? First, we can’t swallow the promotion of violence as the first resolution to conflict, particularly for young people beginning to explore love relationships.   It was the “iCan’t Take It” episode in September, at the outset of Season 5, that did it.  Freddie and Sam are getting closer, Carly hates being in the middle, Gibby gets revenge by telling Mrs. Benson, Freddie’s mom, and all hell breaks loose.  But for every conflict, Sam reacts violently.  She gets mad at Freddie, she kicks him.  She gets mad at Gibby, she pulls out a 3” section of hair and scalp.  Gibby threatens Mrs. Benson.   And it’s all supposed to be funny. 

But it’s not.  You know why?  Because teen-dating violence is real, and it’s not funny.  According to the Bureau of Justice teen dating violence statistics , about one in three high school students have been or will be involved in an abusive relationship.  The show is following tweens morphing into teens, puppy love, learning about relationships.  According to iCarly—lying, beating, punching and kicking is the way to go.  To which I say no. 

And I did, until all of the promo for iStill Pshycho, the much hyped follow-up to last year’s iPsycho, where Carly, Sam and Freddie are taken hostage by an over-zealous fan.  We hadn’t watched since September, Sam and Freddie are no longer a couple; so, let’s try it again, right?

Except that, aside from the fact that untreated mental illness is not funny (think Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords), the violence has escalated.  IPsycho features torture, sword fights, and possibly worse, passive inaction at the suffering of others.  Freddie is attacked while Sam and Carly idly watch eating cake.  “It was really good cake,” they explain.  Gibby makes it to the top of the chimney to get help for the others imprisoned inside, only to get stuck.  The neighborhood kids, seeing his plight, instead pelt him with tennis balls.  

But the subplot is what really got me…over the top racism.  T-Bo, the manager of the Groovy Smoothie shop and only African American character on the show (On the good side, I suppose, it looks like his character is being integrated more centrally into the show) is now renting a room from Mrs. Benson, Freddie’s over-protective mom.  But, it looks like to stay there, he is being forced to act “white.”  To act “Proper” is the term used in the plot summary.  But to act “proper,” he changes from his bright clothes into a suit and neatly secures his waist long dreadlocks before heading ‘home.’  He speaks in a formal voice, and has to learn to play Mahjong (Note—my 10 year old son says this last point undermines my argument that he’s forced to act white, as Mahjong is a 2,000 year old Chinese game.)  Why does he do this, the kids ask him? “If my mom sees how he really is,” answers Freddie, “she’d never let him in my house.” 

“Let’s all pretend T-Bo doesn’t have feelings,” he responds.

In the end, after riding a motorcycle through the door and saving Spencer (Carly’s older brother) and the kids from an eternity in hell, he’s allowed to be himself and stay at Mrs. Benson’s, but when he goes in to join the group hug—they recoil in disgust, not wanting to be touched by him.

So, Mrs. Obama, I understand that Sasha and Malia are fans of the show.  My question to you is, are these the lessons you are planning to teach them?  For me and my ten year old son, the answer is no.

Perhaps the real answer is watching together to talk about the issues.  “How could that have been resolved differently?”  “What would/could you have done in that situation?”

What are you and your kids doing together, and what are you talking about at the dinner table?

Photo Credits:  Mrs. Obama on iCarly, Lisa Rose/Nickelodeon, T-Bo in Suit from Robs I-Carly blog, and T-Bo as himself, Sodahead

Technically this could be construed as my fault, after Lucca went with me to a client’s art opening a few years ago.  The central piece of the exhibit was a beautiful, supersized hand, making the “okay” sign, the ultimate symbol of peace and spirituality in the artist’s native India.

Except that I had to laugh.  “Hmm, wonder what someone from Brazil would think seeing this?”

“Why,” asked Lucca.

“Well, the ‘okay’ sign means something very different in Brazil.” In fact, it’s the cultural cousin of the middle finger in the US.

Now fast forward four years to Friday night pick-up from school…

“I got sent to the vice-principal’s office today,” Lucca announced.

“Why?” I asked?

“I didn’t do anything.”

Of course.  “Just tell me exactly what happened.”

“It started with the book we were reading aloud in study group, that said someone was a ‘born artist’. My friend thought it said ‘porn artist.’ The other said ‘no, I said born artist,’ to which he said, ‘Oh, well that’s ‘okay,’ and made the ‘okay’ sign with his hand.”

Lucca continued, saying that he was only being helpful, by letting his friends know that the “okay” sign meant something different in Portuguese.  That led the boy of Italian heritage to show the Italian cultural equivalent (running one’s fingers from back to front under his or her chin), which caused the child of Russian heritage to pronounce, “Hey, that’s the same thing in Russia!”  Then someone asked the boy of Korean descent if he was familiar with the pinky sign, and he shared that was actually attributed by most to being Chinese, but in reality was Chinese-American.

Possibly after spying my smile as I listened to the story, Lucca, now indignant in defense of his innocence, proclaimed “there’s a religion in Southeast Asia where it’s sacred to read using the middle finger as a pointer…would you deprive someone reading in Southeast Asia because the middle finger is vulgar in the US?”

But herein lies the problem of thinking it’s funny. This is the same child who noted that curse words are a social construct…that words themselves cannot be right or wrong…it’s the intent with which the word is used that makes it “good” or “bad.”

To which I say yes and no.  While age 10 renders “because I’m the mommy” ineffective as the end all reason to stop discussion, I will say this:

We live in a pluralistic society where people agree to abide by certain rules to live harmoniously in society, and one of those rules is that we won’t make vulgar hand gestures to one another at school.”

End of story, right?  Until tonight, when he says “but they’re not vulgar in the US, the society we live in, so how can that be pluralistic if people haven’t agreed in the society where the incident took place?”

Help.  I’m in trouble.  Anyone?  Got anything?

I knew I was in trouble when the nice lady at the grocery store said “powdered or liquid” when I asked for marshmallows.  Well, not actually in trouble, that would be the fact if there was only one way to do things…the “American Way.” But when you are involved in a multi-cultural family you know there are often many ways to do things.

Cultural Equivalence

I love the idea of  “cultural equivalence.”  In translation it might be finding the right word match to convey local sayings.  Or once when setting up a “Teddy Bear” exhibit at O’Hare, we included cultural equivalence for making a child feel comforted.  Teddy Bears might not be in every culture, but the idea of comforting a child is.  Like pita bread is to nan is to tortilla; or spaghetti is to raman, or bowing is to shaking hands.

While some cultural equivalents are obvious, some are the “mother of invention” as one tries to make favorite recipes in another country.

Not that we needed to have our “own” foods while in Brazil.  They have plenty of their own treats there, from pao de queijo (delicious little cheese breads) to brigadeiros (chocolates covered in chocolate sprinkles) and beyond.  It was just that my goddaughter still remembered the Rice Crispy Treats I had made for her during her one-time trip to the US in 2001.  Now that I was visiting her in Brazil, wouldn’t I please make them?

Finding the Ingredients

So, pretty much NONE of the ingredients were available in Sao Paulo.  After following the attendant from the bakery to the frozen food section (she was so nice I didn’t have the heart to say you clearly have no idea what a marshmallow is) we moved onto cereal, only to confirm my suspicion that there are no rice cereals available.  Since I had apparently used both Rice Krispies and Cocoa Krispies when Pri had been in the US, and she had her heart set on a vanilla/chocolate combo, we settled on “Sucrilhos” which are basically miniature sized, a little thicker, Frosted Flakes.  Also available in Chocolate. 

We splurged and bought real butter, and went on to a specialty store which was assured to have marshmallows–and indeed we found something called a marshmallow, that was a circle, about 8 inches in diameter, with two layers, one white and one pink, about an inch thick.  Squishes like a marshmallow…so we bought three of them.

Baking

At this point we just devloved into a science experiment.   Going from memory (one cup butter, bag of marshmallows, rice krispies to stick?) we melted the butter, which was a different consistency in Brazil and was still a little thick and creamy even when melted.  That required adding extra marshmallow, which was more the consistency of peeps to begin with, and melted into a pretty liquidy (which I had now idea how to say “liquidy” in Portuguese, since it’s not exactly a word in English to begin with) substance, that required pouring in the entire two full boxes of cereal, one chocolate one vanilla, mixed together for a massive glob of “Sucrilhos” com Marshmallow.  The marshmallow liquid then sank to the bottom of the cooling pan for a hard, rubbery base…

Which turned out actually kind of delicious

And my niece/goddaughter, for whom I went to three stores and messed the entire kitchen…loved them!  With the sugar coated cereal and extra sweet marshmallow it was a sugar high not to be missed.  Granted, it was probably most appealing to my 10 year old son and 20 year old niece, but then it gave something else for the cousins, who speak different langauges, to do and enjoy together.

In the end

Baking in a culture other than my own reminds me of ordering in restaurants in another country–you have to approach it with a little latitude, because your never sure exactly what you are going to get.  But in some ways that’s the delight of sharing  and learning about another culture.

How do you adapt to other cultures?  How do you share our own culture when you are there?

Good morning! On today’s episode of “The Pretend Jew,” our heroine waivers on hosting the Hanukkah open house in her home because her Christmas tree is still up. And who doesn’t love her confused expression every time she’s in synagogue (she doesn’t speak Hebrew!) and has no idea when to sit down! And here’s your hostess … Deanna!

Yes, that would be me. “The Pretend Jew,” I like to call myself in conversation. Raised Reform, don’t speak Hebrew, dropped out during my early adult life, oblivious to many intricate traditions that others seem to know innately.

Yet I’m also responsible for raising our son Jewishly. Dillon, now 9, clearly identifies as a Jew. How did that happen? (Read the full story on Interfaith Family)

I wrote that piece last year as a guest writer for Interfaith Family, but was reminded of it over the past week during Passover.  Holidays are a wonderful time to extend and perpetuate traditions. 

Our seder ended up being 22 people, Jewish and not-Jewish, from Russia to Brazil, from 5 months to age 60+–Whenever someone Jewish says they have no place to go, or another shares they’ve never been to a seder, I can’t help myself but to extend an invitation.

This year Dillon and I burned bread together the day before Passover began–my son’s idea–a tradition done as a symbol of fully clearing our house of Hometz (contraband flour and like items, although I emphasize the word “symbol” considering what remained in our cabinets!), made tzimmes (a traditional sweet potato, carrot and prune dish), and added a new “keeper,” chocolate matzo brittle. 

Mostly I like creating and building the traditions and tastes of our respective cultures.  I love coating bananas in cinnamon and powdered sugar, sauteeing them in butter, because that’s what Dillon’s Brazilian grandma made for breakfast.  We all wear white on New Year’s Eve, another Brazilian custom, and only found out afterward that, lo and behold, it’s a Jewish custom too, for Yom Kippur. 

What customs do you share in your family?  How do you blend the traditions of two cultures in an intercultural family?

Dave Barry was always able to just take vacation and run old columns.  For me, I’m entering a new world that is based in economic disparity and developmental disabilities–absolutely at the top of the engagement and inclusion/social exclusion list, but new territory that hasn’t quite gelled.  So in the meantime, I’m periodically re-running posts that were personal favorites.  After all, how can you not love a FULL-SCALE replica of an Easter Island Head, on someone’s lawn next to the Wendy’s in a little town in Wisconsin…

(from June 25, 2008)  I’ve been pondering this issue of “Cultural Tourism,” and realize that the better term for what I am talking about, experiencing and appreciating other cultures in a way to diminish prejudice, is more accurately named Urban Anthropology.  A tourist, by definition, is “someone who is traveling for pleasure.”  It is a passive view from the outside, with no commitment to learning or change, hence the perhaps valid criticism of it’s ineffectiveness as a meaningful tool to combat racism.

Urban Anthropologists, on the other hand, “look at how people living in diverse communities cope with current social and cultural changes.  They study the kinds of social relationships and patterns of social life unique to cities.” (per Rosa Cabrera, Center for Cultural Understanding and Change at The Field Museum.)  Plus, anthropologists get to do “ethnography” and “participant observation,” where they become part of the ‘culture’ they are ‘studying’ and participate in activities along with the culture they are observing and learning about.

It’s along those lines that my son L and I took off with another of his 7 year old friends on a road trip from Chicago to Ephraim, WI, to see the Norwegian Fyr Bal festival and experience what I think of as real “Americana.”

We saw a statue of Romeo the Killer Elephant in Delavan, WI (according to roadsideamerica.com he trampled 8 people to death but was spared because he was sad after the loss of his female companion, but the statue in town square just identified him as a symbol of Delavan’s history as the Circus capital of the Midwest in the late 1800’s), we then saw an exact, full-scale replica of an Easter Island head on someone’s lawn in New Berlin, WI, where we also happened upon a rummage sale with Pokemon Cards on sale for 50 cents, had Ice Cream Sundae’s in Two Rivers, which claims to have invented them, and took our picture with the World’s Largest Grandfather Clock, before settling into Ephraim for the fish boil and bonfire ceremonies that are a tradition for this festival (we stayed at the Trollhaugen Lodge, which of course had statues of trolls all around, and had breakfast at a restaurant with goats on the roof-real, live goats who graze on the grass covered roof of Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant).

You have to really like this type of thing to thoroughly relish stretching a four hour drive into eight hours, with all of our stops and using the county highways and side roads (wind surfing with your hand out the window while speeding through farm fields along a two-lane county highway is pure freedom!).  At any rate, this is a polite way of saying it was just me and the boys, because anyone else might spontaneously combust.  Granted, I planned the trip out, had detailed directions from AAA, knew we would only drive during the day, and had covered basic safety issues, but other than that had no apprehension that we would not be welcome or that we would face any safety concerns out of the ordinary. And my expectations along those lines were fully met.

Which makes me wonder.  Is this a universal experience, or is the fact that I am fearless throughout this entire trip an indicator of my white privilege?  I’m left with a nagging feeling it is–the idea that as a white person I can go anywhere.  But what am I saying if I believe minorities should be afraid of taking this same road trip?  I set out to discover true Americana in small town America, but am left wondering if that is an oxymoron, and if this was at the end of the day, completely ‘white’ Americana not only showing the divide in our day to day experiences, but also acknowledging the deeper need to understand our possibly separate experiences of growing up in the same country.

Just ask Ryan, who’s overweight, or Samantha who doesn’t quite know how to socialize—because of a developmental disability, or maybe not.  Kids know when they are different, but do they know how to make others feel included?

In honor of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day my mom, a 40 year veteran of teaching Religious Education at two reform Jewish congregations, asked me to be the “guest speaker” last weekend for her kindergarten class about the legacy of Dr. King.

I had 20 minutes, and they were 5.  In the world of “coulda, shoulda, woulda” could I have prepared more?  Should I have included more biographical information on Dr. King?  Would it have been better for her to have selected someone else?

Sure, but here’s what I say.  1.) Put your money where your mouth is.  If someone asks you to volunteer to speak about something about which you feel passionate (equitable society, combating prejudice, etc.) you say yes, and 2.) If adults will only remember three things that you tell them, kids will remember one.

The Government was denying people rights because of their skin color.  That was wrong.  Dr. King acted and fought for what was right.

Alright kids, what does Judaism say we are obligated to do when we see something wrong in the world?  “Fix it!” they shouted.  Lesson learned?  Hope so.  Lesson lasting?  Hope so too.

Here’s what we did in 20 minutes or less:

ACTIVITY 1:  “Same and Different”

EQUIPMENT NEEDED:  None

ROOM SET-UP:  Helpful to have two to three distinct corners, tables, or ‘bases’ within room where kids can go.

LEARNING OBJECTIVE:  We really don’t know anything about a person or what we might share in common with them, just by physical appearance.  Getting to know someone is what shows his or her character.  Judging before knowing is called prejudice, and might prevent a child from making a good friend.

HOW TO:  Select 4 to 6 questions that will allow the kids to self-select based on things called out by the leader.  Examples might be “boy or girl;” “oldest, middle, youngest, or only child;” “food preferences, such as liking fish or chocolate.”

“If you are the oldest child, go to table 1. If you are the youngest child, go to table 2. If you’re the middle child, table 3”

“If you are a boy, got to table 1; if you are a girl, go to table 2”

“If you are Jewish, go to table 1.”  (Also good to show that just because we are all the same, Jewish, doesn’t mean we all like the same things.)

“If you like to eat fish, go to table 1.  If you don’t like fish or you’re a vegetarian, go to table 2.”

Each time the kids were told to look at who was in their group.   Sometimes kids were similar or different based on physical characteristics. Sometimes all the kids were the same.  And sometimes kids found things in common with each other that they didn’t know just by looking.

“So what can you tell just by looking at someone?”  “Nothing!” answered one child.”

“How can you tell if you might be friends with someone?  “By what’s inside,” said another.

ACTIVITY 2:  Blue Eyes/Brown Eyes (VERY truncated version derived from hearing about the original experment)

EQUIPMENT NEEDED:  None

ROOM SET-UP:  Helpful to have two to three distinct corners, tables, or ‘bases’ within room where kids can be in the same room, but separated.

LEARNING OBJECTIVE:  Recognizing Institutional Bias and standing up against it, just like Dr. King.

“Everyone with blue eyes go to table one.  Everyone with Brown eyes go to table 2.”

“Now, what if the teacher said I’ve got lots of juice, but today only the kids with blue eyes can have more juice.  There’s no juice for the brown-eyed kids, even though I have plenty.  Is that fair?”

“NO!” shouted the kids.

“Well that’s exactly what happened with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  In his case it was actually the United States Government, not just the teacher, who was being unfair and not sharing everything that was available with all of the people.”

“And what does Judaism teach us that we have to do if we see something wrong in the world?”

“We have to fix it” said Emily, “just like Martin Luther King.”

(this piece originally ran 5/08, but always makes us laugh)

I have two words to say.  Butt  soup.  Now that I have your attention…

When my son Lucca was 4 we had a problem getting him to stop eating with his hands.  “Stop it, Lucca,” I scolded.  “Why?” asked Lucca.  “Because we don’t eat with our hands,” I said. As I said it I instantly realized that I was possibly setting my child up to be the ‘ugly American’ in his future world travels by creating an unnecessary hierarchy of customs, so I added in the same breath, “…in our culture.  In other cultures it’s accepted to eat with your hands, but in our culture and with this particular food item, we use silverware.”

A couple months later, out of the blue, Lucca asked “Mommy, what’s that culture where you can eat with your hands?”  “Ethiopia,” I answered, “and perhaps in some parts of India.  Why?”

“Can we go to that restaurant?” Lucca responded.  How ingenious, I thought.  We did a Google search for “Ethiopian Restaurant Chicago” and found a great place called Ethiopian Diamond. Telling the story of how we chose to be there opened a conversation with the server, who was from Ethiopia and shared insights into the food and his homeland.  As we ate the “injera,” the traditional Ethiopian bread used to scoop the food, we asked Lucca to imagine how different cultures have similar ‘versions’ of foods as staples in their diets:  Pita bread in Lebanon, tortillas in Mexico, naan in India…and we had a fun family outing and new experience together.

Remembering the fun of that experience, we decided to go on another cross-cultural culinary expedition.  This time the process was simple and easy to replicate:  1. We looked at a world map.  2.  Together, we picked a country.   We went through a few–China, Italy, etc.–before we settled on one with food we had never tried:  Czechoslovakia.  (Using a globe might be fun at this point too, to add the element of chance to the selection process.)    3.  I logged onto Metromix.com and typed in the name of the country and our zip code.  We picked Operetta, which was the closest to us, but still in a new neighborhood.

We had fun imagining our server’s life in Czechoslovakia as she told us her story.  We tried dumplings (very different than a Midwesterner’s idea of Chicken and Dumplings), shared two different dishes, had a nice cold Czech beer (just the adults), and a big waffle ice cream sundae for dessert.  (As in “we have to try dessert mommy, it might be something we’ve never tried.”)

What I hope from this experience is that Lucca will learn by example as he sees me pushing the edges of my own comfort zone, exploring new areas of the City and trying new things, and that his own sense of curiosity and appreciation for the many perspectives in life will be piqued.   I believe this to be true, although the immediate learning in an experience is not always what you might expect.

Which brings me back to the Butt Soup.  The real highlight for my then 6 year old child, who had just learned to read?   He got to say “butt.”  Out loud.  In public.  In a sentence.  Multiple times, and with legitimate reason:  It was written clearly all over the menu, as in, shall I have the Butt Steak or the Butt Sandwich?  “I think we’ll just try the Butt soup.”

But…rest assured he’s eager for the next outing.

Photo credit tzejen on flickr

My husband and I were at an event last month and a woman who was very proud to have presented at the UN in support of aid for children in Central America (which is important) kept referring them as “those people” as in “you can’t imagine how poor those people are.”  “You can’t imagine how miserable those people are.” All the while we were thinking they aren’t “those people,” they’re…people…individuals each with his or her own story.

Nothing drives that home more than “O Contador de Histórias,” a film by director Luiz Villaça that we saw as part of MOSTRA 2010, a Brazilian Film Festival presented by the Illinois-Sao Paulo Partners of the Americas along with Columbia College Chicago and the School of the Art Institute in Chicago this past weekend.

Villaça, who was in Chicago for the opening, said he was reading a book of children’s stories by world-renowned story-teller and teacher Roberto Carlos Ramos to his sons, and realized the last story in the book was the story of Ramos’ own life.  It was so compelling he called Ramos about wanting to turn that story into a movie.

In a nutshell, Ramos, the youngest of 10 children living in poverty in a one-room home in Belo Horizonte, was sent by his mom to FEBEM in 1978.

FEBEM stands for the Fundação Estadual para o Bem-Estar do Menor (State Foundation For The Well-Being of Minors).  Per the TV commercial she believed he would have the chance at a better life, with the promise of food, housing, and the opportunity to become a doctor or engineer.

When he arrived, nothing could have been farther from the truth–the place was rife with gangs and abuse.  After running away over 100 times (Ramos cites the representation of his fleeing and recapture in the film as one of the most poignant, in terms of the lightness with which it is told) and always being caught and sent back, he is declared by school administrators to be beyond help.

“Sometimes they just go bad.  We lose them.  There’s nothing we can do.”

Enter French educator/researcher Margherit Duvas, who wants to know his story, refusing to believe that “you can throw someone away at 13.  But that last phrasing is more my own USAmerican representation, placing the importance on the “savior,” not the “saved.”

And the point of the movie is just the opposite.  For director Villaça (who was asked at the opening if anyone had criticized him for the racial balance–although it’s based on a true story and is what it is) he said “She did not save him.  He saved her.” Indeed she was completely alone, having separated from her husband years before when it was discovered she couldn’t have children.

She truly loved Roberto.  She ends up adopting him and bringing him back to France with her to educate him, although those years are intentionally not included in the movie. “It’s when he returns home to his mother,” Villaça says, “and returns to FEBEM as a teacher, that’s more meaningful.”

Many cry as soon as the film opens.  And the brutal attack by gang members as an “initiation” is devastating.

But for Ramos, in telling his story it’s one of optimism, a Brazil where “above all we need not only to do for others but for ourselves, to have confidence in one another.”  (If you read Portuguese, or don’t mind the “loose” translations you can find on-line, this is a wonderful interview with him about turning his story over to the filmmakers.)  And while Ramos denies the point of the movie is to encourage others to adopt “street children” in Brazil, he himself is now father to 13 boys he has taken into his care.

It seems that Ramos found the power of story and found release and power in telling his own story.   A line in the movie I love is when Margherit and Roberto stumble upon a story-teller in the park.  He tells a brilliant story about a pen he is holding, one that was used to sign an important document by the Queen of Spain centuries ago.  “Who will buy this pen for 20 Reais” he asks.  “Me” offers Margherit.

When the storyteller opens his briefcase to get her change, Roberto notices six other pens inside.  “Ohh,” he cries, “the pen’s not real!”

“But the story was wonderful,” Margherit says.  “We are buying the story.  The pen is like…a free gift that comes with it.”

Hopefully the film might be available in the Foreign Films Section at your local video store (it’s in Portuguese, with English subtitles).  At a bare minimum, if you are in Chicago, stay tuned to the Illinois-Sao Paulo Partners of the Americas website for a viewing in December.

So next time someone says “what’s your story?” Own it, live it, be inspired by it.  After all, it’s you.

What’s your story?

Photo credit Roberto Carlos Ramos