The pen is mightier than the 'board ...

Irony's a funny thing. It happens much more than we realize. In fact, it's happening right now as I write this and at the moment you read it. How so, you ask? It all began, as many things do, with a smile ...

I received a letter in the mail the other day from Children International, an organization that connects children in impoverished countries with sponsors who are looking to lessen their families' financial burden. I'm currently a sponsor of a little guy from a small village in Honduras named Jairo. The letter I received was from the organization, encouraging me to write Jairo a letter to introduce myself and encourage him to study hard, basically. I've received a letter from the little gent, but haven't had the means to write him back until that day. I was stoked. Finally, I get to write mi amigo and express my excitement about the cultural journey we will take together.

So, I ran back to my room to bag-up my laptop and head to Java to type away. In my bustle, as I loaded up my messenger, I saw his picture sitting on my TV stand. In this photo, Jairo is a stiff cherub of a child, an awkward innocence exuding from his face and posture. At that moment, I considered whether he had ever seen a camera before, much less ever had his picture taken. Such an odd thought. Uncomfortable but dutiful, he stood with his arms tight to his sides as if his hands were magnets and his pants were made of steel. I wondered what went through his mind in that fraction of second during which he was immortalized on film and uploaded to a website. Does he know his picture will be seen by strangers? Or, does he think the photo is for school? Does he have any idea? I doubt it. Would you have any idea at six years old that your family lived in poverty and that Children International was trying to improve the quality of your life? It's just life to him. It's just life as he stands there in what are, in all likelihood, his nicest clothes, ill-fitting as they may be. He probably wears them only on special occasions and wondered what made that occasion worthy of his special clothes.

That day, Jairo (I call him "Jairo-Hero" 'cause I'm lame) got his picture taken. Unbeknownst to him, I came along that picture who knows how many months later. In it I saw curiosity. In it I saw tragedy. In it I saw a boy who may never know the luxuries I take for granted on a daily basis. In it I saw one boy who I will help amongst millions I could help. Beset on all sides by poverty, corruption, and injustice, I saw faces who might as well be ghosts if it weren't for our ability to help them overcome those obstacles. In it I saw ...

... well, I saw a lot of things and that's where my train of thought took me elsewhere and out the door, eager to write my letter. I hopped in my new car, turned on my new iPod, opened my sunroof, put on my sunglasses, and felt engulfing guilt. I thought, "Now is not the time Blake, get to Java and write your letter. Do this one thing for one child and later you can think about doing more." So, I drove down to Java to the tune of Jack's Mannequin, but cognizant only of hazy thoughts about how I live my life in so much fortune.

I arrived at Java, stepped out of the car and realized something ... in my bewilderment and introspection I had left my messenger at home. Laptop and all. Sonofa. I'm not driving all the way back to my house for my stupid computer. So, I did something I haven't done in a long time, I grabbed my folio and my pen, determined to write this letter. At that moment, and still at this moment, I can't remember the last time I have written anything of length by hand. I found a comfortable seat and a cup of tea and began to write my letter. With my excitement, I began to write feverishly on the yellow legal pad. My handwriting is an odd combination of print, cursive, shorthand, and maybe calligraphy that is solely for me to decipher. You'd need the Rosetta Stone to translate it. It's a mess. My hand cramped shortly into the second paragraph and that's not comedic hyperbole.

So I wrote and I wrote, choosing my words wisely so that a six year could make heads or tails of it. I've always prided myself on being able to write to any audience. But, honestly, this was different. My audience is usually in double digits age-wise, at least. So, I struggled a bit. And that's when I had a realization, as I was crossing out some convoluted sentence that made little sense. I realized that despite my attempts to conceal my mistakes in syntax or spelling or lapses in grammar, they were still on that page. They were scratched out, but still existed. Those words were evidence that writing pen-to-page is much different than writing finger-to-key. The crossed-out miswrites were like fossils of thoughts that once crossed my mind, but died on the page in a matter of seconds. They couldn't be erased and they couldn't be backspaced. They were there on that page until I trashed it.

That inspired me. This is the only way stream-of-consciousness can exist. Even as I type this now, I could not help but correct my spelling errors immediately and reconsider my word choices over and over. It is an entirely different process. On the computer, I can type fast enough to go neck-and-neck with my brain, but I can't when I'm transcribing my thoughts by hand. It alters the thought process immensely as things are mentally re-routed. The output could be completely disparate compared to what I would have typed out. It's fascinating.

So, I finished my letter, but was inspired to write and continued to write. What emerged were some entirely different ideas through an entirely different method. Now I'm going to transcribe verbatim what I wrote with the hope that it will encourage you to blow the dust off your journal or notebook and exhaust a brand new pen with your new found journalistic freedom. On my crumpled paper, I wrote as follows:

gratitude, difference making is one act you never build up a resistance to

you never build up a resistance to changing lives

It takes one every time

It takes one act every time

You never develop a tolerance to changing lives. Those acts never lose their impact. They never lose their poignancy

Making crises a spectacle is not effective. I believe in the power of pictures, but not morbidity. There is no need to highlight people as sideshows. Poverty, famine, corruption, they are social issues that require social consciousness, not social disgust. Disgust makes us feel, but understanding drives action. The collective brains of so-called developed countries know that atrocities occur and tragedies persist, but what it can't grasp is that they happen to people. Real people, flesh and blood. People just like you. People who could just as easily have been you. But, you got lucky. Whether you are born into freedom or financial security, you were born into opportunity, or, simply, stability. Not tumult. You were lucky. We were lucky. We're lucky to be here tonight.

When people cringe, they forget. When people can't bare to look, they don't.

People see less the more you show them.

They must understand.

Yup. That's it. So, Jairo was a boon to me that day. In his neat white shirt that has never seen starch or an electric iron, he helped me forget about my laptop. Both literally and progressively. Thanks, Jairo. This is the beginning of a fruitful journey, and the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Visit www.children.org and sponsor your own little Hero.