WORD.
Little Moments of Love
We are not one thing.
When I was in college, I studied Political Science, Philosophy, and Law. And Theatre.
Sounds crazy, I know, but, I loved the arts, and I loved helping people and so a dual major it was.
I can't even remember what semester it was, but there was a semester where I was in a show where I had two sisters. Our father was another character. It was called Three The Hard Way, by Linda Eisenstein.
So there we were, one sister an Italian American, one sister a Puerto Rican American, and a Guyanese American.
Our dad was a Black American.
And we were a family.
Bear with me for a moment, those of you who might be rolling your eyes.
I know were playing roles, it was a show, yes, but we became so much more than that.
For it's almost ten years later, and I would drop anything for these people, should they need it. Throughout that rehearsal process we became sisters. We shed the preconceived notions of our upbringings, and we just loved on one another.
Another friend from this season of my life met her husband while at college. He was from Turkey. He is Muslim. They married, she converted, they have two kids and on the way. She's one of the smartest humans I know. We talk about religion for hours. She continues to use theatre to educate and spread more love.
Theatre.
We are more than one thing.
I am a theatre director and producer and playwright. Many of the artists who've shaped me in my career have been part of the LGBTQ community. They lift me up. They make my world brighter. They make me better at my job.
Through collaboration they become family.
Family.
I am the granddaughter of immigrants. My mother's first language was not English. My paternal grandfather is a WWII vet. My maternal grandfather was a rebel soldier fighting the Nazis in WWII. My maternal grandmother has an INSANE STORY about how a Nazi soldier almost shot her on her family farm in the hills of Tuscany.
True story.
I am the granddaughter of immigrants. Of a World War II Veteran. Of immigrants who came here searching for a better life. It's a badge I wear with pride.
I am the daughter of two public school teachers. My parents have devoted their life to public service. They are the educators you see in movies. They are the ones who hold up their students to a level of greatness that one can only dream about. They are the adults that inspire hope in future generations.
Hope.
I am the godmother of the most beautiful little black girl. She's 10. She's an unbelievable snowboarder. She only wants to wear her brother's clothes. She's young. And impressionable. And just wants to love.
Love.
My soul sister is a black woman. She is a teacher. A mother. A wife. A daughter. A sister. A friend. She is one of the most unbelievably kind and giving human beings I know. Her husband is a white man. He too is a magnificent human. They make my life better. They have two children who I would walk through fire for.
My other best friend has seen me in my lowest times. We've been there to lift each other up. We've been friends for over twenty years. I know we'll lift each other up for twenty more.
The love of my life is a white man who's half Jewish and Lutheran. He's the greatest human I know. He comes from one of the most beautiful families I know. And they're a colorful quilt of Puerto Ricans and Cubans and Peruvians and Italians and Irishmen.
Love.
We are more than one thing.
Some of these people who've shaped me into the woman I am today voted for Clinton. Some of them voted for Trump.
I'll be honest, I'm having a hard time knowing people I love voted for Trump. It cuts me to my core.
Last month I went to Washington D.C. for the first time as an adult. And in between pretending like I was in an episode of The West Wing, I felt hope. I felt pride. I was practically glowing. Today I am bone sad, yes. For Trump was not my choice.
And I'm sad as a woman.
Sad for my friends and loved ones in the LGBTQ community, in the black community, in the Hispanic community, and Muslim community. My heart hurts for them, with them, alongside them.
But that sadness doesn't negate my love of country. For it's the beauty of the USA that we're even able to have this discussion.
I am sad today, and I'll own that. I don't know if I'll ever understand the motivation to vote for him, and I'll own that too.
But I am choosing to move forward. To combat hate. To educate. To leave this world better than I found it. If it's one thing I've learned today, it's that people are sad to their inner core. People are afraid. And I hope anyone who voted for Trump can find compassion in their hearts for those of us who are hurting. For we need to listen to one another. We need to hear one another. Tiny conversations make all the difference. Little moments of love are the first step in healing this divide.
Hope
Exactly one week ago, I went to Washington D.C. for the first time as an adult.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't run around the city pretending like I was in an episode of The West Wing.
I wanted the title sequence music on a loop. I mean, can you blame me?
But jokes aside, I was taken aback by the beauty of the city.
Maybe it's because it's an election year, but the energy of Washington is palpable - and it's positive.
Negativity seems to be pouring into every screen I look lately, all under the guise of what's good for people. All under the cloak of political knowledge.
Everyone's a critic, a political expert, and a historian. Everyone knows what's best for one another, for their neighbors, for people whom they have never met.
I don't know about you, but I find it exhausting.
And hatred, well, it fogs the brain. It weighs you down. It makes you lose perspective.
We walked around the National Mall in 81 degree heat on an October day. I had opted for one of my typical all black outfits, a poor choice in retrospect.
As we walked from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial I remember just stopping for a moment to take it all in. So many people were out and about on this hot day. So many languages filled the air. So many families celebrating being together.
So many reminders of what matters.
Perspective can be easily lost amidst the chaos and chatter of today. But standing in the middle of the National Mall is a surefire way to remember what it's all for.
The monument tour ended in the evening, sitting in the cool marble of the Jefferson Memorial.
It was quiet. Much more so than earlier in the day, as a lot of people had long gone home.
There was something so moving about being there at night. With the cool marble and the quiet. It fills you with pride for you country, for justice, and for hope.
Hope is so important. So needed. So Beautiful. I do believe it's what will see us through, it's the thing to hold on to when the world feels too vicious.
Washington D.C. is hope.
Out of the past comes the dreams of our future, and a hope for a better tomorrow.
So sit in the monuments of those who've paved the way. It's so very humbling, it's so very important.
And as November rounds the corner, remember the dreams of immigrants who started this great nation, and the promise of possibility that they held close to their hearts, of all that was, of all that could be.
31
I'm turning 31 in two days.
(Insert string of shocked emoji's right here.)
Shocked because, well, I can't believe I'm going to be 31. I mean, how on earth could I be turning 31 when I still feel like a gal of 18?
Where does the time go?
See, that's the thing about time - the little cliches and quotes are true. Time waits for no one.
Time just keeps ticking along, whether you're ready or not. Whether you're prepared or not. Whether you're paying attention or not.
As a kid, I loved celebrating my birthday. My mom always made sure to make my brother and I feel special, and not just with gifts but with tiny details. She'd make sure to wake up before us and decorate the kitchen with balloons and streamers in our favorite colors.
Silly bits of crepe paper and balloons made me feel like the luckiest kid in the world.
As an adult, I was never a birthday celebration person.
As in, never the type to make big deal about my own birthday. It's just a day. It's just a number. Why make it a big deal?
I can't figure out when or where or why I adopted that mindset, it still stuck to me like glue. That somehow these moments of joy weren't special. They weren't worth celebrating.
A birthday is just a day - what's the big deal?
I lost a lot of people in my life over the past year. People whom I loved. People whom I cared about. People who were there one second, and then gone the next.
No warning. No explanation. Just gone.
Death swooped in, and that was that.
And now, I think about birthdays differently.
There's so much uncertainty in this life. So much unknown. People are there one day and then they're gone the next - so what's the harm in celebrating?
Absolutely nothing.
So celebrate.
Celebrate a birthday, an anniversary, a job promotion, the holidays.
Celebrate the tiny moments of life that fill your heart with joy, even if it's not some big milestone.
Celebrate each day you get to spend with those that you love.
Work will always be there.
Stress will always be there.
But love and joy - those are things to fight for. Those are things worth celebrating.
A Million Shades of Grey
I'm tired.
I'm so tired of the hate that's coming through my screens lately.
I'm so tired of turning tragedies & people into hashtags.
I'm so tired of stereotypes that are continuously perpetuated by the media.
I'm tired of worrying about the ones I love who happen to be black.
GOOD GOD.
What are we doing to each other?
Why are we hurting one another?
Why does the amount of melanin in someone's skin engulf another in such fear?
I'm tired.
Aren't you tired?
I'm so tired.
Last week my boyfriend and I went to see a show in NYC.
We parked on the street.
We came out of the show, and his car was gone.
Naturally there's a certain sense of panic when one parks his or her car in a location, only to return and have it not be there.
Was it towed? Was it stolen? What happened?
We called the cops, and they eventually came. They were kind. Polite. Helpful. They told us his car was hit, and subsequently towed.
They gave us the information on where to get the car, and went along their route. We went home.
Nobody was hurt, thank god.
Nobody was hurt. thank god.
Nobody was hurt, thank god.
Not a scratch from the accident, not a bullet from a cop.
Thank God.
I cannot wrap my head around what's going on in this country lately.
It seems to be getting worse, this racial tension. Or maybe it's always been this bad, and we know about it now, cause of cell phones. Cause of social media. Cause of the big bad internet...
...I don't know.
I don't know how to fix this - and make no mistake, something must be fixed.
It's not about listening to cops. So many of these stories have been people who have listened to the women and men who wear blue.
It's about acknowledging the underbelly of this all - fear of those who are different than you.
I'm starting to think that we have to be honest with one another - to acknowledge the fact that some of us are scared of those who have more melanin in their skin.
I for one do not understand such fears. My goddaughters are black. My best friend is black. Her son is black. My colleagues are black. There is so much black in my life, and I am not afraid.
But this is not about me.
It's about those who are afraid. It's about the families and communities that are being broken.
I don't know what the answer is - but a conversation seems like the place to start.
I don't know what the answer is, but what I do know is something must be done. And it cannot be meeting violence with more violence.
But something must be done.
We argue about black and white. We kill about black and white. But the world is a million shades of grey.
I don't know what to say anymore.
All I know is thus - love and respect needs a louder voice in this world. Give love when you can, call out hate when you see it. Educate those who don't get it.
We all need to be better.
We all need to do better.
H...
Once upon a time, I wrote a play called H.
And one week from today, H will have a staged reading at Guild Hall in East Hampton, as part of their JTDLab.
Before I was a teacher, I never knew a person who tried heroin. When I was in high school, kids dipped into their parents liquor cabinets. They smoked weed. The rebels did cocaine.
When I thought about heroin, I thought about homeless folks on the streets of New York City. I thought of dirty needles and dark alleys and seedy areas that people avoided like the plauge.
Teenagers sporting skinny jeans and hoodies and faces full of make up with their iPhones in tow were never a thought in my mind.
Heroin was not something I ever encountered.
Heroin was not something I ever heard about.
Not until I became a teacher, that is.
Then I heard about people doing it - and those people, those kids, were my students.
It still hurts my heart to think about my kids who struggled with addiction. Beautiful, bright, wonderful kids, who fell prey to a vicious monster that knew no gender, no race, no economic status.
They came from loving homes, they came from homes with stories that would make your heart shatter into a million pieces.
They came from all different walks of life.
They had all different stories.
One too many of them had one thing in common, and it was abusing pills, and then heroin. See, at the time, oxycotin was $25 a pill. But heroin was a mere $9 a bag. So when the pills ran out, they turned to the cheaper option.
I can't count the amount of times they came to my colleagues and I, crying. Broken. Distraught. Angry.
It was a vicious cycle that they couldn't break.
It was a period in my life I can never forget.
I couldn't understand how my kids, who I believed in so much, who had so much potential, could get wrapped up into this cycle of addiction.
Why?
Why couldn't they see themselves as I did? Why couldn't they find another outlet for their pain? Why didn't they know how to lean on the adults in their lives that loved them? Cared for them? Wanted the best for them?
Why?
I still remember my kids who came to class high. The ones who failed out because they were too doped up. I remember the ones whose eyes rolled back in their heads because of their cocktail choice of the day. I remember one of my most favorite students, coming to me, crying because she started doing drugs with her boyfriend. It was the thing that she hated about him - and now, she too was doing it.
Help me, Min.
I remember her fight.
I remember being so proud of her when she graduated. When she got clean.
I remember all of their faces.
I fought for those faces, day in and day out, and I'd do it all over again if I had to.
I never understood why they choose to shoot up. Or smoke it. Or take pill after pill. I don't think I'll ever understand. But at a certain point it doesn't become about understanding anymore - it's about listening.
It's about loving. It's about finding ways to support those who are struggling - in a proactive way.
So, I'll listen.
And I'll write about it.
Because perhaps my words will ring true to another face that needs fighting for. Perhaps another mother or brother or sister or father will hear the hope in my words. Perhaps the story that has come from this will open a conversation about addiction.
Because we sure don't talk about it enough.
Addiction.
We sweep it under rugs and hide it in dark corners and give silent looks of disgust and distain and sometimes mask it as concern. We hurdle people off to rehabs and isolate them in classrooms. We dance around the subject.
We never talk about it. Openly. Honestly. Truthfully.
Here's to the start of a conversation.
One can only hope.
H…is a story of three different teenagers – Zoe, Gemma, and Owen – all of whom struggle with heroin addiction. This is a story of how three teenagers and young adults have been effected by this monstrous drug, and how addiction not only changes the lives of the addicts but their families and loved ones as well. H… begs the questions: how does the cycle of addiction start? What role does society play in all of this? And more importantly, what’s it going to take to break the cycle of addiction? Will the cycle be broken before lives are lost?
I will be directing this staged reading, and the cast of H features Alyssa Castellano, Rob DiSario (The Night Alive), Chloe Dirksen (The Poets of Amityville), Joe Pallister (To Kill a Mockingbird, Of Mice and Men - Bay Street Theater), William Sturek (Of Mice and Men - Bay Street Theater), and Michelle Veintimilla (The Visit, FOX’s Gotham).
Guild Hall is located at 158 Main Street, in East Hampton, NY. Tickets to this staged reading of H... are FREE! Additional information is available guildhall.org.
Smile In The Face of Something Mean
I can't get her out of my head.
She was skinny and tall. She was bouncing around the street.
Jittery.
She was wearing a baseball cap and long sleeves and jeans that were cuffed.
She crossed the street, paused in front of my car, and gave me the middle finger.
I do not know this woman. I did not know her name. I did not know what prompted her to do a carelessly negative thing.
I wanted to scream out the window a string of expletives. I wanted to flash my own middle finger.
But…I didn't.
The world is so crazy nowadays.
It is crazy and sad and beautiful and happy and horrible and strange.
See, I was coming from a weekend at the beach with loved ones. I was sunkissed and relaxed and happy. I was on my way to a rehearsal.
She was jittery, but I was bouncing with joy.
Joy.
In that moment, I chose joy. I chose to not engage with the negativity. I chose not to fan the flames of someone else's despair.
I chose to smile in the face of something mean.
And look, I'm not saying that's easy.
I'm not saying I always do that - I don't.
But I'm wondering what would happen in this world if we all chose to do that a little bit more.
The world is so crazy nowadays.
Facebook feeds and tweets have become saturated with negativity, sarcasm, and snark. It can feel like a battleground out there. It can feel like everyone around you is looking to draw lines in the sand.
And I think so much magnificence can happen if we cross those lines. If we step over onto the other side of something that is different than you, and smile. Or say hi. Or ask, how are you - and then stick around long enough to hear the answer.
I did not know this woman. I did not know her name. I did not know what prompted her to do a carelessly negative thing.
And I'll never know.
But I feel bad for her. Someone who lashes out like that is clearly carrying around sadness an pain and anger - and that can never be good. When left unchecked, these wiegh on our souls like an anchor, dragging us down into a dark pit of despair.
And that, my friends, is sad.
I did not know this woman.
But what I do know is matching her anger with more anger was not going to accomplish anything.
I mean, let's be honest, when does it ever? What good ever came out of hate?
It is easier said than done, but perhaps it's best to smile and move on in the face of something mean.
Live and Let Live and Lunch
Just yesterday, there were workers at my parents' house, fixing a botched job that they had done on their deck.
These men, immigrants from Brazil, were at my parents house real early, working in the sticky heat that occurs in New York in July.
I called my mom around lunchtime to see if she wanted to go to the gym with me that afternoon.
She declined.
I can't. I'm cooking, Megan.
For whom? I asked.
The workers. They said they were going to order pizza. I said don't do that, I'll make you some pasta.
Why?
Because it's a nice thing to do.
So there she was, my mom, cooking pasta and sauce for these workers who came to her home to finish a job.
Why? Because it's a nice thing to do.
She didn't have to. She got nothing out cooking for these men. There was no angle. There were people who were hungry, and she just wanted to feed them.
It's not the first time she's done something like that. Not the first time at all. That's just who she is - a woman who practices what she preaches. A woman who listens before she judges. A woman with a heart so big, everyone wants to climb inside her warmnth.
I don't know why I was surprised.
But perhaps it has something to do with the world lately...our politics at home. The terror abroad. The senseless violence that seems to know no limits. The arguing over whose life matters most. The ignorance of some. The deafening silence of others. The pain. And heartache. And sadness. And anger.
It's too much.
So yeah, when my mother does something so natural to her, for men who are quite different from her, perhaps that's cause for a tiny celebration.
Moments like that give me hope.
I think it was barely eight hours after that lunch when I heard about the terror in Nice.
I can't get it out of my head.
Wounds are still raw from Orlando and Beirut and Turkey and Israel and Alton and Philandro and Dallas, and now Nice?
I'm so tied of turning tragedies into hashtags. I'm so tired of evil getting such a loud voice on my screens. If you cannot love - at least live and let live.
Perhaps the answer is baby steps.
Perhaps the first step is a simple smile, a simple compliment. Perhaps it's saying "thank you" or "you're welcome". Perhaps it's listening to a friend in need, listening to a stranger in need - if only for a moment. Perhaps it's coming together, if only for one evening, to support those who are both similar and different thank you - perhaps these are the pebbles of goodness that start ripples of change.
Perhaps the answer is a simple lunch.
The Gift of Growing Old
I watched one too many friends bury parents this year.
I watched one too many friends bury loved ones this year.
We wept together. Remembered together. Laughed together. Reflected together.
And those were just the funerals I attended - for there have been too many people whom I know and love and admire who have experienced great loss this year. Too many to count.
And on this Father's Day, I can't help but think - growing old is a gift.
It was one of the first shows I ever produced, and an audience member found out I was 28. (I'm 30 now, by the way.)
Don't ever tell someone you're that old, she said.
Don't ever tell someone I'm the age I am?
Really?
Are we that afraid of growing older?
Terry. Robin. Katie. Sam.
Nobody made it to 65.
Maybe that sounds old to you all, but trust me, it's not. I mean, you can't collect social security before then!
It feels as though they were robbed.
And yet, we continue on.
But we forge forward looking at life a little differently. We celebrate each and every year. We shout the milestones from the rooftops. We choose family and friends over work. We appreciate the beauty of a sunset, the ease of walking without trouble, a nice glass of wine. We soak in the sounds of laughter from those whom we love the most. We stare at the blue sky a bit longer, and marvel how the sun sparkles when hits the water of our favorite beach.
We put down our phones. We listen more. We laugh more. We love harder.
We remember the ones whose lives were cut too short.
We remember that every day is a gift.
We celebrate every wrinkle, every day, every minute that we get to soak it all in.
Happy Father's Day to my father, the best man I know. To the fathers of those who I know who've raise some of the best men and women that grace this earth - your children are undoubtedly making your proud. To the fathers who step in when others have walked out, to the mother's who rise up when they have to, to the villages that raise children, this day is for you.
What Do You Do?
Sometimes the bullying gets so bad I don't want to come to school. Sometimes the bullying is so bad in, well, life, that I wish I could just disappear.
Just last week I was asked to be a teaching artist of a program called Project Hero. Created by the brilliant Kate Meuth in association with Guild Hall of East Hampton and the Hampton's International Film Festival, Project Hero is a program designed for middle school students, in an effort to teach empathy and compassion. It's an effort to combat bullying in schools, after school, online, and well, life.
It was beautiful...and it broke my heart.
There's an exercise that's part of the curriculum that asks the students to name words/phrases that they have been called that make them feel bad.
....it broke my heart.
Bitch. Fucker. Slut. You're a disgusting. Ugly. You're a mistake. N*gger. Go away, nobody cares about what you have to say. Stupid. Go kill yourself. You're not wanted here. Dumb. Nerd. Bitchy Latina. White trash. Retarded.
...it broke my heart.
What do you say to the faces of 20 twelve-year olds who want to know why people are mean? What do you say to the faces of 20 twelve-year olds who don't understand why their classmates keep picking on them? What do you say to the faces of 20 twelve-year olds who want to know if it gets better - do people get kinder with age? Do people mind their own business as they grow up?
What do you say?
I want to say yes, but I don't want to lie to them either. 'Cause the adults of the world, well, we seem to be dropping the ball quite a bit lately.
At one point in the workshop, unprompted, two students came forward and apologized for being purposely hurtful to some of their classmates.
We were wrong. We're sorry. We see how much we hurt you, and we didn't mean for that to happen.
We were wrong. We are sorry. We didn't mean to hurt you. They are 12 and they were able to come to that conclusion. Twelve.
I asked them for their reflections about the workshop at the end of the last class.
What's the biggest thing you'll take away with you? What about these three days you will carry with you as the summer starts and the new school year comes?
One student said - I realize that there is more to all of us than meets the eye. I need to listen more.
My. Goodness. I hope that mindset stays with them throughout each and every one of their lifetimes.
...
After the conference I headed right to a wedding in Jamestown, Rhode Island.
Love radiated the entire weekend. Love between this new husband and wife. Love between friends. Love between newlyweds. Love between new friends. Love between old friends. Love between parents and children. Love between men and women. Love between women and women. Love between men and men.
It was a wedding. Love hung in the air like a sweet fog.
It was infectious.
It was beautiful.
This couple, well, they chose to share the Supreme Court Ruling on Marriage Equality as part of their ceremony.
That's how they started their wedding ceremony, their start to being husband and wife.
And it was beautiful.
And it was perfect.
'Cause at the heart of that ruling was nothing about biology and or sex - it was just about love. Cause love is love is love is love.
And love is beautiful.
And love should be celebrated.
And love should be shouted from he rooftops.
So, we cheered for our friends. And cried the happy tears. And ate food, and cut cake and danced the night away.
The next morning I read about Orlando.
Good God. It seemed like a bad dream. It didn't seem real. You read things like that, and think - please let this be some Onion article. Please let this not be real. This cannot be real, can it?
Real. All too real.
And I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around the whole thing. Why? Why does this happen?
It's 2016 - are we not past homophobia? I don't get it.
I don't get it, because some of my most favorite people on the planet are part of the LGBTQ community. They have been my shoulder to cry on for more than one occasion. They have been my cheerleaders, my rocks of support on just as many occasions. They have been my collaborators. My confidantes. My friends. My family.
To know them is to love them. I couldn't imagine if anyone ever hurt them because of whom they choose to love.
What happened in Orlando is horrible. It's disgusting. It breaks my heart. It makes me sick.
When the Founding Father's were scripting our Constitution, I think it's safe to say they never wanted the people of this country to go carry AK-47s. That seems rather excessive, doesn't it?
So yes, some sort of gun reform laws are needed. 'Cause what we're doing right now, well, it's not working. Schools. Churches. Theaters. Nightclubs. What's next? A hospital? Let's stop the madness, shall we?
Cause really, what if that were your son? Your daughter? Your husband? Your wife? Your brother? Your sister? Your friend?
What would you do?
But, gun control laws aside, we need to do more for one another. Because somewhere along the line this bastard in Orlando got it in his head that KILLING PEOPLE WAS AN ANSWER TO EASE HIS DISCOMFORT.
And that cannot be ok. That cannot be the answer. The fact that such actions seem to be commonplace is a problem, people.
What happened in Orlando is about guns. I mean, the vile creature who did this had an AK-47 for pete's sake.
But the tragedy that transpired in Orlando is the culmination of an intolerance and irrational anger that has seeped into every facet of our country, at every level, silencing what should be coherent and respectful conversations and debate.
You will not be a friend to everyone you meet. You will not agree with every person that comes across your path - and that is ok. You will have different beliefs and opinions and philosophies than others, and that is ok.
But all people should be able to feel safe.
All people should be able to feel safe.
How many times do we have to write that and yell that and say that for it to become true?
All people should be able to feel safe.
To my LGBTQ friends, perhaps I don't say this enough: I love you all. I support you all. I stand with you all.
Do Your Homework, Boss
I believe in collaboration over competition.
Any sort of athletic game always stressed me out as a child. I played soccer for about five minutes when I was a kid. (Yes, on a team.) And I hated it. I just didn’t want to compete with my classmates. I didn’t want to get yelled at by a coach for missing the ball. I didn’t want to push people out of my way.
It just wasn’t my thing — ya dig?
Perhaps that’s why I got into theatre.
I’ve said this so much I’m probably going to start sounding like a broken record. But, theatre, for me, is one of the most collaborative art forms, and professions out there. It take a village to put a show, a concert, a workshop, a reading - there’s so much that happens that the audience doesn’t even realize.
But, for those who thrive within a community setting, one that challenges you and lifts you and corrects you and makes you think about the world outside yourself - theatre is invigorating. Uplifting. Life changing.
…
A couple of months ago I was introduced to a woman who ran a women empowerment business. She marketed herself as a connector, a mentor, and a coach. She had this Facebook group that directly corresponded to conferences for female entrepreneurs, encouraging them to attend these conferences that she set up in various cities.
The professions of the group were wide and varied. Too many to count. Teachers, coaches, inventors, producers, product innovators - women from all walks of life. And this “leader” claimed to have a connection in all professions, she made promises to all folks - the sort of promises that lift people up. The sort of promises that give people hope for a better tomorrow. The sort of promises that get people out of bed in the morning.
Betrayal is an awful thing.
It seeps into your skin in such a way that it’s hard to shed that feeling of disappointment and hurt and horror that comes with betrayal.
So, imagine my horror when I found out that this woman duped the women attending her conferences. She took money. Lots and lots of money. She promised wages and didn’t deliver. She promised an all inclusive retreat and yet someone else had to spring for the bill.
Oh wait, get this - she asked people to be Keynote Speakers…and then asked certain ones TO PAY. TO SPEAK.
But the sad and frustrating and terrible thing about this was that she preyed on those who didn’t know any better. She sought out women who were changing careers and taking huge leaps and trying new things, befriended them, got them to trust her, and then took their cash.
I’m all in favor of conferences. I think they’re great - whether it’s for professional or personal development…but just make sure you do your homework. Do your research. If someone is asking you for money, you have every right to know where it’s going. To know what you’re getting. If something seems off, perhaps it’s best to walk away.
Trust your instincts.
For those of you who are creative female entrepreneurs interested in attending conferences, here’s a great list geared for creative female entrepreneurs. These are the women who lift you up. These are the folks who are your cheerleaders. They are the people to surround yourself with…and that’s just the tip of the legitimate iceberg. There’s BroadwayCon. Ted Talks. SXSW. BlogHer. Young & Doing.
And those are the ones just off of the top of my head.