Many moons ago, I worked as a community educator at a domestic violence center. I spoke to female and male prisoners, young teens and police officers, sharing stories about the dynamics of domestic violence, spreading the word and searching for advocates.

These conversations changed me for life. No class in college could ever teach me what I learned during these years.

After I left, it was extremely important to me to continue to educate myself on the topic even after I’d left the job – from books, movies, talking to people – and found Anna Quindlen’s Black and Blue through my research.

Domestic violence is a serious topic that deserves much attention. And even though the book is fiction, Quindlen keeps it amazingly real.

I’ll keep it too a simple truth, a key lesson from my reading that only reinforced what I’d learned through my teachings, the one fact I know to be true.

Domestic abuse is not someone else’s problem.

Quindlen’s masterpiece of a novel features Fran, a motivated young woman married to an initially captivating man, but ultimately abusive violent husband. After numerous, horrific events, she leaves him, starts a new life with her son, changes her name. I’ll leave it at that – as you can imagine, the increasing anticipation of ‘what’s next’ and the ultimate denouement pump the reader full of adrenaline.

Most of us are fully aware of the male/female dynamic of domestic abuse. But it’s important to remember is that domestic violence can take many forms. It can be between siblings, it can be wives abusing husbands, it can be adult children abusing their more helpless, aging parents.

The thread between them all is that there exists a guise of intimate connection that should presuppose kindness and security, but ultimately is a lie. It’s a dynamic of power, plain and simple.

Many often ask, “Why doesn’t she/he just leave if they’re being abused?”

I always challenge those individuals to research the topic a bit more before they judge. It’s actually never that simple.

I’ll leave it at that – this isn’t meant to be a downer of a review, but every once in a while, we need to recognize the books, articles, whatever, that educate us in a more serious way. They’re just as important as the ones that make us smile.

Just speak up.

There’s no shame in talking about topics that are not OK. There’s no shame in having a voice.  Amy Richards and Jennifer Baumgardner are two women who have inspired me to keep my voice alive about this topic. Friend Kelly Diels started a massive conversation on violence, sex and power – she spoke up, speaks truth, stays real.

Fifteen years ago, we did not have the power of the Internet, blogs, Twitter to spread ideas like wildfire. In many countries, people still aren’t able to speak up. Use these privileges for good. Speak up for yourself, speak up for others.

Is there a social or political cause about which you feel passionate? Let’s keep the conversation going – post a comment – use your name or stay anonymous – take a stand. What you have to say means something and helps us keep it real.

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This is one of those books that, when you see the title, you think you already know what you’re going to read – but you finish the book learning much more than you thought.

My guess is that yesterday, today or tomorrow, you made a choice about something. Could be anything – what you ate, what you wore, who you talked to when you came into work. Or maybe you chose not to go into work at all.

We all choose to do things, even if we don’t think about it consciously.

Authors Karen Bender and Nina DeGramont are two fiction writers who were frustrated with the polarizing debate of pro-life and pro-choice, CHOICE is a collection of 22 honest essays written by women about the experience of pregnancy.

This book does not advocate any particular side; from miscarriages to contraception, from parenthood to infertility, these stories reflect realistic journeys of women in their quest for personal possibilities. CHOICE reminded me that these topics are not as black and white as we often make them out to be. There is no one answer.

What’s unique about CHOICE is that it does not judge, pick sides or pontificate – and this review is not intended to either.

I simply hope that both encourage you to think.

Many of you can probably relate in some way to these stories, whether personally or through the stories of your loved ones. I’ve known people in all of these situations who have made a variety of different choices.

My own patchwork of others’ stories could have created a book like this – and it would have looked different – but would have still illustrated the personal nature of deciding what is right for each one of us as individuals.

After I read the book, I thought it would be interesting to read the basic definition of choice itself, which I’ve included below, courtesy of Wikipedia.

Choice consists of the mental process of thinking involved with the process of judging the merits of multiple options and selecting one of them for action. Some simple examples include deciding whether to get up in the morning or go back to sleep, or selecting a given route for a journey. More complex examples (often decisions that affect what a person thinks or their core beliefs) include choosing a lifestyle, religious affiliation, or political position.

Most people regard having choices as a good thing, though a severely limited or artificially restricted choice can lead to discomfort with choosing and possibly, an unsatisfactory outcome. In contrast, unlimited choice may lead to confusion, regret of the alternatives not taken, and indifference in an unstructured existence; and the illusion that choosing an object or a course leads necessarily to control of that object or course can cause psychological problems.

What goes on in between is highly personal.

There are people all over the world who have no options or choices, based on laws or the economic conditions in which they live. In my life, fortunately, I personally don’t know anyone who does not have the option of choice, and I assume many of you are the same. But reading this reminded me of the people throughout the world who can’t take action in any direction, due to the inherent absence of options.

Personally, I think we often forget about the difference between options versus choices. There are options – the menu from which we can choose – and choices – the menu item we order.

Even if you assume you will disagree with many of the decisions made in this book, I’d strongly encourage you to read it anyway. CHOICE is not just for women – I have male friends who have read it and could easily relate. Regardless of what a person is choosing, having the mental ability to do so is what makes us human.

What do you say? Is choice a privilege? How can those of us blessed with many freedoms of choice empower others who aren’t? Your thoughts and experiences are always welcome.

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Did you know that up to 80 percent of all Afghan marriages are forced on the women, according to the Afghan Independent Human Rights Commission?

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The true story below was originally posted on January 3, 2010 by The Afghan Women’s Writing Project.

Based on our commitment to raise global awareness about critical issues – and to encourage social action – I asked project founder Masha Hamilton if I could share this account in full on TJCC.

I’d encourage you to comment, share on your social networks and of course, visit The Afghan Women’s Writing Project site to find out more about its bold mission. Know that by sharing this story, you are making a tremendous difference – you’re educating others and continuing the conversation.

We now have the power of the Internet to raise awareness like never before. Let’s use it to promote Good.

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I Am For Sale. Who Will Buy Me?

Originally published by The Afghan Women’s Writing Project.

(Eds Note: This is only the second anonymous piece we have run on the blog. We encourage our participants to claim their own stories, but in this case, the writer felt she could only safely share this if she did so anonymously.)

I used to think big. When I was six, I made my mom let me go to school, and I loved it. My father told me: “If you stay at the top of your class until the end of your studies, I will do two things for you. First, I will let you go abroad to continue your education. Secondly, I will buy you a car and let you drive.” With the encouragement of my father, I was a superstar in my classes. He was my first English teacher and he always called me “my scholar daughter.”

During the Taliban’s black government, my brothers could go to school, but I couldn’t. My father bought me school supplies, though, and told me: “Be patient. One day you will finish your studies.” He was right. I waited five years, but after that, I could go to school.

When I was in ninth grade, I earned my first money from teaching English. It was only 200 Afs, but I was excited. I gave my salary to my father. He kissed me and laughed and told me, “Dear, keep your salary for yourself. I don’t need it.” I said, “Dad, it is for you.” He smiled and told me, “It is just the cost of ink for your shoes,” and he gave me another 1000 Afs. He was my supporter in all aspects.

When I was sixteen years old, one of my neighbors came to our house and proposed that his son marry me. My father was angry and told him: “Do you know my daughter is sixteen? It is time for her to study. If the king comes and knocks at the door of my house and proposes that my daughter marry his son, I won’t accept it. Please, leave my house and never come back again.”

I was in my last days of school when my father died. When I lost him, I lost my shadow, but he left me with his words and advice and books. After his death, our economic situation was bad. Mom’s salary was the equivalent of $25, which was not enough. I began teaching classes in a private school. Half my salary was for my studies and half went for house expenses.

During these years, I was the poorest student in my class. I spent days without breakfast or lunch, but I felt happy for my education. During the last four years, I received a number of marriage proposals but I rejected them all. Most wanted me to stop my studies and never work outside the home.

After my father died, the responsibility for me fell to my brothers, who grew up under the Taliban government and were influenced by it. Now I live with three Talibs and I must obey what they say. I am not like a girl in the house, but a slave. When I was at third year at the university, the owner of our house demanded higher rent. My family decided they would leave Kabul and go to a province where housing was cheaper. But I didn’t know how I would continue my studies in that case, so I gave up my transportation money to help pay for our rent, and I go to the university on foot.

Still, at the beginning of this year, my brothers said: “It is time for you to marry.” They arranged a marriage to my first cousin, my mom’s brother’s son, who lives in a province where most of the people are Talib. My cousin is about 40 years old and uneducated. His family has a business and a big house. Their women are required to wear burqas and are responsible for cooking, cleaning and caring for the animals. Most have eight or nine children. They can’t go outside the house—even when they are sick, they aren’t allowed to go to the doctor. My uncle’s money gives him power despite the fact that he is uneducated.

My family thinks I am tired of working so hard, and that my uncle’s money will convince me to accept this golden bracelet. My uncle told my family he would pay them $20,000, and this money might possibly keep my family alive. At the same time, I am thinking about graduating, seeking my masters’ degree and a PhD, getting a better job, making an independent life, standing on my own feet.

I told my mom: “Please give me a chance. I don’t like this man. I can’t marry him. If you want to sell me, then I am ready to buy myself. I have a plan for my life. Please give me a chance, please, please.” She didn’t reply, but cried silently with me. I told her: “If my father were here, he would bring a revolution in this house.”

None of my close friends know what is happening with me. Once one of my classmates came to my house and she was carrying her notebook. I study in secret. When my family saw her notebook, they behaved badly toward her and told her not to come again.

These days I am thinking of possible solutions: how to get another job, earn at least $1,000 a month in salary. Running away is not an option because girls who run away here are raped by men and spend years in jail, and I am not such a girl. I can’t leave my mom because my brothers believe anything “wrong” I do is the fault of my mother, and they will kill her. My brothers think a girl who has a bank account or a mobile phone is a prostitute. I hide my phone and keep it on silent mode when I’m home.

I have two months to find a solution. If I fail, I have to accept this marriage, and I will accept it because of my mom, but I can’t live in such a situation. How can I live with such a man, or accept such failure? I think if this happens, I won’t stay in this world; I will leave the world for those who can live in it, who can find a solution.

What I write here are the wounded and torn pieces of my heart and the secrets an Afghan girl suffers.

I am like a piece of cloth. I cost little. Who will buy me?

By Anonymous

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Guest post by Lisa Frank. You can follow Lisa on Twitter and find out more about what she’s up to on her blog.

I am intrigued that a location or a song can remind me of a loved one so much that I can almost feel their presence.

The sewing room in my parents’ home holds much more than fabric and books. On the back wall hangs a meticulously pieced quilt and the sewing machine is always at the ready. Bookcases overflow with design books collected over a lifetime of creating handmade items.

I can walk into the room, close my eyes and immediately feel connected to my mom – crafting is her passion. Over the last three years and through her frequent hospitalizations, this room has also become my refuge. Sometimes I pray, sometimes I cry and other times I just run my hands over the last things she touched. Amidst all what to me is the essence of my mom, I have to face one undeniable fact: my mom has cancer and a cure is not in sight.

Nothing in life prepares you for the illness of someone you love and the moment of diagnosis becomes forever ingrained in your mind. In the fall of 2006 my mom was diagnosed with myelofibrosis , an extremely rare form of cancer that impacts only 1-2 people in every hundred thousand. Our lives now play out on either side of that diagnosis – the before and the after.

Life in the after has involved many difficult times, such as seeing my mom persevere through, among other things, a splenectomy, chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant. The times have been gracious as well. I will never again underestimate the strength of both of my parents and I will always treasure seeing the way my father has cared for my mom.

Finding A Cause For Hope

Given the opportunity, I would love for my mom to not be ill. While that is not possible and I often feel helpless, I find strength and purpose in channeling my energy toward the A Cause for Hope project.

This project aims to contribute funds for myeloproliferative disease research through the collection and resale of handmade items. Donations go to the MPD Foundation and 100% of new funds raised goes toward research. What better way to honor and involve my mom than through incorporating her love of things handmade. To date, we have collected close to $650 through the sale of these gifted pieces at craft fairs and in our Etsy shop.

My mom created over 50 pieces for the project so far to give back and help others with her disease. The next phases of my mom’s illness are still unknown, but she continues to fight, be strong and create her beautiful handmade pieces.

I encourage you to learn more about A Cause for Hope and if you feel compelled, to spread the word about our mission.

Laura used to work with my mom at a doctor’s office in our home town. Since learning about my mom’s illness, she has followed the ups and downs. Laura – thank you so much for this opportunity and for being such an amazing and supportive friend.

How have you discovered hope in difficult times? We’d love to hear your strength and story.

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Post written by Christa Avampato. You can follow Christa on Twitter and read more on her blog.

The first time I learned Spanish, it was to satisfy a school requirement in 7^th grade. The second time I learned Spanish it was for love – my first boyfriend in college was a Venezuelan and I wanted very much to know and understand his culture, especially the language.

Now in the process of learning Spanish for the third time in my life, it is to improve my own life and the lives of others.

I returned from Costa Rica through teary eyes and with a longing to stay among the people there. I was so fortunate to volunteer with a nonprofit called Cross-Cultural Solutions (CCS), a U.S.-based organization that organizes volunteer vacations to different sites around the world. The CCS staff in Costa Rica is exceptional, among the kindest and most competent people I have ever worked with.

I chose a placement in the city of Cartago because I have wanted to see Costa Rica for many years and that site was one of the few programs with the start date I wanted. I was prepared to go there to help the community in any way that I could, though it turned out that the people of Cartago had far more to offer me than I had to offer to them.

Our group of volunteers and staff, composed of some of the friendliest, funniest people I could have ever asked for, spent mornings at a senior center in San Rafael, a small community next to Cartago. The residents, known to the community as “abuelitos” (which translates to ‘grandparents’), were so grateful for our company and time. We sang and danced and did crafts with them. We laughed and shared stories. My Spanish is incredibly rusty, though I was so happy to be able to practice after over a decade of not using it at all. My grammar is terrible and my vocabulary is limited, though with the patience and kindness of the people in Costa Rica (known locally as “Ticos”) I was able to learn so much about the culture, language, and history in just one week.

The people of Costa Rica taught me how little I need to be happy, how much I have already, and the beauty of small kindnesses – three lessons that are invaluable and for which I am beyond grateful. From the moment I arrived in this happy country, it was evident that they are a deeply relaxed, confident, and joyful people. They have a culture that appreciates the idea of having enough and no more; they embody a sense of generosity and concern for others that is awe-inspiring.

Wherever You Go, You Are Home

The week zipped by too quickly and before I knew it we were on our way back to the airport for our return flights home. Our expert driver, Allan, wound through the twisting, turning, traffic-jammed streets of Costa Rica without a single trace of frustration. I was getting worried that I might miss my flight; we were still in the car an hour before take-off. “Mi vuelta es a la una.” (This made no sense to Allan because ‘vuelo’ is the word for ‘flight’ and ‘vuelta’, the word I was using, is one of the conjugations for the verb ‘to go back’.)  “ ‘Vuelo’, Christa. ‘Vuelo.’ Tranquila. Es muy temprano.” (“Be calm. It’s very early,” he said.) I wasn’t even at the airport yet and already my panicked American ways were seeping back into my behavior. I followed Allan’s wise advice to calm down. He must have thought I was crazy to be worried about being at the airport an hour ahead of my fight – from the curb to the gate, it took 10 minutes and was the easiest check-in process I have ever experienced.

As I waited for my flight to take off, I was writing about my experiences, wishing so much for a sign that this is a country that I would return to again and again throughout my life. A moment later, they called my name on the overhead speaker. My immediate reaction was fear. A few years ago, my passport was stolen in South Africa and the U.S. embassy told me that I would have problems traveling abroad for many years because of that incident. I made my way to the front of the plane, panicked, and then I remembered Allan’s advice. Tranquila, Christa. Tranquila.

A very kind stewardess at the front of the plane handed me a new boarding pass with a wide smile. “Yo necesito tomar una otra vuelo, senora?” (“Do I need to take another flight?” I asked, a little proud that I used ‘vuelo’ instead of ‘vuelta’.) She just smiled. I looked at the new boarding pass – they bumped me to a first class seat. “No hay bastante sillas en coach.” (“There are not enough seats in coach,” she said with a wink.) As I sank into the comfortable seat, I realized that this was the sign I had just asked for, a perfect ending to a perfect trip. I look forward to returning to the Tico life very soon.

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