Into their proper places

Moving from one box to another

From one bin to the final bin

It's hard to say goodbye to objects I've gathered

And picked up along the way

I've found myself saying goodbye

In little ways to things from the past

To things from the present

Things I've held onto for too long

For no particular reason

Covered in dust

And moth carcasses

It's time to make room for new things

New people...new life, I guess

So goodbye old stuff

It's been nice knowing you.

VDC

It was hard to drive. Admittedly, I don't think I should have driven, but Husbandido had some back problems due to working on the nursery (it looks nice, really), but I was both exhausted and hungry. I didn't eat dinner and I was emotionally drained from a program graduation. I had to force Husbandido to talk me through the trip. He couldn't sleep, nor could I keep in one lane. I'm glad we made it safely.

I didn't know what to expect from a childbirth class: the Apostle gave me a quick rundown, and that was nice, but if bringing two pillows and a blanket made me nervous about what kinda gymnastics we were going to do. In truth, the course was very light, and thankfully the trainer was very energetic and funny, so that helped a LOT. 

It was interesting, honestly, to see other pregnant women, and in different states of being. Some were freakin' ginormous, others were tiny, some were wobbly, and others were just there. I observed the dads/partners/random dudes just taking it all in, and noticed some of them breaking into a cold sweat. Interesting.

Husbandido started falling asleep at the end of the class...which is typical if he's in mass. Go figure. Cute thing is that at the end, the trainer played a Jamie Foxx song, U Still Got It. Pretty sweet song. Cute. Anyways, 37 weeks. Here we go, kids.

Voodoo

I have been blessed with three showers, one by my girlfriends (who I love love love), one by my coworkers (who surprised me with their outright generosity and wonderfulness), and one by my family (which was a surprise yet wasn't, but it was still cute, so thanks ladies). As a result, we have SO much stuff around our house that it's making cleaning up the baby room a MESS. I'm just glad that my parents are out of town and we can put all the stuff in the living room. It's crazy.

I'm winding up my last week at work, and what's exciting about it is that I'm going to be changing jobs from my directorship (which I loved, but it's time to move on, if you know what I mean) to running Freshman Programs. I'm really excited about it, but I know it's going to be a pain because the work is so heavy with details and drama that I'm going to need to learn how to round up the kitties. I'm excited. In a way it's a sort of demotion yet it's going to be easier for me, it's going to mean I keep my salary, but I can do MORE with MORE people. I'm also thinking long term when it comes to work with other schools when it's time to move on that this position has more versatility to it and will allow me to be a more attractive candidate. who knows.

I've had to redo my CV, and it's  nice to be able to see how much my life has changed over the years. I am excited about the future, not just because of the job, but because having Bambina will give me some opportunity to put meaningfulness in my work.

Al Trautwig, who does color commentary for the Tour de France, does the commentary for gymnastics. It's kinda wierd.

I have a bad crush on Michael Phelps and Jim Krasinski. I had a dream with both of them in it. I won't say anything else, but the last time I had a dream like that it was with Vince Vaughn (and he was brand new and skinny). Every time I look at Vince Vaughn now (the chubby version), I get a little embarassed about the situation. That kinda dream, yo.

I already packed my hospital bag (and Husbandido's). I figure he might ask me to do it when we're getting ready to leave, so might as well do it now cause the only thing I'm doing when we're headed to the hospital is to sit there and not freak out.

The baby seat and stroller aren't here yet. Crap. 

Made a grown up decision to not have a Filipino fiesta at the hospital when I give birth. You heard me, people? We're going to do this nice and quiet, have a few days rest, and then tell everyone to come by when we're at home. And it's going to be nice and orderly. No 20 million people over the house. Just a handful at a time. Shit, maybe we'll do appointments.

Anyways, Husbandido's doing a great job with the room. We did get into it because I do have a lot of crap and it's just time to get rid of all of it. It's hard parting with things from my life, but it's gotta be done, right? No, I don't have things to give you all, trust me, if I had things worth selling I'd have a garage sale by now.

The theme? Green and yellow. Her colors. Not pink. But you know, it really didn't stop people from getting us all pink stuff. It's just the way of the baby girl.

Okay, well that's enough blah blah for now. It's nice to be able to touch base with you all, and hope you're all doing well. Take care and much love!

Voodoo

I called into the Dr's office that night too, and hoo boy, there's not a whole lot they can do, huh. "Hope you feel better!" No crap, lady! I had to call in this morning as well because my glucose numbers were off too. "Oh that was probably because you were sick." RIGHT!

Oh well. So I've been resting it off, drinking tons of fluids and watching horrible day time television. Happily, I've spent most of the time passed out. Husbandido was peeved because I was intending to go into work, but waking up this morning, I knew I wasn't trying to get out there. Too worried that the toilet was too far away because last night I had to kick Husbandido out of the loo a few times LOL.

Anyways, I'm going back to doing...whatever. I guess I could pass out again. Yah that sounds good.

Voodoo 

I'm not going to lie; it's been stressful in little ways: the pregnancy, mom and dad coming and going and coming back again, work, change, the impending arrival of the Bambina. It came down to waking up one night at 4AM and lying there with feelings of dread as I ticked off things I needed to do at work. I lay awake for at least another hour forcing myself to acknowledge that this was probably not a normal thing to do. At 4AM.

Early on in the pregnancy, both myself and Husbandido had to meet with a therapist. It was nerve wracking to me (there was a 3AM staredown with the ceiling for a few nights) because I didn't know why I was scheduled for an appointment. Turns out this is a normal "thing." Just a check in with all expectant mothers. Routine. Holy shit, I thought I had to prepare for some bad news or what have you. But no. Just checking in.

After my gestational diabetes check in meeting a few weeks ago, I ran into the therapist again. She recognized me, and knowing how stressed I was, I went ahead and scheduled some time with her.

Now I know this is highly personal. Telling someone you're seeing a therapist is akin to telling people that a) you got some stuff going on you can't handle (don't bite my head off for this yet, wait for it), b) you are going through SOME STUFF you shouldn't be handling, or c) you're just a wreck in general. I know this. Least you forget, I have a master's in counseling. I know the risks that I'm taking by putting this out there for you to read, but I'm also taking the chance to tell you that I'm doing this to take care of myself, Bambina, my Husbandido and whoever else I may have an impact on. I'm also going on record with sharing this because, honestly, I wanted to encourage anyone else who may debate on doing a similar thing - seeing a therapist - to go ahead and do it. Do I have stuff going on? Of course I do. Do I need help? Who the hell doesn't? Can I handle it? I'm handling it. Now.

The good news is that I found someone who I really liked, and I like to think we have a good thing going. I've seen her twice now, and while it's not rocket science, it's easy to see that it's been helpful to spend an hour of someone's time venting/chatting/laughing through it all. Also, no lie, it's nice to see someone who has very similar and more advanced training than I do, do her job. I'm a nut like that.

***

Anyways, pregnancy continues to move steadily ahead. Bambina is moving and grooving on a schedule now. That's kinda crazy, but I know when she's going to be moving around and fidgeting around. 31 weeks in, there are 67 days left to go. It's exciting, and I'm looking forward to the changes ahead, but I'm also keenly aware of how much things will have to change.

We've been toying around with the idea of moving out, but that's a long way off for us. The need for space has been a part of our daily life lately, especially with having to share, but what can we do? There's a part of me that says, "Why the hell did you go to graduate school on loans for?" I laugh at this, but that's a huge financial burden. Without it and my credit card bills (hey, I needed to go to europe, ok?), I could take care of a mortgage all by myself. Funny, isn't it? But yah, that's life.

Asides: Fast and Furious is a wierd movie. Husbandido actually said this: " I am never going to watch this movie...again. Six times is enough." Yet he still is watching it. Comedy.

Well, I'm going to go back to reading The Count of Monte Cristo. The unabridged version, bitches. Take that. Yes, I'm halfway through. LOL

Off to count kicks. 

Voodoo 

Knowing that diabetes runs in my family, and watching people succumb or come out of the woods changed and transformed really made this diagnosis hit home for me. I don't want to make it seem like this is a minor thing...I've tried to play it off these last few days, but it's not really working.

I've made a conscious decision to do my best to take care of myself better, but at the same time, I've made promises to myself and have broken them before (see boyfriends #2, 6 and 9...JK, not really). So while it's hard to turn down a piece of cake, god, how hard it truly is, especially when it's a handmade lemon cake, it's a fact of life for me now, not just until Bambina gets here, but even afterwards. Well, maybe after I have my post-birth celebratory sushi, beer, and ice cream party in September. You're all welcome to Gluttony Fest 2008, btw.

Anyways, so I get a terse email from my doctor with two sentences. "You have gestational diabetes. Nurse will call you." I sat in front of my computer screen and stared at it. It was hard to not feel like I was just handed a death sentence. Holy smokes. I'm condemned to eat rabbit food for the next few months, I thought to myself. If you know me, which most of you do by now, you'll understand this is just like taking candy away from a verified sugartooth, which is me, entirely!

The phone call comes, and it's to schedule an appointment. That's wierd. I expected a full on lecture on the phone, but it was just to set a time to meet...okaaaay. So the date is set, a week later. Apparently the dietician only comes in once a week. Nice job if you can get it, I guess. As the days tick away, I have a great weekend with Husbandido's family and find myself having a dinner and dim sum (two separate events, mind you) on Saturday and Sunday. Oh and on one of the last warm days of the week, a scoop of Thin Mint at Mitchell's ice cream. Funnily enough, I thought of it as a fond farewell. For now. Not forever. I'm not that crazy. Sort of.

Aside: We get to Mitchell's after sushi (I didn't have sushi, mind you, but a basic bento box while everyone passed sushi under my nose. Sad.), and it's 10 to 10. There was a crazy big crowd outsideI thought they close at 10PM, but alas, they don't. We pull up, get #70. (you have to pull a number from a machine at the door and wait your turn, dammit). Then we look up at the number being called...it's 19. Holy shit. Worth it? YES. Anyways...  

A week passes, and throughout the week, I'm keeping an eye on what to eat; it's not as hard as it seems, but it's hard to quantify what's an appropriate snack/carb/food and just what exact serving size I need to worry about. 1/3 cup of cooked rice? I'm Filipino. Madness ensues. My craving, fruit of all sorts and sizes, becomes suspect. I wish, for some reason, I could subsist on fruit entirely. I would gladly eat an apple six times a day (I think I may have actually done that once), but I'm not sure if that's recommended (it's not).

My nurse, during the phone call, sent me to the pharmacy to pick up what's waiting for me: a glucometer, test control strips, and lansets. I show up to my appointment, and I am greeted with a huge white bag. I always wondered why people would ever get a prescription of what would likely be a lifetime supply of viagra or flatulence reduction meds. Honestly, I even eyed with some disdain those large bag carriers because there was some serious shit going on in that bag. And here I am, large bag in hand, hurredly trying to get to my next appointment.

Earlier that morning, I woke up at 4AM with a huge stomach ache. Not like "Valkryie needs poop badly," more like "Elf needs food badly." Seriously? I'm hungry? Strange. Too tired to eat, I went back to sleep, only to wake up two hours later with a bowl of cereal (Fiber, no more Honey Nut), and off to my appointment I go. Stomach somehow doesn't settle down all day. By 10 AM, I'm starving again, starting to feel like I will strangle someone if they're eating a danish next to me just to lick the sugar off their fingers.

The first meeting that AM was with a diabetes trainer. It was kinda lame actually, because she just taught me how to take blood for my glucometer. It was rather strange, that she showed me how to set it up, and then said, "let's do a blood draw for your test" without cleaning off my finger or her hands. Okay, whatever. Poke goes the lancet (OUCH), and blood goes into test strip. Looks easily, but I try to absorb it all, making mental notes as I go along to make sure I clean my hands off.

I get passed off to the dietician who winds up showing up 30 minutes late, and by then, when she says, "How are you doing?" I reply that I'm starving, and pretty much say, "Let's move this along so I can eat something ASAP." I hate being difficult with people, but by then I have been in a good rhythm with my diet, eating 5 times a day, and this was cramping my style.

**I just for some godawful reason just clicked away onto another page and lost about a good five paragraphs. I think I might cry over it, but I won't. I'll just summarize things:

1. Rubber food looks like barf.

2. I learned way more than I thought I would. Fruits = good. Just eat with protein. Eat every 2-3 hours. No more cereal for breakfast. Eat before bed = WIN.

3. Doing glucose counts every freakin' meal is a pain in the finger (get it?), but it's been interesting. I just um keep forgetting to do it on time.

4. My favorite line from what I wrote that was erased: "I woke up at 430AM reliving my 27th birthday at Elroy's."

5. My second favorite line: "As I looked in the fridge, I started to realize half of the things I bought, with the interest of eating better are no longer edible in my world: I started into a litany of what I couldn't eat: St. Jude of Thin Mint Ice Cream, pray for us. St. Mary of 6 apples a day, pray for us. "

At any rate, that's life. What are you going to do. I am hoping that this signals permanent change in my life for the better, because nothing would make me happier than being sure that I'm healthy and will be around for a while to blog about Bambina's life. Maybe I'll do it eating rabbit food, but I'll still be around.

Now if only I can find an organic cupcake with no sugar to make things better.

Voodoo 

Secondly, in honor of Father's Day, I got to do all the laundry that Husbandido started (but didn't finish), wash all the dishes that he used (but didn't wash), and clean up the room (that he occupies), and take him out to see a movie of his choice (when is it ever my choice, I mean really...we don't go running off to French movies. Only really actiony movies).

Anyways, he chose The Hulk, since Husbandido fancies himself to be the hulk in stressful situatiosn because rather than deal with it, he'd like to turn big and green and smash things. Funny thing is that when we went off to see the movie, there is a loud explosion at the beginning that made Bambina jump which made me laugh, but also made me feel bad because apparently we're waking up the homegirl. Husbandido asked me if we should not be going to loud movies like that because it might affect her personality. Little does he know that I drive the car, the car that goes boom, and maybe she likes the loud noise already. ;-)

So other news I might have to share is that Indiana Jones for the Wii is possibly the most awesome game ever. EVAR.

Also, I had my second rough night last week; my first one was early in the first trimester where I started to feel things loosen up and tweak. It was my hips causing me problems, and I couldn't sleep to save my life. Last week I enjoyed a SWEET salad and it kicked my ass literally. I had gas so bad that I had crazy stomachaches most of the day and couldn't find a comfortable position to lay down in. I got up at 1:30 and didn't go back to sleep until after 4AM. I wound up getting up and walking around in hopes of dislodging the goods. Didn't work, but I wound up going to work all groggy and tired, and I made myself walk around outside of the office, and that, well, did the job. I felt much better. Tonight I feel the same hard belly thing kicking in, so I'll be doing laps around the house tonight.

There are two more babies headed down the way in my family, and I went ahead and sent them gifts. I feel wierd that I don't have enough toy-ish kind of things on my registry. Should I? Nah, I figure people are already giving me enough toyish things already! Now if only I could get the so-called baby room up and running.

I feel like I might need to get a dumpster just to throw all the shit that I have in there in it. Seriously. It's our office. I was thinking the other day that I used to share that room with my brother, and wow, we didn't have half as much crap as we do now. Go figure.

Anyways, enough about silly things. Oh yah, my test results. So here's how it all came down. Any advice is welcome, but I'm sure my doc will have something to say about the situation. Anyways, my fasting test: 91. The normal levels are below 94. Sweet. Then I took my lovely flat soda. It wasn't so lovely because that shit wasn't cold like I had it the first time! I was kinda mad. anyway, my 2nd test was booyah: 192...normal level? below 172. Ew. Okay 3rd test: 162...normal level 154. Still high but not ohshet. Last test: 143..normal level 139. 'snot so bad. But yah, elevated levels all around. Guess that means I gotta do what I gotta do and do some serious cutting down.

Wierd thing is that I have all kinds of moms coming up to me lately and saying, "Seriously? You're tiny compared to where I was." Give me some time. Apparently inflating is in the near future. I can't wait to have someone drive me to work cause I'm so close to the steering wheel as it is! LOL

Okay. that was a long blog. You guys take care...and I'll get back to you later! Ciao for now.

27 weeks!

Voodoo 

VOODOO 

 Anyways, so today I had an appt with my OB and beforehand, I go to take my glucose test. I check in at the lab, and the lab tech points me over to a podium where Homegirl is standing. She gives me a paper cup then cracks open a bottle of orange fluid. Looks like Sunkist (or any orange soda for that matter). I happen to LOVE LOVE LOVE (nom nom nom) orange soda so I'm just thrilled to down it. I ask her, "Do I have to drink it in front of you?" It feels like being in jail. Nice. Take your meds. Show me your tongue. Under tongue. A ha! You swallow that damn pill. While I'm downing it like a shot (really, I love orange soda), she explains to me that some women just don't want to take it, don't get diagnosed with gestational diabetes and then bad things happen. Gulp. I can't believe there are people like that. Oh wait, I take it back. There are some really mad folks out there.

I put the cup down and she gives me a second shot. I down that as well. I feel like I should get a prize for being a willing patient. I didn't find it all nasty iike some of my friends have told me it would be like, although I can readily see how it could be all bad; it does taste of flat orange soda, and me being me, lover of orange soda, I've had my share of flat orange soda and it's still all good to me. One of the things she said to me was "If you throw up..." If I throw up? WTF! What do you mean if? I could? I think one of my biggest fears is yakking in public view...not that it's stopped me before, come on  I know some of you were around for my three count 'em three yakitudes.

I head off to my appt with my OB that lasts all of 2 seconds. She listens to Bambina's heart beat (it's slower, but apparently that's normal, I hope). She measures the belly. Weight is good (ack I weigh that much), blood pressure is good, and we chop it up for a bit. I bring my notebook full of questions, and we're good to go!

I have to go downstairs back to the lab to get my blood drawn. I for one am not scared of needles. I used to get blood tests once a week, and it doesn't bother me in the least. I hang out, read some of the literature sitting around and get my needle stick and I'm on my way.

Blood test came back okay, but I'm still waiting for the results of the glucose Orange Soda dream drink. I'll keep you posted!

Voodoo

PS: 25.6 weeks! 

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates.

The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I’ve experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world’s best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called ‘real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.

They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all - in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I’ve used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.
I wish you all very good lives.
Thank you very much.

Another fave speech: Conan O'Brien. 

Voodoo 

As she flipped through her data, I kept thinking to myself that there was a 1 in 300 chance. There was a 1 in 250 chance. The only thing I remembered rattling through my head was "In a room full of 300 women, one of us is going to be affected by the condition." I visualized the group of women and randomly pausing in front of one woman. Would that camera shot pause in front of me? I didn't know if I should have started praying that it wasn't me, or if I should start praying for someone else. Either way, there was prayer involved.

As many of you know I got the all clear and after I got off the phone, I was ecstatic. For a week, I walked around gingerly, pausing every now and then to pat the front of my belly and make sure Bambino/a (we didn't know at the time, right?) was doing well. I played over and over the conversation on my brain that the genetic counselor and I had. "These are the chances. It all depends on when the baby is born, not how old you are now." Thirty-something. I felt screwed. Like I waited too long, and this was my punishment for waiting.

I thought long and hard about the woman who got the call urging her to come in. What tipped me off right away was that the counselor wanted to go over the results with me over the phone. Whenever it's over the phone, it's usually good news. Whenever they want you to come in, it's never a good thing. Someone out there got the call. Somewhere, there are 298 other women, other than myself, who are heaving a sigh of relief. Somewhere, there is someone who is devastated.

It turns out, I know someone who got that phone call. Chromosome deformity. Likelihood of birth, low. Worse than Down's Syndrome if baby survived birth. I felt my heart sink when I got the news. She herself has been carrying this news for a few weeks now. The joys of motherhood dashed? I don't know what my heart would be like if I were here. The person who told me gave me a big hug, and said, you're so lucky. I guess I am.

Voodoo