March 16, 2009

Tough Sell: In an economic downturn, charities brace for frigid donation season

By Cassandra Baptista

“Do you want to save the children?” Tommy asks in his Boston accent. The sky is grey on this rainy afternoon on Boylston Street, but the 20-something canvasser shields himself from the weather by wearing a Save the Children’s vest and a smile.

A lanky Emerson College student passes with spiked hair and a green striped shirt. As though rejecting food from a street vendor, he answers mechanically, “No, I’m good.”

Tommy waits for the student to pass before mumbling, “This is like selling ice to an Eskimo.”

It is 4 p.m., and he has been on the streets of Boston for six hours. Over the course of the day, four people have donated money. Tommy explains that because it is only his fifth day of canvassing, he is not sure whether the low turnout is typical of a regular day on the job. But he has reason to be concerned.

According to a new survey by GuideStar, a public charity database that collects and publicizes information about nonprofit organizations, more than one-third of American charities reported having collected less money so far this year than last.

For its 2006 fiscal year, Save the Children acquired roughly $200 million through direct public donations. However, while the organization’s projection still seems comparable to last year, Jill Stetson, Save the Children’s marketing associate, thinks that the current financial crisis will play a significant role in canvas fundraising this holiday season.

“Canvassing makes up to 50% of our acquisition yearly,” Stetson says, “but I think overall, charitable giving will see a decline this year.”

Back on Boylston Street, Tommy positions himself under scaffolding to shield himself from the rain. As he combs through his sopping brown hair with his hands, he admits that he is still unsure what the best approach is to canvassing. A parade of pink, plaid, and polka dot umbrellas draws near, and Tommy prepares himself. He smiles, holding his clipboard to his chest, but the group quickens its pace.

Tommy places his hands on his chest dramatically and pleads, “You’re breaking my heart.” The sound of traffic and conversation drown him out.

But Tommy reenergizes with each rejection. As a new group of people passes, he tries something different.

“Miss with the purple boots,” Tommy says rhythmically, as though he’s about to freestyle rap. “You dropped something—Nah, I’m just kidding. Wanna save the children?”

A girl walks by with her skinny jeans tucked into her rain boots. “I don’t have money to save myself man,” she says.

Tommy nods.

The country’s current economic state has prompted many organizations to change their fundraising strategies. The Salvation Army started putting its donation kettles out early this year in various cities, such as in Boston, where the recognizable red kettles were placed outside two weeks sooner than in past years.

Some people are also worried about what this fiscal decrease now will mean for these foundations in the future. According to an October article published by the Foundation Center, a database that provides grant and nonprofit information, “if the market fails to rebound from its current low or sinks further, the asset losses may be so pronounced and touch so many foundations that an overall decrease in funding becomes inevitable.”

But outside in the rain, Tommy stands undefeated despite the low turnout for the day. He tucks his zippered bag containing roughly $40 between his clipboard and information booklet.

“People don’t have the money for it,” Tommy shrugs, “even though they have their coffees, Versace sunglasses and Ugg boots. Nature is selfish. I mean, I’m doing this for money.”

Tommy says he is saving his money to continue to go to aviation school. His canvassing job pays $8 dollars an hour, which is minimum wage in Massachusetts. He admits he’s not sure how much longer he’ll be canvassing, especially after a day like today. For the past hour, Tommy’s been standing on the same street. No one has stopped.

The student with the striped shirt and spiked hair passes by again. Tommy recognizes him and, not missing a beat, asks, “Wanna change your mind now? Save the Children?”

The young man doesn’t look in Tommy’s direction, and replies with a curt, “No.”

Tommy checks his watch and notices that the sidewalk has emptied. He decides to go see how his colleagues are doing on a nearby street.

“I’m gonna keep at it,” he says, and he walks umbrella-less out into the spitting rain.

Campus Conversations On Race: Racial slur in Piano Row prompts the need for student awareness of minority issues

By Cassandra Baptista

She needed support, but for two days, she struggled with silence.

Cheyenne Postell, a junior writing, literature and publishing major, arrived on her floor on Oct.19 to find the word “nigga” written on a bulletin board. Being one of two African American students on the floor and the Residence Assistant who assembled the board, Postell felt targeted by the racial slur.

Her isolation only increased in the two days leading up to a floor meeting because Postell’s peers did not talk to her about the incident—the kind of situation the Center for Diversity’s Campus Conversations On Race (CCOR) tries to prevent through their dialogue on minority issues.

Started in 2004 by William “Smitty” Smith, Executive Director of the Center for Diversity, CCOR is a student run program that strives to start open conversations among peers about race. This semester, the program is organized into eight sessions of a maximum of 10 people, and all the sessions are almost filled to capacity. The different sections meet once a week for five weeks, and each session is two hours long.

Two student facilitators, who are required to have participated in the program the previous year, lead each session with a case study. The facilitators are trained for 16 hours by Tikesha Morgan, director of Multicultural Student Affairs, and Cathryn Edelstein, Faculty Advisor for CCOR, who also teaches Fundamentals of Speech Communications.

Edelstein, who teaches her student facilitators to have an open mind and keep the conversations focused, explained why it is especially important for Emerson students to be aware of the power of language.

“We are a school of communication,” Edelstein said. “We have students here who are going out into the world and are going to be managing all types of media, and we need to be aware of sensitive issues.”

Because students might feel uncomfortable discussing racism and discrimination, CCOR’s faculty advisor observes the dynamics of each session group to make sure its members connect and create an atmosphere conducive to open communication.

“How often does anyone get to talk about really sensitive issues knowing it’s in a safe environment?” said Edelstein, who listed “sharing, learning, and communicating” as three components to combating ignorance. “I think once students start sharing their views with somebody and are able to hear opposing views, it opens their eyes to how hurtful things like [racial slurs] really are.”

In order to encourage more students to get involved with the program, co-facilitators receive up to two non-tuition credits. Smith explained that he believes Emerson should integrate CCOR into the college’s core curriculum so that the program can reach more of the Emerson community.

“There needs to be a requirement,” Edelstein said. “It’s something that will not only serve students well on their resumes, but will serve them well in life.”

While Postell said she thinks Emerson is taking steps to address minority issues on campus, she does not think she will see those goals realized in her time at Emerson. She hopes that in the future the college will not exhaust its energy on reacting to problems after they occur.

“I think we need to talk about things like this before they happen,” said Postell, who fought back tears as she remembered the “strong silence” she encountered from her peers. “It would be helpful if people spoke what was on their minds. With no one saying anything, it felt like there was a large possibility that the Emerson community didn’t see anything wrong with the slur. [Conversation] would help us move on through the year without somebody feeling as singled out as I did.”

'Student of Life': Nada Farhat's art provides life lessons for viewers and herself

By Cassandra Baptista
Nada Farhat, 29, is an artist, doctor and Emerson Graduate student studying Communication Management. Her artwork has received global acclaim, and she is currently working on a painting for Saudi Arabia’s King Abdullah, which will be presented to him later this month in Washington, D.C. Through her many endeavors, Farhat strives to find a balance between her passion for art, pursuit of a medical career, and the responsibility of representing Saudi Arabian women in a new way.


Q: Where do you draw your inspiration from?
A. I draw my inspiration from my surroundings: the color of the sand and architectural facades. And sometimes I get my inspiration from something I did not see around me like the color green. I never really paint my emotion: my emotion is concealed. I didn’t want to be an open book, so I made my work abstract. That relationship with color and emotion is the dialogue.

Q: How would you describe your artwork?
A. It’s definitely happy and pretty. But you don’t want your work to be decorative—you want it to have a thesis.. It’s always a work in progress. During my journey, I will always be a student of life. I, myself, must always learn. If I reach this summit of ‘I know everything’, then life has ended.

Q: Is there one piece of art in particular that you identity with?
A.I used to work a lot with fire and integrating nature into the abstract. [Once] while I was burning one of my pieces, it literally turned into ashes. But what I did was I picked up the ashes, put them together, and framed it. And there it was. It was back to a piece—it told me what to do. That really is how life is. You put the pieces together and move forward. It’s not the picture you imagined, but it’s a new picture. That element of surprise is why I like to create.

Q: What types of conflicts—both internal and external—do you experience?
A. My struggle was and still is the choice between being a doctor or an artist. They are both full-time jobs, so what do you give up? …The choice is teaching me the possibilities of what I can do, but there are only 24 hours in a day. You have to pick and choose and prioritize. This journey isn’t easy.

Q: Who makes the journey easier for you?
A. My parents, and my brothers and sisters. I also have plenty of friends; I can never repay them for how they have stood up for me and appreciated my art. And then, there are my fans. You paint for yourself, that’s true, but you know that they are waiting, anticipating your next collection. It’s a wonderful feeling.

Q: What were some things you have struggled with?
A. I had problems facing the fact that my father had passed. How do you face death? Painting a collection for him was a dialogue that I had with my father—painting for him, to him. Another thing I had to deal with was moving from one region to another. When I did come back to the United States to do my residency, I had little time so much to do: I wanted to develop my art, but I was still in grief, and I was trying to adjust and deal with the culture shock. Is it time lost? Some people say yes. But for me, it is definitely time worth investing.

Q: What do you aspire to do in the future?
A. I think maybe having a foundation with different limbs underneath, like having an art gallery, an art school, and a series of art lectures--these things would be funded by the foundation, and I think they would have a more diverse message.

Q: Years from now, when you look back at your life what do you hope you have achieved?
A. As a public diplomat, you don’t always get the reward directly and that is something you have to give up if you want to pioneer in something. I don’t know what I have planned ahead of me, but I hope that what I have done creates a movement that resonates for generations to come.

Q: What is that movement?
A. Changing that stereotypical image of Arab women…If I get more involved with public advocacy and diplomacy, there’s definitely going to be an overlap with politics. I would definitely never do anything that would be offensive to my country or culture, but there are things that I don’t approve of there, and I think somebody has to voice it.

A: What don’t you approve of?
I don’t know what I would be rebellious against, but I just don’t like anyone standing in my way because I’m a woman or because I’m an Arab.

"White Lies, Black Sheep: Director Explores Cultural Identity in New Film

By Cassandra Baptista

There was one scene left of the film when the screen froze. The audience of 10 people waited in silence, as though speaking would break the story’s spell.

James Spooner, director and documentarian, fumbled in his bag for a back-up dvd.

“Welcome to independent filmmaking,” he said.

The 32-year-old, who feels he was raised by the “punk rock scene,” has been critically acclaimed for his provocative documentary “Afro-Punk”. Spooner showed his most recent film “White Lies, Black Sheep”, which is his first fiction effort, on Feb. 18 to members of the Emerson community.

Standing tall with his hands tucked in the pockets of his black, bomber jacket, Spooner explained to the audience that he too searches for identity, like the protagonist in his new film. The movie captures an African American man’s transition to cultural awareness and acceptance. Before Spooner flew back to LA the next morning, he ate his dinner of Chinese food at 10 p.m. and discussed how his movies have been his film school and his growing family has given him purpose.

Q. How long have you known you wanted to direct?
A. When I made “Afro-Punk”, I didn’t feel like I wanted to be a director—I just was an artist. Film just seemed like the right medium to tell that story. I realized I could reach people in a tangible way.

Q. You mentioned we go through a transition in our search for identity. Did you experience that?
A. Yeah, totally. That’s what this whole thing is about. This film is kind of like the end of that transition for me. When we were done with the film, I was like, ‘I’m so not connected to this anymore, to this experience of transition.” At that point in time, I felt like I had pushed myself as far as I could go.

Q. And are you happy with the result?
A. Depends what day you ask me.

Q. What about today?
A. Yea, I’m alright. (Laughs). Just as an artist, I’ve come so much farther…There’s always going to be the idea of ‘had I known then, what I know now,’ but you have to put that away and look at your audience and see how they are reacting to it—is your work getting the reaction that you intended.

Q. Is it getting that reaction?
A. Well, it didn’t bother me when mainstream reviewers didn’t care for “Afro-Punk”, but when the same reviewers didn’t care for this film, it bothered me. I was really down on myself, and then I showed it to a college in Iowa. About 90 people of all different ages came, and they were so elated. It reminded me of who I made this movie for, and it certainly wasn’t for a Hollywood reporter. Those 15-year-old kids who comment me on Myspace about how my film saved their life—those are the people who matter.

Q. Is there someone you look up to, personally or professionally?
A. I think it would be easier if I did because then I’d know where I’m going. I do feel that I’m at this place where I am a little lost, career-wise.

Q. Well, instead of knowing where you want to be in the future, how do you want to feel? What will make you happy down the line?
A. I’m going to have a baby in August, and that’s what I’ve always wanted, to have a family and be an awesome dad. And that’s all in place now. So, if my kid is totally well adjusted and likes me, that’ll make me happy. And ultimately, being creative makes me happy.

March 11, 2009

Poems Penetrate Stone Walls

By Cassandra Baptista

His voice could not be muffled by stone walls or trapped behind cell bars. He was imprisoned for 22 years for standing by his convictions, and though isolated, he was left with his poetry--words that would set him free.

Ernesto Diaz-Rodriguez, poet and former political prisoner of Fidel Castro, spoke at the Portuguese Cultural Center on June 25th to an audience anxious to hear poems from his book, Piedra por Piedra: Stone for Stone--his
sixth book published out of nine written while in prison.


Ernesto Diaz-Rodriguez reads an excerpt from his new book
of poems at the Portuguese Cultural Center in Danbury, CT.

In 1968, Diaz-Rodriguez was arrested and eventually sentenced to 40 years in prison after confronted Cuba's Communist Dictatorship. With the help of the French PEN Club and "Of Human Rights," Diaz-Rodriguez was released from prison on
March 23, 1991 after serving 22 years. He was exiled from Cuba and now lives in Ridgefield, CT, a long way from the small fishing village of Cojimar, Cuba where he was born.

Diaz-Rodriguez sat in the Americo S. Ventura Library wearing a white buttoned down short sleeve shirt and a smile, as friends introduced him.

Attorney Americo Ventura, who is responsible for the library in the Portuguese Cultural Center, met Diaz-Rodriguez three years ago and organized the poet's new book presentation.

"Ernesto defends his principles with dignity and firmness, and he doesn't care what it is going to cost him," Ventura said.

As speakers introduced the poet, two thin pieces of paper covered in tiny, neat handwriting were passed through the audience. Not a single space was left unused. They were a few of Diaz-Rodriguez’s poems that were sneaked out of the prison through an elaborate network of friends – even as he remained in prison, his poetry escaped his cell.

Diaz-Rodriguez explained he always enjoyed writing, but his passion for poetry grew while in prison. “I write for the necessity of my soul,” he said. “I write to transmit an expression of love and hope.”

Diaz-Rodriguez’s wife, Dr. Alicia Perez sat in the front-row listening to love poems written about her. “I knew I wanted to marry Ernesto when I was 18 years old,” Perez said.

But they would have to go through two separate marriages and divorces, thousands of miles apart, and his 22 years of imprisonment before they could be together. Despite the couple’s distance, the poet explained that through his poetry, “Alicia lived in my memories and in my heart.”

For Francisco Pandolfi, a Danbury resident and audience member, Diaz-Rodriguez’s story of suffering and resilience had significance because he too, was born close to Havana, Cuba. “What I heard tonight was excellent,” Pandolfi said as he waited for Diaz-Rodriguez to sign his copy of Piedra por Piedra: Stone for Stone in a line of people running the full length of the room.

Even though he spent nearly a quarter century incarcerated, Diaz-Rodriguez does not feel his time was wasted.

“The 22 years in prison were a privilege for me in my life,” he said. “Not a year was lost. It was like college for me; I had a lot of rich experiences. The time that I was in prison might be the best time of my life because I was fighting for democracy and the welfare of my country.”