Broken

The expansive, empathetic, global perspective I had carefully curated and nurtured for decades was shrinking to focus on one narrow truth: the toxic poison of the so-called populist movement was spreading, permeating and dissolving the hard-earned progress towards the betterment of humanity…

HBD

The 2016 election was my breaking point. Grief, rage, and helplessness washed over me as I watched the results come in and the map of my country steadily turn red, knowing what it all meant. It was a rebuke of everything I had ever valued as a person, as a human being.

It said, brashly and unabashedly, that my life is meaningless. In fact, it was a bold declaration that the kind of global cooperation towards a shared goal that drove my purpose in life was an anathema to the hyper-individualistic, psychopathic focus on the glorification of a time for this country that never existed.

In the wake of that disastrous night — and the year-long shit show that led up to it — I was left consumed with rage, disappointment, betrayal, frustration, and a permeating bitterness that chewed and hacked away at whatever pragmatic optimism I had left.

And I raged. For weeks, I raged. I protested, I ranted, I draped myself in black in mourning for the death of human decency. I could feel the soft parts of me hardening. The expansive, empathetic, global perspective I had carefully curated and nurtured for decades was shrinking to focus on one narrow truth: the toxic poison of the so-called populist movement was spreading, permeating and dissolving the hard-earned progress towards the betterment of humanity — across borders, across races and ethnicities, across class — for which so many had fought so long and so hard, including myself.

Berkeley

In the midst of this crisis, so universal yet incredibly personal at the same time, I had a client visit for work in Berkley, CA. I write grants for nonprofits, creating language that wins money for organizations doing the kind of work that is being torn down by the very people who drove the results of the election.

The nonprofit sector is my passion, it’s been my lifeblood, the bread and butter of my professional life, for nearly two decades now. Through the many varied hats I’ve worn throughout my career, I’ve witnessed the best of humanity again and again. From serving those most in-need, abused and left behind by an inhumane system, to bridging cultural gulfs between people from opposites sides of the globe, helping to create bonds that transcend any physical and socio-cultural borders, my work in this sector has defined my place in this world.

My client in Berkeley was a Jewish social services agency that served some of the most vulnerable people within their section of the Bay Area. From Holocaust survivors aging alone with no surviving family to care for them, to children and families in crisis, to LGBTI MENA refugees and immigrants fleeing certain death, this agency was a full-service community anchor.

We were visiting the agency to learn about their programs in-depth and see them in action. Our point of contact — a smart if harried development director/jack-of-all-trades — showed us what they did and how they did it. The people who worked for the agency, as most nonprofit employees do, worked at lowered salaries, worked longer hours, and carried more stress as a result of the almost extreme empathy that so many workers in the sector hold. We met with program directors and listened to their impassioned descriptions of the work they perform, of those they serve, and of the impacts they witnessed over their years of service.

My team was awed by the sheer amount of work these people were able to accomplish with resources so limited that many in the for-profit sector would call the organization a lost cause. I couldn’t help but be moved by witnessing a client serve so many community needs with such compassion and purpose and the sheer amount of grinding, unending yet inspired work performed by people unapologetically connected to their mission.

It was sitting in a room of Russian Holocaust survivors enjoying a lecture on Chagall by their art historian social worker. It was walking through room after cramped room of household items donated by community members to support the flood of refugees fleeing from any number of conflicts and crises across the globe. It was listening to the aging services director passionately describe the challenges faced by their senior clients, which mirrored my own hellish experience navigating my mother’s early onset dementia diagnosis, and the many ways in which they aimed to at least attempt to ameliorate the suffering of seniors and caregivers.

Comrades

It was also Berkeley. In the particularly militant personal space I had been in for the past six months, Berkeley was a haven of progressive and radical ideology that I connected with on a visceral level. Of course, our visit coincided with a weekend of campus unrest, as anti-fascists and neo-Nazis prepared to face off over a speaking invitation extended to a particularly foul race-baiting piece of shit.

Our point of contact, herself a lifetime Berkeley resident, periodically muttered her disgust with the whole climate of the country, with the acceptance of neo-Nazis as “alt-right” normalcy and the election of their demi-god. She was as granola as they come, yet possessed a sensibility and level-headed practicality that made the struggle against this growing tide of fascism feel tangible and practical instead of just radical fluff spouted off by angsty college students.

Walking the streets of Berkeley in near-perfect weather, surrounded by both beauty and radicalism, I could feel something moving in my chest, something shifting in my core. I was engaged with and soothed by the atmosphere in a way that left me feeling energized and purposeful. My sleep during our visit was fitful due to the sheer volume of thoughts running through my mind over those few days. Yet I awoke every morning feeling recharged and ready to tackle the day ahead with passion and a sharp, focused mind.

The site visit was about as perfect as they get and my team was enthused by the overwhelmingly positive response of our new client. Against the gorgeous backdrop of the Bay drenched in sunshine and draped with an azure sky, I was reminded of who I am. I was allowed to reconnect with my core beliefs, from which I didn’t even realize I had been separated by a wide, cold expanse of cynicism and hopelessness.

Reunion

Our journeys had produced two women whose youthful dreams – some fulfilled, some set aside – had been burnished by years of experience and hard work into deep, rich purposeful living.

–HBD

On the second night of our site visit, I decided to send out the note to my friends, students, and former colleagues in Japan alerting them to my upcoming visit in two months. This visit was to be a celebration of the 10-year anniversary of my last year in Japan, a chance to reconnect with dear friends and with a country that was absolutely pivotal in my personal development all those many years ago.

I was already feeling energized by my time in Berkeley and was filled with joy and excitement as I hit send on my message. The response was nearly immediate, despite the time difference. And the many excited replies that started to pour in over the course of a few hours left me nearly in tears with gratitude, astonished by the reciprocated excitement that mirrored, and often seemed to exceed, my own.

One of these responses was from a former coworker, Mami – a Japanese teacher of English with whom I had bonded over resumes and plotting sessions for our futures more than a decade before. Coincidentally, she was living not more than one hour from where I was staying and with great joy, we arranged a dinner with her and her new husband, a recently-recruited engineer for Apple. It had been 10 years since we had last seen each other, an unbelievable amount of time that was hard to wrap our minds around.

Our initial reunion saw us running across the hotel parking lot into each other’s arms, me weeping with joy at seeing a woman with whom I had shared such an amazing part of my life. There was no initial awkwardness as we settled into the backseat of their car and headed into Berkeley for dinner. We caught up on the last 10 years, her telling me of her travels and life that spanned Japan, France, and the U.S. I shared with her my new career course focused on writing and she let out a small yelp of excitement, as she remembered how much I always wanted to write. Her encouragement was effusive and I was moved by her recollection of such a small detail from so long ago.

Our conversation over dinner spanned a decade of triumphs, failures and frustrations, hard-earned insights and earnest wisdom. Our journeys had produced two women whose youthful dreams – some fulfilled, some set aside – had been burnished by years of experience and hard work into deep, rich purposeful living.

Her memory of me filled me with both warm nostalgia and a stark but gentle reminder of who I am. I was more than rage and resentment, I was more than the sum of my disappointments. I was more than a decade of struggle – for the interceding years had not been easy ones for me – and I was more than even how I now saw myself.

It was seeing myself through the eyes of my former coworker, and being taken back to that time in my life when my purpose was so strong it consumed me, that I was reminded of one crucial fact that had gotten lost in the sea of intervening years. I was part of a much larger, global family, spanning across continents and countries and borders.

My work over the years linked me with other human beings so different in culture and geography, yet shockingly similar in hopes, fears, and desires for the future. I had connected – been connected to – artists, judges, inventors and entrepreneurs, journalists, farmers – a whole world of people all pushing and toiling toward that singular shared goal: the advancement of humanity in a way that benefits the entirety of the world. It is an ambitious goal, but one that I believe is critical to the survival of the human race and our planet. I found great value in the work I did, and great humility as well.

The first step in the journey that would lead me down this path was the decision to leave everything I knew and move -alone – 6,000 miles across the globe to a country I had never set foot on with a language I barely recognized to work with people completely different from anyone I had ever known. It was this decision, and the work it took to make it and see it through, that ultimately set the course for the next 13 years of my personal and professional life.

Given the pivotal role this period has played over the years, I shouldn’t have been surprised that it would take such great prominence in my life. But I was. I realized how unhappy I’d become and how a resentment was actually growing against the value that I placed on my time in Japan. In the last few years, I had been wondering if it had taken too large, too prominent a place in within me. I had been increasingly worried and even ashamed that my love of Yamagata was too much. That it maybe even served as a crutch or a soothing balm for the failures and setbacks and unfilled dreams I’ve faced over the last decade.

But it wasn’t just me. My time with Mami made it clear that it was indeed a special time for all of us. As we sat across from each other recounting the year spent working so intensely together, the good times and the challenges, the impact our work had on both our students and us as teachers, I realized that it was indeed an exceptional experience for all involved.

I’ve been carrying Japan and Yamagata in my heart for more than a decade now, and as it turns out, so has mostly everyone who experienced those 12 months with me. Listening to Mami was eye-opening, a life-changing conversation that confirmed and even validated the place that my time in Japan holds in my heart.

Exhale

My time in Berkeley over that week was transformational. By the end of the weekend, I felt like a rubber band once stretched to the point of breaking now suddenly gone slack. I breathed with an open chest and my body let go of the head-to-toe tension I didn’t even realize had been so tightly binding me. I rested – a deep, peaceful rest – for the first time in more than a year.

As I made my way back across the country, I felt a purpose growing in my newly-cleared mind and heart. I felt that I had undergone a major shift and I was still trying to pin it down, trying to identify what the shift was exactly and what it would mean for me going forward from this point.

Whatever the results of this awakening, I promised myself that I would never let the lodestar of my purpose be lost in again the turbulent waters of the adversity I would no doubt continue to encounter as a part of life.