Meghan Lazier

Have you ever noticed that when the metaphorical doors in your life that have been slammed shut, the alternative options have led to the best possible outcome?  I know it’s cliched, but in my own life, so many rejections have led to exciting real-life plot twists that wouldn’t have happened without a no to silence another option.  

I was accepted to multiple colleges as a high school senior, but was rejected by many others.  I finally said yes to a school that offered me a full-tuition scholarship with countless other perks.  When it came time to secure my first internship, I applied to at least 50 positions.  My first yes was from National Geographic.  And of course, my recent job search started with many dead ends, but landed me in Afghanistan.

All the so-called no’s I’ve experienced have led to an eventual yes that has allowed me to expand.  To grow.  To take risks.  

I’ve realized it’s time to shake things up and hear some no thank you’s during 2012 (I know I sound slightly crazy, but stay with me…).  Over the course of the year, or longer if necessary, I’m pitching 99 ideas/people/projects.  The ability to muster the courage to put an idea out into the world, to talk to people about possibilities and to accept rejection are critical to success.

But, this project is mostly about failure.  If every opportunity I pitched was somehow picked up or agreed to, my life would be total chaos.  That’s not the point.  That’s not my goal.  I want to be OK with a no, and I want to understand when to truly fight for a yes.

I’ll eventually write about each pitch I attempt.  Some pitches are small - asking to review a book before it goes to print.  Others are bigger - pitching an opinion article to a major publication or applying for a license to hold the first TEDx event in Afghanistan.  But all are important or interesting to me personally.

It’s time for me to up my resilience, up my ability to craft and pitch and idea, up my idea of what I think is possible…and have the patience to see what happens and the grace to accept the outcomes.

Here’s to a lot of no’s and a few enthusiastic yeses in 2012!  Cheers!

Alarm rings at 6:50.  Snooze for five minutes.  Lounge around for a few more.  Curse myself for not getting to bed earlier.  Finally roll out of bed.  Walk across the hall to my shared bathroom, in which there have been absolutely no problems sharing.  Brush teeth and hair.  Head back to room to throw on my daily uniform of leggings, t-shirt and cardigan.  Put on sunscreen (my Momma taught me well).  Dab on concealer.  Apply blush to apples of my cheeks.  Grab head scarf, jacket and purse.  Head to the dining room, which is also across the hallway.  Butter two pieces of warm, chewy, Afghan bread put out by the cleaning ladies.  If Christina, my housemate, is at the table, grab hot porridge and skip the bread.  Make hot green tea.  Eat and sip.  Wait for Irina, another housemate, to come down to breakfast.  Coo and wave at Sophia, the cleaning lady’s daughter as she toddles around.  Head out the door with Irina after she grabs something on the go.  Find the car isn’t at the house.  Wait.  Sit around.  Car arrives.  Five minute drive to office.  Driver tries to interpret our conversation in which we said, “Afghan baby,” referring to Sophia.  Arrive at office.  Scan in using my finger.  If it’s after 8:15, get bags searched and body patted down.  If not, head straight to the office.  On Saturday, Monday and Wednesday go to Dari class, in a room next to our office, for what ends up being 30 minutes if the drivers are late, which they always are.  Stumble over verb endings and new vocabulary which covers all of the names of the Afghan Ministries that we’ll every possibly work with.  8:30 hits.  Crack open the laptop and scan e-mail.  Respond to clients.  Figure out what is missing from the RFPs we’re submitting.  Irina, also my co-worker who I sit next to, turns on music.  Preferably super dramatic love songs or oldies.  Sometimes Tchaikovsky.  Get lectured by the procurement office for filling out a task request form incorrectly (these are required to get things done in the office and at the guesthouse).  Answer a phone call.  Crank out paragraphs on Microsoft word.  Check in with Christina, also a co-worker/friend (see a trend here?), to ensure chaos has not ensued with radio/tv/print deliverables.  Spontaneously everyone in our office erupts in singing to the lyrics of a familiar song Irina is playing.  Announce that it’s five minutes until lunch.  Head down to the basement to get lunch consisting of rice and beans.  Or somedays pasta, potatoes and chickpeas.  Another day it’s spinach and beans.   Take the fruit offered and another piece of Afghan bread.  Head back to desk.  Chat with other co-workers if they’ve come to eat in our office.  Forget to eat fruit.  Rinse and repeat everything before lunch.  Possibly throw in a meeting for clarification purposes.  Check in with Eid, my Afghan colleague, about where he’s been all day.  Laugh.  Look at the clock.  Realize it’s time to go.  SMS driver to ensure a car can take us home or to the grocery.  Arrive home.  Head to bedroom.  Light wood stove in my room to starve off the chill.  Lounge around for 30 minutes until I convince myself to go to the gym.  Or until I convince myself a nap sounds better.  Workout or sleep.  Wednesdays switch up for bollywood dance class. Either way, re-light stove in my room upon return.  Psych myself up to take a shower, since our bathroom isn’t headed.  Two minute shower challenge.  Blow dry hair.  Change into nightly uniform of yoga pants and a fitted hoodie.  Wander into dining room.  Find Natasha and Shooby, yes, more housemates, eating.  They offer share their meal with me.  Talk for a while.  Enjoy great conversation.  Or else, I eat what the cook has made (curry/fried chicken/takeout egg rolls/rice).  Read my Kindle simultaneously.  Head back to bedroom.  Answer personal e-mails, read, journal, forget to re-do my manicure.  Or skip all that and watch a movie with the girls.  Lounge a little more.  Wash face.  Brush teeth.  Lights out.  Bed.  6 days a week.  Plus one for rest.

…

So many friends and family have asked, what is it like in Afghanistan?  What do you do everyday?  What are you eating?  Do you feel safe?  So there’s my response.  

I’ve been here less than a month, and I already have a routine.  A routine that feels normal.  A routine that feels healthy and that’s interlaced with new friendships and meaningful conversations and learning.  Of course, I’ve had days that didn’t look like the aforementioned.  I’ve had to go on lockdown, meaning I had to work from home and I cannot leave the guesthouse (also known as my house).  I’ve also relished my one day off per-week by going to parties - and even a concert.  I recently was a guest at a dinner party with a high ranking military diplomat and a founder of a girl’s school (more on that later).  I’ve gone to the doctor and I’ve been stuck in traffic.  But mostly, I have a routine.  Like everyone else, living anywhere else.  Glamour and high drama aren’t exactly a part of my daily life.  I’m not war journalist nor am I enlisted.  I stray far from the action you hear about on the nightly news or the daily papers.  My company isn’t on some sort of terrorist radar.  I feel safe.  And most importantly, I like my routine.

A Japanese onsen is a great laboratory for dealing with vulnerability, especially if you’re an American woman.  Most Americans, despite what reality TV portrays, do not walk around half-naked.  A nipple slip, a la Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl, is cause for headlines that don’t go away for months.  So, an onsen experience can border on slightly uncomfortable, especially for those who come from more prudish countries.  Onsens are bathhouses that are separated by sex.  You bathe in the nude, aside from a tiny washcloth you carry around for scrubbing, not covering.  I had done the whole being naked in an onsen thing during my first trip to Japan, and while it veered on uncomfortable, I always appreciate time alone relaxing in a hot bath.  But there is always a bit of an adjustment appearing naked in public, even if it is in front of a room full of Japanese grandmothers (and I know I’ll have the most desirable body based on age alone).  So the second time around, as I followed my Japanese host mom into the women’s dressing room, I tried to find a corner to myself to undress and put away my clothes.  To prepare.  As I was securing the locker door, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  My heart pounded, not knowing anyone was there.  I quickly turned around and found a small crowd of women gathered around me.  Staring at me naked. My host mom was at the front of the group, beaming.  She proudly pointed at me - “American!” she cheered in her accented English.  So there I was on display.

So here I am in Kabul, six years later, naked in a very different way.

I deliberately decided to change nearly everything about my life by moving to Kabul.  Accepting this opportunity subsequently meant the end of a five-year relationship.  It meant not being able to see my friends every weekend and declining wedding and baby shower invites for people I care about most over the course of the next year.  It meant not knowing when I’ll see my family next, but trusting that everything would somehow sort itself out.  I had committed myself to starting a new life in a country I knew virtually nothing about.  I felt like a stranger to myself. 

The day before I left for Afghanistan, I decided my light blonde hair had strayed too far from my natural dirty blonde.  I booked an appointment with my stylist, and asked her to please take me back to my roots.  But when the dye washed out and my hair was blown dry, my locks looked more Kate Middleton than…well, I can’t think of any celebrity who has my naturally mousy hair color by choice.  Morphing from blonde to brunette in an hour was completely overwhelming.  Every time I saw myself in a mirror, I felt like a stranger was looking back at me.  I was so overwhelmed that I cried.  More than once.

But this type of a sweeping, dramatic change is good for me.  In fact, I think it’s what I do best.  I’m not very adept at making small changes.  Vows to take baby steps just aren’t my style, although I admire the Kaizen, continuous improvement approach.  With me, it’s all or nothing.  I don’t say I’m going to run a half-marathon; I go all out and train for the full 26.2 long haul.  I don’t plan my first solo trip to an English-speaking country; I choose to go to Tokyo for a month.  When I do things, I do them in a big way.  Small changes need not apply.

Consequently, when you have the tendency to leap into changes that alter your life completely, as I do, you have to be comfortable with being a beginner, and being a beginner means being vulnerable.  And learning things very, very slowly.  Painfully at times.  It means putting yourself on display and making mistakes while everyone around you is already painfully aware that you’re wrong before you begin.  In the last two weeks I’ve learned how to tie a headscarf, what headscarfs are appropriate in different contexts, that the bathroom door does indeed lock, and how to say hello, thank you and stove in Dari.  I’ve learned to navigate around my own office and through the shared files at work, in addition to getting my bags and making my way to carpark 2 (or was it 3?) at the Kabul Airport.  I’ve figured out how to order groceries and get my laundry washed.  I’ve memorized my new phone number and made my way to the German clinic (with the help of a friend).  I’ve deciphered the various acronyms that are so popular with governments and NGO’s: GoIRA, RFA, MCN, MoEW, MoM (wtf).  The one thing I know is there is still so much I don’t know.  I’m a beginner in every sense of the word. But I’m OK with not knowing and appearing a bit awkward as I gain solid footing on new territory.  Even though I wish I could learn and change things in one drastic move or lesson, I’m going to have to embrace baby steps.

As I’ve learned from my brunette locks and my time in a Japanese onsen, I can brace myself for being revealed and facing my insecurities.  I can overcome feeling vulnerable and not recognizing myself.  And that’s exactly how things start to change.  When I see myself in the mirror and think, “Hey, I actually like Kate Middleton’s hair color,” I know I’m making progress.

To those most intimate with my grandma, Margaret Emma O’Carroll Vaughan, they would describe her as a survivor. A strong woman.  A child of the depression era who learned to make do or do without.  Adventurer is not a word that would likely come to mind.  But that’s how I see her.  My grandma was a woman with big dreams and ambitions.

She was born into a world where women weren’t encouraged to imagine a life beyond finding a husband and raising a family.  But I know she dreamed of something bigger.  One of her early schemes was to run away to the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota to work as a dancer.  

And while escaping the Chicago never happened, my grandma somehow managed an equally epic adventure for her time.  I am not entirely clear on the details, but as family legends go, my grandma had the chance opportunity to fly around Chicago in a two-seater airplane as a young woman at the tail end of the roaring 20’s.  She showed up on the big day in a fancy suit and matching hat.  The pilot laughed about her hat.  Clearly she’d never been on a plane before.  If she ever wanted to see it again, she had to fly without it.  So off she went, sans hat, for a memorable flight above the skyline.

Maybe it’s selfish, but I love this anecdote because I see myself in it.  Besides sharing her namesake, I know in my heart that we share the same adventurous spirit.

When I graduated college, my aunt reminded me recently, grandma asked what I was going to do with my life.  ”Find a way to travel the world and have someone else pay for it,” I told her.  She wasn’t one to lavish praise, but I know she was proud.

In many ways, my grandma helped me become an independent and adventurous woman.  She didn’t even know how to drive a car until midlife, but it was her house where I had my first sleepovers when my own parents went out of town.  It was my grandma who helped me carefully roll out my Sesame Street (and eventually Barbie) sleeping bag on her living room floor and unpack my little blue suitcase.  I would eat Neapolitan ice cream while I watched her work on her daily crossword, and we’d often venture out to a sit-down restaurant or one of Chicago’s storied museums with my sister in tow.  Sometimes, she’d just let us play at Kennedy Park or explore her neighborhood on the South Side.  I saw my grandma do everything on her own.  And she did it with style.  I think a small part of her relished her independence, having grown up with ten siblings and having divorced my alcoholic grandfather before I was born.  Our family matriarch.  

Over the last few years, my grandma developed dementia, which quickly turned into Alzheimers.  Every time we talked to her, she had lucid moments where she knew exactly who we were.  Yet, she also talked frequently about not knowing where she was.  She kept saying she wanted to go home.  The last few months for my mom and her siblings were difficult.  Grandma was living with my aunt and uncle who split their time between Door County and the Gulf Coast, but caring for her had become a full-time job.  She needed to come back to Illinois.  Just a couple of weeks ago, as I was preparing to fly to Kabul, my grandma took her last airplane ride from Florida back to Illinois.  She passed away peacefully in her sleep last night.  She was 92 years-old.  

As we all tend to say, grandma is at home now.  But when I think of her, I don’t picture her in some Fantasia-like setting or on Artesian Avenue.  I see her as a young Amelia Earhart figure, taking a two-seater plane on a joy ride, while wearing a fancy suit, and of course, a delicate hat.  Every time I hear a plane above me or see white airplane tracks across a blue sky, I’ll think of her.  Brave and beautiful as always.  

Love you grandma!