Mania. I imagine it presents itself differently in everyone.

For me it’s the complete disorganisation of thought that I so desperately hate. I revert to completing the tasks that I know how to do as an expert without thinking, so that I don’t have to try to create the order I crave and need because I feel woefully unable to do so. On days like this I’m completely out of control and I cannot stand it.

Today is manic. I can’t sit still. My fingers ache. My entire body feels like it’s on fire and I keep agonising about all the things I need to do that just cannot find motivation to do. Everything is so heavy.

I managed to drag myself to work and back, without really thinking about it at all. I got out of bed, showered and got dressed. Auto-pilot.

I painted my face with horrendously expensive makeup to cover up the sins of a life well travelled, to hide the reality of my tired and ageing jowls. I brushed the tangles out of my hair, laced my shoes and hefted my backpack on, racing down the stairs into the brisk morning air.

I watched as my body carried itself to the train and departed the station like I’ve done every working day for the last six months. Today I’m a passenger on this journey. I have no control of what is happening here.

I walked from the platform to the lunch bar I frequent every morning, greeted the barista warmly as I do every day and sat amongst the freight trucks willing the sun to warm the chill that I haven’t been able to shift for what has seemed months on end.

People made jokes. I laughed. I told some of my own. I put headphones on and drowned out the sound of other people going about the same day as I, with Jeff Buckley’s ‘Je N’en Connais Pas La Fin‘ on repeat to quell the sensation of lightning splintering from every nerve ending. Again and again.

On days like this, I feel like I’m drowning. But today I carried myself home.

Home enveloped me in it’s arms and let me cry about everything and nothing. About the words that I can’t express, the truths that I can’t share, the horrors that will never escape my lips but remained trapped like prisoners – not for safe keeping, but for safety.

Home walked with me down the filthy city streets and got ice cream.

Home stroked and wiped the tears from my face and told me that the world wasn’t all bad.

I’m glad I made it home today.

I feel like most people have a story to share about having their heart broken, shattered into a million pieces so much so that it’s a physical sensation, one that feels like all the nerve endings in your fingertips are exposed. It’s raw and visceral, like a persistent cat scratch, or the dull thud of a clenched fist taking shape, pummelling your internal organs like minced meat.

In my lifetime, I’ve felt this only twice. Bitterness at being left behind? That’s not heartbreak, not at least in the way I think about it . Your muscles twitching and flexing in anger at the thought of someone you thought was faithful to you – who wasn’t? No, that’s not it either.

The first time I had my heart crushed? I was 14 years old. Being a teenager was gut wrenching for me, a distant memory I visit infrequently because the very thought of the precocious, inspired little girl I was who imagined the entire world was within her grasp, but knew she didn’t deserve it? Even thinking back on it now, the lack of self worth and constant comparisons to other more beautiful creatures that graced the backdrop of my life is palpable. I looked to others to tell me that I was worth something, anything, and now when I think about that time in my life I’m angry at myself for ever being that…pathetic.

In any case, when I was 13 and in high school, I encountered a boy that would change my life and the way I would move through this world forever. I remember seeing him across a crowded block, shuffling from side to side waiting impatiently outside his English class as the schools’ bell rang out through the courtyard, signalling the end of lunch.

I’d recently enrolled at the school, after being frozen out of my previous college – but that’s an entirely different story. Relevant to the person I am today, but one less filled with heartbreak and with humour and irony.

As I was making my way to my science class with a bevy of new girlfriends, I looked up and noticed him immediately. He had a shock of the most amazing natural hair, that billowed out from his furrowed brow highlighted with teasings of auburn and blonde. I remember with curiosity asking my classmate who he was, and she told me his name with the distain in her voice loud and clear. I presumed this was because he was some kind of teenage lothario who really should be avoided for the sake of sanity.

But I couldn’t look away – and for further clarification, I was a 13 year old girl surging with hormones and ideals about love and romance.

As it goes in high school, the rumour mill began to fly thick and fast. My memory is hazy of that time, but I believe I wrote a note to him that said something along the line of wanting to get to know him better. I bravely handed the note to a trusted friend, who passed it along during a period where they shared a class together.

And then? I waited. And waited.

The embarrassment of knowing I had let this boy into my innermost thoughts was excruciating, and I took every opportunity to avoid him in the corridors, dashing into the bathroom when I saw his friends pass by. I would forever be known by them as the sad new girl who had a crush on their friend and the thought of facing any one them was excruciating.

After school everyday, I would make my way to the local depot to alight a bus home. The depot was the local hotspot for kids after school who wanted to socialise into dusk, meaning it was becoming more difficult to avoid the boy and his friends as more time passed. My friends told me I was overreacting and dragged me along with them to the depot, despite my protests that I could alight at a different stop by walking a little further from the school.

My anxiety reached new peaks one day as I saw him and his ever present best friend milling about in the local takeaway bar, waiting on an afternoon tea of deep fried treats. It was all I could do not to run screaming from where I stood, so instead? I checked the bus schedule and hid around the corner until the time came for me to dash into the safety of my carriage to freedom.

One of my friends came to find me and coax me back to the area outside the library overlooking the depot, where the rest of the girls sat in a huddled semi circle discussing the intricacies of high school life, boys they liked and just general musings. I told him I couldn’t bear it, and he laughed and told me I was being dramatic.

And then it happened.

Across the street from where I’d secreted myself away, the boy and his friend had been hiding behind a panel van. Unfortunately, they hadn’t seen the driver return and the van unceremoniously drove away from the spot where it had been parked, leaving the two boys huddling and exposed.

I thought I would die. They’d been spying on us! I convinced myself that I’d become this huge joke between him and his friends, and they’d been watching and laughing at me, knobbled knees jutting out from my awkward tartan school uniform. The weirdo who runs to the bus as it arrives.

“Oh my god, they’re coming over!”, my friend exclaimed. I wanted the ground to cave in and swallow me up whole. Even thinking about this whole scenario now is cringe inducing, like recalling a scene from a made-for-television movie. I froze.

“Hi”…I heard an uneven, stammering voice.

“So, I got your note.”

Again, I willed the earth to hear me and collapse beneath me. I looked up from my shoes – I had been staring at intently for some time – and came face to face with the object of my affections.

“Oh, yeah”. I bit the inside of my lip, which is something even more than 20 years later I still do when I’m nervous.

There was an exchange between our friends, both jovially encouraging us both to further discuss the situation in which we’d found ourselves in.

“So, I ah – I was wondering if you’d maybe, like, umm…” he managed to spit out. I could feel my face my face flushing a bright rouge, the heat working it’s way down my body like an all enveloping rash.

“Aren’t you going to give her your number?!,” my friend exclaimed, frustrated at the length of time we’d been standing in front of each other, both awkwardly pulling at our own clothes as some sort of refuge.

“Oh yeah, give her your number…”, his friend muttered, paper and pen at the ready.

He scribbled on the back of a textbook page, folded it over carefully and handed it to me dutifully.

“You can call me if you want to?”, he said as a half-statement, half-question. I remember saying thank you and watching them through lowered eyes walk away from the spot, where I still stood frozen, cemented to the sidewalk.

I remember the elation I felt at the fact that there was, or potentially would be some reciprocated feelings to my overbearing (and obsessive) teenage lust. He might not necessarily know me enough to like anything about me, but he knew enough that he was intrigued by me and wanted to know more. That feeling, even now as an adult and encountering other people who are interested to know me, even platonically, is incomparable.

And the rest? Well, it’s long buried. I did call him and we shared hours and hours on the phone, but for months at school we would observe each other across courtyards in quiet reverence. Talking on the telephone was easy, but fronting up to each other in person remained difficult for sometime. He eventually asked me to be his girlfriend and I accepted, ecstatically. He was everything I knew I wanted then.

But time is cruel, and so is high school. We experienced many firsts together; I can’t speak for him and say that I was his first love, but he was definitely mine. We wrote each other long love letters, that were never about anything in particular. I spent evenings in his home with his family long past my curfew, to the chagrin of my mother – I just so desperately wanted to occupy the same space as he.

But so did many other women, which would eventually be our downfall. My relationship with this boy played out like an incredibly far fetched episode of a tele-novella, which lead to some of the most painful, heartbreak I will ever know. The details aren’t important to understanding the story, but for years I held on to the memories of our initial courtship, hoping like hell we could one day get back there. We were both too young to fully comprehend so much of what we did and said, that the unfortunate part is that rekindling never happened.

Thankfully my story didn’t end with the death of my first love and neither did his.

I moved across an ocean at 18 to learn how to be a person without his name being uttered in the same breath as mine and to break the bonds that he had over me, for no other reason except I loved him with all of the naivety of a 13 year old girl.

I met other people who enjoyed my company, men and women. I shared many things with them that shaped my view of the world, and taught so much about who I was as a person – without him.

Most of the people that are in my life now? They don’t even know he exists. He is apart of a chapter of my life that I penned and shelved away in the depths of my archive many, many years ago.

He is now married happily to a stunningly beautiful woman and has had many children. I am now married with one son, refusing still to grow up to maintain some of the childlike joy that I had before I had my heart stomped into obliteration.

And for the most part? I’m happy. I’m fulfilled, blessed and loved. My heart is still a huge open wound, but as an empath I fear this will never change.

But even so? I’m not sure that I’d want it to.

Lazarus.

Artist Credit: David Flores

It’s been a long time since I’ve had the motivation to put figurative pen to paper, or even figured I had anything worthwhile to talk about.

I forgot that blogging had a therapeutic element to it for me, a place where I can express my thoughts and feelings about the world in which I’m moving through where people can be drawn to if interested, or repelled away from because the sentiments in my writings are either lost on them or just a singular point of view that they don’t share.

I worry often when I write that I expose too much of my own naivety, my own insecurities – because so many people I encounter assume that the representation of me as a person in my professional life is someone who moves through the world self-assuredly, unapologetically and confidently.

Ironically, the aforementioned adjectives are not descriptive words that I would ever attribute to myself, at least not in my current state of existence.

If I had to translate my own self-valuation into words, I would use ‘awkward’, ‘inconsistent’ and ‘hot-headed’. This is not to say that I’m not trying to become the perception that some people have of me, it’s simply that these are the things that speak the loudest to me when I traverse the ugly parts of my personality, unwittingly. My brain often goes to these places in moments of quiet, of which I have allowed myself tonnes of in the last six months. For the purposes of my own survival through debilitating anxiety and depression, getting to know myself intimately has become necessity.

I think these thoughts have hampered my ability to do this thing that I love so much; write. I haven’t written music in years, convincing myself that I had nothing of note to offer the world poetically. I’ve had the beginnings of a fictional novel becoming less and less topical and relevant on my desktop for about 4 years, fearing that by self-publishing what I think is a decent piece of writing will be slammed relentlessly by the rest of the far-more-talented world. I convince myself constantly that all of these creative ventures I have attempted aren’t good enough by any stretch of the imagination, so I move on to Netflix marathons and Pinterest boards, packed full of DIY projects that I know I will never have the motivation to attempt or talent to complete, leaving most projects unfinished.

But, I digress. This is current me, all wrapped up in ill-fitting clothes. These are all things that I want to change about myself. I don’t know what it is about 2018, but I feel…different. Like the winds of change have come through and swept me up on their laurels, to push me violently into uncomfortable experiences and out of the status quo that is me.

The beginning of this year began tragically for my family, with the loss of my paternal uncle to MND and the end of mourning for my cousins’ son. A week prior, my youngest brother got married to his long time girlfriend and we got to celebrate the beginnings of the newest chapter of their lives together. My sister announced her long-awaited pregnancy at Christmas, elating my parents and siblings with the addition and extension of our family. Two colleagues lost their lives unexpectedly. I reunited with my mother, after an uncomfortable and extended silence.

The juxtaposition of these happenings and experiences speaks so much to the uncertainties of life as it exists for all of us. During all of this, I felt like a passive observer, on the outskirts of everything happening around me – unhelpful, more than anything. Useless. I think this may have been behind my significant desire to change how I move through the world, less aggressively and with the type of kindness that I have lacked in the last 30 years on the planet. Watching how quickly things can go from celebratory to grief-stricken has been so transformative, and made me want to be more thoughtful about how I interact with other people.

I want to start reading voraciously, like I did when I was a precocious child; I want to tell my friends every time that I think kind thoughts about them and share them, even at the expense of us both being uncomfortable; I want to watch awful gaming walk-throughs with my son and listen intently as he describes what is happening on-screen and see the joy in his face that Mum is taking an interest in his passions.

I just want so desperately to be better than I am today – I know that’s probably what every person wants whose not a complete narcissist, but I really can’t articulate that any better. So I guess this new attempt at keeping record of my life, this new blog, will be a place where I can come and explain my rationale for my decisions.

All I can hope is that my words, regardless of what they are, are received with the positive intent and love that I mean them to be.

x C

Wandering in Waikiki

Upon arriving in Waikiki, we collected our baggage and made our way outside of the terminal to locate the SpeediShuttles desk.

Before departing Auckland, I called the hotel to enquire as to whether they would be able to book our airport transfer to the resort for us. Unfortunately they couldn’t, but directed me to SpeediShuttle.

SpeediShuttleis a privately owned Hawaii based company. The company began operations in 1999 on Maui and has since grown to become the leading provider of ground transportation shuttle services in the state and the largest fleet of Mercedes Benz passenger shuttles in all of North America.

ethan — *Ethan wishing he’d slept on the plane (Honolulu Airport)*

The concierge was easy to find, and after checking in with her she mentioned that she was still waiting and attempting to locate another group of passengers before we could take off. After a 20 minute wait (with Ethan trying not to pass out from exhaustion), we were ushered across the street and into an air conditioned Mercedes – with wifi!

Our resort was the first stop after a 20 minute drive through morning traffic, we arrived at just after 7.30am to perform pre-registration.

Pre-registration is check-in before your room is available. Fortunately the resort Aqua Palms did offer pre-registration, meaning that we were able to check our bags and head out to breakfast. I did attempt an early check-in, however the guest right before me had asked for the same thing and managed to swipe the last available suite.

This meant that check-in for us would not be until 3pm however the concierge did suggest that we call back around midday to see whether any suites had become available. The entire process of pre-registration took about 20mins and after changing our clothes in the lobby restroom, brushing teeth and cleaning ourselves up as best we could, we decided to go foraging for breakfast.

Fortunately there was an IHOP restaurant directly next door to the resort.

The International House of Pancakes is an American multinational casual family restaurant chain thats specialises in and serves breakfast. It is owned by DineEquity, with 99% of the restaurants run by independent franchisees in North America.

We were seated inside the restaurant, and given laminated menus to peruse.

Now these menus are huge. They include pancakes in different stack values, flavour combinations, breakfast ‘entrees’ (hot tip: they’re not entrees, they’re entire meals), omelettes, french toast, waffles and both sweet and savoury crepes.

I ordered a breakfast of eggs over easy (fried on both sides, but the yolk stays runny – “over” refers to flipping the egg, and “easy” refers to the doneness of the yolk), with a couple of slices of bacon and a 2-stack of traditional pancakes.

Christian ordered a full stack of pancakes and Ethan a stack of red velvet pancakes, which if I’m not mistaken were just regular pancakes with cocoa powder and red food dye added.

On the table were a raft of flavoured syrups – strawberry, blueberry, butter pecan, boysenberry and all pancakes were served with a dollop of whipped butter.

Now, personally? I didn’t think IHOP was anything to write home about, but the restaurant doesn’t really pretend to be anything that it isn’t; it’s a simple, yet clearly hugely effective dining experience where the food is exactly what you would come to expect at a chain that offers up breakfast items – and the food arrived lightening fast.

Our server whose name was Heather, was a petite softly spoken girl whose face seemed to be permanently etched with a smile. She wore a frangipani in her hair (known locally as Plumeria) and sauntered to our table, delicately balancing a huge tray of food above her slight wrist – it was impressive.

In terms of the bill, it was fairly inexpensive for a sit down restaurant, however when ordering or purchasing items in the United States, it pays to bear in mind that the price is not actually the price. In New Zealand, Goods & Services Tax or what we commonly refer to as GST, is included in listed prices in stores therefore advertised prices are what you will expect to pay when you come to checkout.

In the United States, federal, state and city tax percentages differ from state to state, therefore something that I purchased in Hawaii at CVS (a local pharmacy chain) that had a listed price of $3.99 cost $4.17 at checkout, however the same item in Los Angeles would cost $4.34 when taking into consideration state, county and city sales tax despite being listed in national sales advertising as $3.99.

Christian and I had decided that the first server who we got in the US was going to get a big tip. This was purely based on the fact that upon researching the average hourly rate for a server or waitress in the US, I discovered this equates more often than not to no more than $2-3 per hour.

We decided to give Heather a $40 USD tip (the equivalent of $58.76 NZD today) and watched her excitedly as she cashed out our table at the till. She blushed a furious pink, and she looked over to our table with a huge smile reaching broadly across her face.

After breakfast, we decided to jump on the hotels free shuttle, and make our way to the nearby Ala Moana Center.

The Ala Moana Center is a mall on steroids, a premier international and local shopping destination with over 340 shops and restaurants. It boasts high end clothing, beauty and electronic stores, all in a beautiful open-air setting filled with lush tropical landscaping and koi ponds.

We wandered around aimlessly, desperately attempting to whittle away time to midday. We entered the department store Macy’s and I was impressed by the MAC, Urban Decay and Benefit makeup counters. I filed through a number of sales racks, however the tag prices weren’t the impressive deals that I had heard so much about online and from other visitors to the center.

We walked further into the center and I found the Sephora! Christian and Ethan sighed audibly and found a bench seat outside the store to wait. I promised I wouldn’t be long as I had in mind the items that I wanted to purchase.

The first stop in store was the Too Faced counter, where I picked up the ‘Better than Sex’ mascara for $23 USD – I’ve tried to find this mascara for sale locally in New Zealand and can confirm that online NZ beauty store LaFemme Beauty do offer it for sale – however it is often sold out.

Beside the Too Faced counter was the Kat Von D counter – I have been an avid user of KvD products for the last 3 years and love her Immortal Lash mascara, Everlasting Lipstick and Lock It foundation. I picked up the KvD Alchemist palette for $32 USD and her original Lolita everlasting lipstick for $20 USD. The local Sephora online store in New Zealand doesn’t currently offer the Alchemist palette and the lipstick runs at a cost of $30 NZD + shipping (orders over $55 NZD attract free shipping, but I have heard that the shipping time for orders from the NZ Sephora store is horrendous).

I also picked up the Milk Makeup Hero Salve, and a Tarte Tarlette Tease palette before returning to my weary travellers who were leaned up against one another drifting in and out of consciousness. I made a call to the hotel and was directed to the bookings to enquire as to whether there was a room available for check in.

I had booked a twin room, however there was only a room with a fold out couch available at the time I enquired about an early check in. I asked Christian if he would mind, and both the boys looked at me through desperately exhausted eyes that I accepted the room and we made our way back to the meeting point to catch the return trip of the complimentary bus.

The driver arrived and let the guest alight the bus, while she ducked out for a cigarette. I joined her, as there were signs everywhere noting that smoking wasn’t permitted anywhere on the site of the mall. She chuckled and said it was fine as long I wasn’t anywhere near an entry point to the mall and we lit up and shot the shit for ten minutes. I asked her about her job and where she lived on the island, making small talk. She explained to me that the company she worked for drove a number of passenger vehicles on the island and she didn’t really enjoy the route because it was repetitive but tips from tourists were a bonus; however it wasn’t really enough to stave off the boredom of a 13 hour shift.

I learned from this conversation that she was running late to schedule, meaning that the coach that was supposed to be 30 minutes behind her had almost caught up. She explained that this was due to the fact that rosters didn’t take into account meal or bathroom breaks.

Coming from New Zealand I was shocked by this, based on the stringent laws I know we have regarding driving regulations, particularly when driving heavy or passenger vehicles. This kind of work expectation I would imagine would lead to significant potential driver fatigue, putting both the driver of the vehicle and its’ passengers in danger. This is something that I have noted whilst here in the US; employment laws exist generally to protect and support the employer, as opposed to serving both employee and employer alike. It’s difficult to get vacation time – most people I told that I had planned to be in the US just shy of a month were surprised that I would be entitled to have my job back upon my return to my home country. And not just surprised; I’d go so far as to say they were amazed.

We returned to the resort after a short trip via coach and tipped the driver, before retrieving our luggage from the concierge and collecting our key cards. Christian eagerly turned the television on to CNN and we all fell asleep for several hours. After showering, we left the resort again via a double decker bus (costing a mere $2 USD per person for a single trip) and travelled back to the Ala Moana Center to have dinner at Bubba Gump Shrimp Company.

The Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. is a themed restaurant, based solely on the film Forrest Gump. The first of its kind was opened in Monterey, California in 1996 and since then they have expanded the business to 43 locations, 2 of which are located in Japan and 1 in Hong Kong.

The restaurant was heaving with guests, and we waited 15 minutes to be seated.

After being greeted by Monica, a Midwest transplant who’d moved to Honolulu to study Earth Sciences. She was warm, bubbly and engaged us in conversation, recommending popular dishes and her own personal faves.

We perused the menus and Ethan noted there were some specialty bottomless frosty drinks with keepsake cups on offer. He eyed them excitedly and asked if he could order one as a souvenir.

I relented, and ordered one for myself as well. The cups had battery packs in the bottom, with buttons that activated flashing coloured lights in the base. As obnoxious as they were, we both happily enjoyed our icy treats.

Ethan settled on shrimp mac ‘n cheese (an American staple) to start and a burger with fries.

Customs & Border Protection USA

We landed at Honolulu Airport at 6:30am Hawaiian time, after an eight hour journey from Auckland. Despite the fact that I’d had somewhat of a restless sleep, I felt wide awake and prepared to start the day, despite the film of grime that had developed across my teeth.

As we disembarked the plane, we were shuffled into the terminal by local Air New Zealand staff. Now, the Honolulu Airport is currently undergoing a refurbishment however as the airport is rather large, it’s obviously going to take a while.

Stepping into the airport is like taking a time capsule back into the late sixties. There is a tonne of wood panelling and brown and tan as far as the eye can see, with loads of gold fixtures and fronded plants in huge, concrete garden pots dotted throughout the terminals. I turned to Christian who I knew would be enamoured by the decor of the airport and he whispered to me, ‘you know, Elvis once walked these halls‘. I rolled my eyes and obediently walked forward, ushered single file toward the exterior of the terminal where I could see a pair of buses that looked like they belonged on the island of Rarotonga.

hnl — *Passenger Shuttle, Honolulu Airport.*

We boarded one of the buses and waited a few minutes to ensure everyone had alighted, and then were transported to security clearance and baggage claim in another terminal. I was astounded at the size of the airport, and commented to Christian about how huge the place was. We idly chatted as I attempted to quell the churning in my stomach as we prepared to meet the oft-feared TSA.

The Transportation Security Administration (TSA) is an agency of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security that has authority over the security of the traveling public in the United States. It was created as a response to the September 11, 2001 attacks and their reputation as no-nonsense, serious men and women of law is infamous.

On average, the TSA screens approximately 2 million people per day throughout the United States and its’ two territories Puerto Rico & Guam.

Prohibs 3-16-12 — *Image courtesy of US Army.*

In Fort Worth in 2012, a TSA officer confiscated a live 40mm high explosive grenade from a passengers luggage; the fact that firearms, live animals and drugs are still attempting to be smuggled in and out of the US, coupled with the world as it exists today post 9/11 has proven the need for the country to take its’ border security very seriously.

The country’s currently political climate regarding immigration was also a cause for concern, especially during a time where President Trump has expressed definitive and divisive opinions on immigration.

At the end of January this year, President Trump decreed executive order temporarily banning travel from seven Muslim-majority countries. The move sparked protests around the country as people who had previously been approved to come to the United States were being detained at airports and there were also indications that the ESTA visa waiver program would be scrapped in favour of stricter visa-issuances for all foreign visitors.

Although the order was blocked in appeals courts, The Donald has reportedly signed a new executive order, removing Iraq from the list of countries that would be impacted by the travel ban and stating that the order would apply to new visa applicants only. This will mean that travellers who’d previously been blocked by the initial order despite having legitimate visa documentation may now be allowed entry to the United States.

As a New Zealand born citizen, I rarely worry about travelling abroad, for the simple fact that our passports are ranked as one of the best to have in the world. This is based on the number of countries (170) that permit entry to citizens of New Zealand without requiring visas.

Upon reaching passport control, we were asked to enter our passport details into a self service machine that scanned our biometric passports and took our photos. This printed out a slip that we were required to present to the customs officer at security, along with out passports.

As we approached the officer, I hoped that we would get someone nice, or at least someone who would be interested in the fact that we hailed from the land of Hobbits, Orcs, Gandalf and Middle Earth and less interested in my husband’s birthplace.

Christian was born in Lima, and spent several years living in his country of origin Peru before emigrating with his family to New Zealand. At this stage in the game, he is a naturalised citizen travelling on a New Zealand passport and has been a resident in Auckland for the last 27 years. On this basis, you would assume that the length of time he’d been away from South America that the cultural stereotypes that come along with hailing from this part of the world would have lapsed, right? Wrong.

Even our own friends have made jokes about Christian being an undesirable, being ‘randomly selected’ at airports internationally because of his ‘Mexican sounding name’, laughing at his name being that of someone who is quite obviously a Columbian drug mule…guess what, team? It’s not funny. People of colour are routinely treated poorly, or differently because of their given names or familial lineage. The very fact that we cannot make these exact jokes to an anglo-saxon makes these racist. So stop it. It’s not funny. It’s lame and I’m sure you’re smarter than that.

Because we seem to be the most blessed people in the world, our customs and border protection officer (also a department of Homeland Security) was a Mexican gentleman named Luis.

He greeted us warmly welcoming us to the country and nonchalantly asked Christian about his country of birth, how long he’d lived in the country and how he’d ended up in New Zealand. ‘Peruano!’, he exclaimed repeatedly stating that he’d not met many in his line of work and that it was nice to meet Christian.

His language was interspersed with Spanish, and I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. We came to the US with the explicit intention of enjoying a family vacation and I had been convinced by so many people that we would be treated as hostile, threatening individuals who were intent on causing havoc in the USA – thankfully, my experience couldn’t have been more opposite.

We were fingerprinted and our passports scanned and stamped, before being bid farewell by Luis, where he imparted some words to Christian – ‘you’re a good man, a mano. Take care of your family, you’re doing it right’.

Thank you, Luis!

Charli x

Flight Time.

After months and months of planning and an arduous overnight 8 hour flight from Auckland, my family and I landed at Honolulu airport in the early hours of Hawaii’s Saturday morning.

Unfortunately I didn’t take my own advice and refer to the SeatGuru app when choosing our seats on this plane.

Because Ethan wanted to sit at the window, I was relegated to the aisle seat, which offered additional leg room but a screen on a retractable arm as there was no seat in front of mine. The first row in our cabin boasted only two seats, and I remarked to Christian about how envious I was about the woman in the row who was travelling solo and didn’t have an accompanying passenger in her neighbouring but vacant seat. Bah, humbug.

Upon finding our seats, we were confused as to why there was no screen available in the aisle seat, as we had paid for The Works Deluxe package electing to fly in the most comfortable cattle class option. I then observed an attendant assisting my aisle neighbour, whose seat also did not have a passenger in front, but a wall separating our cabin from the Business Class cabin ahead.

He explained that the screen could be retracted and released from its partition by pushing down on a lever. As he explained this, I looked down to my left and observed a latch, pushing down hard to see if I could release the screen. I felt I had pushed with some force and without any luck, I gave up and assumed that the attendant, who had spoken to all others who were seated in the rows with retractable screens would surely come over before takeoff and go through the same procedure with me, as he had all of the others.

Alas – I was wrong. He started to walk down the aisle toward me and as he did so, I looked towards him and smiled. He looked down his nose at me and without missing a beat, sashayed further down the aisle to assist a colleague to ensure the rear doors were securely fastened. To say I was surprised would be a lie. Being a heavily tattooed person, quite often I am treated differently to your average Joe. People assume I do drugs, drink heavily, am generally a bad or unsavoury person…because I choose to adorn my body with art that I think is beautiful and have a penchant for body modification. First of all, if you think this? You’ve got screws loose. This is not 1950 and what I choose to do with my body is my business. I am sick to death of people remarking on my hair, clothes, body mods and appearance, like by simply existing I am asking for validation.

So, if you’re reading this? Just know, I’m not. I don’t need your validation. I’ve grown into a place where I really like myself and understand I have faults and flaws and am working on those, however I do not need you to comment on or remind me of aforementioned faults and flaws. Mind your own goddamn business.

And as for you (let’s call him Steve) Steve, air steward of Air New Zealand – you suck. Thanks for making me feel less than human by electing to ignore the basic requirements of your job, to make your guests comfortable and assist them where necessary. Cheers! Luckily for me however, one of his colleagues did ask if I had been shown how to use the retractable screen and when I said hadn’t took great care to show me in detail how to use the screen and let me know that the screens would need to be placed away during takeoff.

With that out of the way, I’d like to explain why I didn’t enjoy flying with Air New Zealand in the slightest.

Firstly, as a heavier person with a big bum, I detest planes with narrow seats. Ironically, New Zealand’s budget airline JetStar offers more comfortable seating than the perceived ‘better value’ national airline. I prefer to fly JetStar intercity while in New Zealand, for the simple fact that the seats are wider and the belts stretch easily across my wide torso.

I sat down in my chair and groaned. Not only was the seat narrow, but the armrests did not lift, meaning my thighs spewed out underneath the hardened plastic arms. Before you roll your eyes and say to yourself, ‘she should just lose some weight so she can fit in the seat our buy two seats if necessary’ – I get it. But in this case, even if I had purchased the neighbouring seat, I wouldn’t have been able to lift the armrest, so that argument is moot.

I reclined my seat a wee bit, so as not to disturb the person sitting behind me who was busily typing away on a laptop placed on their tray table – I try to be considerate when flying because I get super irritated when the person in front of me comes flying backwards halfway into my seat and I have to struggle to use my personal screen. I was able to stretch my legs out and sit very low in the seat, which somewhat replicated lying down…but not really.

So, in short? The flight sucked. I have a return flight on Air New Zealand to look forward to on the way home from Honolulu to Auckland so I’m grateful for the fact that it’s only eight hours. Should I ever return to Oahu, I will do so on a Hawaiian Airlines flight!

Charli x

Prying open my third eye.

At the age of 16, Tupac Amaru Shakur became the New Afrikan Panthers National Chairman – the youngest person ever to hold the distinction.
His mother Afeni was once apart of the infamous Panther 21, spending time in prison for her role in the plot to blow up the NYC Police Dept.
He spent most of his childhood on the run from the FBI as they tracked his Stepfather Mutulu Shakur who was on the Top 10 Most Wanted list for domestic terrorism.

His Godmother is Assata Shakur who is also wanted for domestic terrorism, now a political asylum seeker in Cuba, one of 90 US asylum seekers who the US Government offered in 1998 to lift the Cuban embargo in exchange for extradition.

The Bush administration in 2003 put a $1,000,000 reward on her head during the revival of domestic terrorist targeting, at the start of the so-called ‘War on Terror.’ This has since been increased to $2 Million.

His Godfather was Geronimo Pratt, a high-ranking member of the Black Panther Party who was targeted by COINTELPRO (an acronym for COunter INTELligence PROgram), a series of covert, and at times illegal projects conducted by the FBI aimed at surveying, infiltrating, discrediting, and disrupting domestic political organizations.

The police officers that Tupac shot, a crime he was acquitted of? Their gunfire was returned by Shakur after they shot at him unarmed. He was acquitted as it turned out both officers were intoxicated at the time of the incident and the gun used to shoot ‘Pac was actually taken from an evidence locker. He was shot twice during this incident.

A person who went by the name of Haitian Jack (an FBI Agent, as identified in those of Shakur’s FBI files available on public record – a fairly substantial portion of this file has been suppressed as a matter of national security) attempts to extort Tupac before being publicly humiliated by Shakur – introduced him to a woman who would go on to accuse him of rape and assault. This would be another crime he was acquitted of – after 11 months of being incarcerated, he is freed when the prosecution produces evidence that proves his innocence claiming it has been ‘misplaced’ during this period.

Tupac was not simply a gangsta rapper. He was a philosopher, a man born into a life from which he planned to pursue uprising, with an obvious, clear social consciousness and political agenda – with the respect of many black nationalist groups within the United States. The Shakur’s were practically black royalty.

Our Government agencies worldwide are fighting amongst themselves using all available mediums to keep you uninformed and spoon-fed, to place neurological biases in in your brain that mean you will stop questioning anything, stop being curious and distract from any ideas of uprising to anarchy.

Don’t believe everything that you read. Don’t be distracted by bullshit.

THINK. ASK. QUESTION. EVERYTHING.