Since then, while covering the topic of human trafficking, I have heard Lloyd talk at numerous events and panels. I have called her up for quotes and insights, like the time football star Lawrence Taylor was arrested. I had needed to get a lucid response on why the media was portraying an under-age trafficked girl as a “hooker.”

Lloyd always speaks the truth to power. It may be to a New York City police commissioner, or an affluent Manhattan audience learning for the first time that 13-year-old African-American girls in Bedford–Stuyvesant, Brooklyn are being bought and sold. Lloyd frequently notes that they are part of an estimated 200,000-300,000 adolescents who are at risk annually for commercial sexual exploitation in the United States.

Consequently, it was no surprise to me that the memoir Lloyd had penned, Girls Like Us: Fighting for a World Where Girls Are Not for Sale, an Activist Finds Her Calling and Heals Herself, would be a tough, gritty and brutally honest account. Lloyd traces how a difficult childhood led to a hair-raising journey that encompassed risk, recruitment, violent abuse, breaking free from sexual exploitation—and ultimately healing. She now is a top activist in the anti-trafficking movement.

Finding her purpose in working with girls “in the life,” Lloyd connects to those in crisis based on shared experiences, understanding without judgment, and respect. Founding Girls Educational and Mentoring Services (GEMS) in 1998, Lloyd went back to school to attain her GED, going on to receive a Bachelors degree in Psychology from Marymount Manhattan College and a Masters in Applied Urban Anthropology from the City College of New York. She has racked up numerous awards for her efforts, all while “owning her experience.”

Girls Like Us presents a dual story. One is Lloyd’s personal narrative; the other is a primer on what trafficked American girls are up against. Lloyd outlines the elements that make girls vulnerable, examines how they are sexually exploited, and discusses the role of pimps, johns, and cops in the equation. The inherent difficulties of overcoming the trauma of sexual servitude often mimic the symptoms of Stockholm syndrome and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Lloyd breaks down one fallacy after another, many unfortunately believed by social workers, law enforcement officials, and those making decision calls in the judicial system. If misconceptions could start to be addressed, perhaps a real awareness toward new solutions could be innovated.

There is so much that needs to change, and Lloyd points out the problems with crystal clarity. One of her frequent talking points is the statistic that the estimated median age of entry into the commercial sex industry occurs between the ages of 12 and 14. Defining the difference between an “exploited child and a prostitute” is a full time endeavor. She explains that “leaving the life takes practice,” and that girls need to have the unfailing support of a person who will not “give up on them.” Most important to note are the socioeconomic causes, that for some baffling reason appear more comprehensible when they occur in foreign countries, but which are insufficiently grasped on our own national turf.

Lloyd posits that too often the wrong questions are asked. Instead of taking a facile approach to a girl’s situation with the query, “Why doesn’t she just leave?”—Lloyd suggests an examination of the impact of lack of income, homelessness, and neglect, along with “race and class factors.” There are over 500,000 children in New York City living in poverty.

For police who don’t understand that captivity isn’t an issue of being physically tied and bound, it can be frustrating to translate the depths of a “trauma bond” in an existence predicated on terror. Leaving the life and making the transition is difficult. As Lloyd says, “Healing is a messy, complicated process that’s rarely linear.” It doesn’t help that society—even those tasked with supporting victims—often relay the message that the girl’s “exploitation was their choice,” leaving them with a burden of shame and a “policy that blames the victim.”

One of the major challenges is the need to reframe not only attitudes, but also language. The United Nations and UNICEF have adopted the term commercially sexually exploited child/youth to reference those who are underage.  New terminology will help grow novel thinking. Once assimilated into the collective mindset, a change can start to be reflected in the media and popular culture. As Lloyd emphasizes, most of America didn’t have trouble understanding the trauma of Elizabeth Smart. But when you shift from her story to a 14-year-old girl of color in the Bronx, the reaction is totally different.

Girls Like Us puts it all out there—no holds barred. In addition to the contribution that Lloyd has made with a book filled with visceral punch and detailed veracity, she has left the public with nowhere to hide.

There can no longer be the question, “Who knew?”

They crisscross the demographics of age and style and include Miley Cyrus, Joan Baez, Jackson Browne, Elvis Costello, Lenny Kravitz, Sting, Patti Smith and Pete Seeger. The performers, as well as those on the production and tech side, worked pro-bono. Listening to all of the tracks, it is clear that each singer has brought their unique personality and stamp to the material. A prime example is Ziggy Marley’s interpretation of “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

It’s not the first time that Amnesty International has tapped into the music community to raise funds and bring awareness to human rights issues. For this initiative, they have created action links to specific individuals and their plights. One of the focal points of the campaign is Liu Xiaobo, scholar, human rights fighter, and Nobel Peace Prize laureate. Xiaobo has been imprisoned in China since 2009, for his critiques of the Chinese political system and for underscoring governmental corruption in his writing.

Helen Garrett, Director of Special Projects for Amnesty International USA (who was the key producer on the 2007 benefit album Instant Karma: The Amnesty International Campaign to Save Darfur) proposed in 2010 that Amnesty mark its half-century anniversary with a follow-up album. cultureID was able to interview her about the project via e-mail.

In 1961, British lawyer Peter Benenson published an article in The Observer titled, “The Forgotten Prisoners,” in response to the plight of two Portuguese students who had been imprisoned for toasting freedom. The action became the seeds of Amnesty International. 1962 was the year of Bob Dylan’s first album. He performed at the March on Washington the following year. Can you comment on the parallel paths and threads of commonality between the work of Dylan and Amnesty?

Certainly, for human rights activists, Dylan’s early music holds special meaning—he was the protest voice of the 1960s with songs like “Blowin’ In the Wind,” “I Shall be Released,” and “Chimes of Freedom.” During that time, there was a sense that if ordinary people joined together, they could have enormous impact to change the world.  And that is how Amnesty was born—one man’s belief that individuals together can make a difference. In fact, there is a direct line between Amnesty and Dylan through “I Shall be Released,” as the song became the movement’s “unofficial anthem” on the finale of each concert on Amnesty International’s 1986 Conspiracy of Hope U.S.A. concert tour. Dylan was among the performers.

Of course, Dylan never joined any specific organizations, but his uncanny ability to identify and articulate the temper of the 1960s–and the demands people were making for freedom, justice and dignity—led him to write powerful songs about the human impulses that propel causes like the human rights movement. Dylan’s incomparable artistry–his iconic status–is measured against the hope and achievements that I believe Amnesty International as an organization brings to humanity.

Historian Sean Wilentz, who wrote the album liner notes, sums up our thinking beautifully.  He observes that Amnesty for a half century has pressed to secure basic rights for the persecuted and imprisoned across the globe, while during the same time frame, Dylan’s art has explored and expressed the anguish and hope of the modern human condition.  “Mistrusting worldly authority,” Wilentz writes, “Dylan gives sympathetic voice to the countless confused, accused, misused” people he sings about in “Chimes of Freedom.”

Beyond raising funds from the sales of the CDs and individual songs, a primary goal stated by Amnesty is to bring visibility to the issue of free speech, censorship, and the imprisonment of dissidents. Do you expect that Amnesty will be reaching a new demographic about its goals and mission?

We’ve been engaged with the music community for a very long time– musicians literally helped us to build the human rights movement and increase awareness about the terrible threats that people around the world face as they try to live lives of dignity and attain freedom.

In 1986, as only one example, we launched a two-week U.S. concert tour to mark our 25^th anniversary, with stars like U2, Sting, Joan Baez and others.  Through this tour, Amnesty’s membership doubled. The albums are a small, but of course important, part of how we engage with musicians.  Bono invited Amnesty to be a part of the U2 360 concert tour and he promoted our work from the stage. We were in the stadiums signing up new supporters and asking them to take action (200,000 did).  Hans Zimmer wrote an anthem for Amnesty’s 50^th anniversary. After Green Day appeared on American Idol back in 2007 for Instant Karma (singing Lennon’s “Working Class Hero”) our web traffic spiked hugely, increasing our audience for human rights activism—as well as raising awareness about the atrocities in Darfur and supporting our work there.

Of course we want people to buy the album to support our life-saving advocacy. But we are getting so much more out of this than just album sales, such as the reach of the musicians. They are promoting our work through their fan bases, their Facebook pages, and their Tweets. They direct people to the Amnesty website or Facebook page, which for many becomes a journey of discovery and engagement with us. Miley Cyrus and Kesha both “liked” our Amnesty Facebook page on December 10, Human Rights Day, when we streamed the full Chimes of Freedom album, and more than 100,000 people went to the page. We’ve seen a spike in our web and social media activity since.

The recording industry is very different today, as is the way people buy and listen to music. But this is a plus for us. The digital music world lets us engage on a new level through social media.  We are promoting six cases of individuals whose rights are being denied through this album, to keep people engaged on the human rights front through social media—spurred by our music projects.

Writers, artists, musicians, and filmmakers are frequent targets of governmental crackdowns. Do you think that this is because of their power to capture the imagination of people through visceral mediums?

When oppressive regimes clamp down on their citizens, freedom of expression—free speech—is always the first thing to go. Dictators have a lot to fear from individuals speaking up—through their writings, through art and film and music.  Authoritarian leaders live in fear of dissent spreading —because if people can keep talking about new ideas, they can start to act on them.  And nothing captures the human need to be free as powerfully as music and art and literature. Isn’t that what art and music are at their core—expressing who we are, our individuality, our freedom? Wherever you find a repressive regime, you’ll find people writing dissent or satire or drawing cartoons or singing about freedom. As human rights activists, free speech is our main means of fighting oppression. Our power to change what governments and others do to repress rights comes from the voices of people speaking up for human rights—and art and music and film capture the imagination in, yes, the most visceral ways.

Can you address Amnesty International’s commitment to recognizing the arts as a powerful vehicle to bring recognition to social and political issues?

Amnesty International is not in the music business, of course. We’re in the business of saving lives by standing up for human rights. And in this fight for justice and freedom and dignity, musicians have been our natural allies for decades.  We’ve also worked with filmmakers, cartoonists, actors and other artists as a powerful way to trumpet the message of human rights. The connection to musicians is one we pioneered—in concerts, albums and by working directly with musicians on issues.  For example, musicians like Big Boi and John Legend were tweeting about the Troy Davis case last September, which helped us enormously as we worked to try to stop his execution – an effort that failed but that has galvanized the movement to abolish the death penalty. Our alliance with musicians has existed for decades. Yoko Ono promotes our actions on her website; Sting spoke out for the mothers who lost loved ones in Argentina; State Radio, a young band, was so passionate about the Troy Davis case that they wrote a song about him. Decades ago, Joan Baez took a full year off to build Amnesty’s membership on the West Coast.

Our freedom to express ourselves–which musicians naturally feel in their bones—goes hand in hand with activism. Bono has said that when he first saw the show we pioneered, Secret Policeman’s Ball, “It became a part of me. It sowed a seed…”

Musicians want to support Amnesty–they’ve been behind us almost from the start. They care about human rights, and many are involved on a very deep level.  Pete Townshend was the first rock musician we worked with—back in the 70s, and he is still with us contributing to this album. So, an album like this is about engaging with the musicians who are our supporters–those who have been with us for decades, along with new ones.  They speak out for human rights, their fans listen, and the world listens.  Again, I look to Bono. He has been speaking out about the Burmese opposition leader Aung Sung Sui Kyi for decades—a situation he learned about from his work with Amnesty. And it’s not just rock musicians we work with. This year, we were so honored to have Hans Zimmer, the Oscar-winning Hollywood composer, write an anthem for Amnesty’s 50^th anniversary. How inspiring is that!

Album Cover Image by Mick Haggerty based on an original photograph by Jerry Schatzberg courtesy of Amnesty International

This article originally appeared on the website cultureID

Photo: T. Charles Erickson

A recent article in the New York Times pointed out that the United States’ war in Afghanistan remained “just a blip on the American news media’s radar in 2011.” The exact amount of coverage, in statistics from the Project for Excellence in Journalism, was given at 2 percent. Perhaps it is not surprising that the scope of the dealings that led to our involvement in that country are below-the-radar as well.

Blood and Gifts, a play by J.T. Rogers, creates a full overview of the issues and choices that were the precursors to our current situation. Commissioned by Lincoln Center Theater, and presented last year at the National Theatre, Blood and Gifts is currently being performed at the Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater through January 8.

Inserted into the Playbill, audience members received a printed supplement outlining the background for the action about to unfold. Furnishing a bare bones history, it explains that Afghanistan “occupies the only access from Central Asia to the West.” With the Cold War heating up, the nation became of geo-political interest.

Aspiring to modernize, Afghanistan asked the United States for aid. When America declined, they then reached out to the adjacent Soviet Union—who assisted them in the role of “ally” for thirty years. In 1979, when the U.S.S.R. perceived that Afghanistan was going to create a partnership with America, they invaded.

It is against the backdrop of an active battle between the Soviet forces and the people of Afghanistan that Blood and Gifts is set. A full range of characters is introduced, including operatives from the CIA, the British MI6, the KGB, and Pakistan’s intelligence agency ISI—as well as representatives from the national struggle. Each one has a very specific agenda.

The initial set is bathed in tones of blue, from the large square carpet to the six wooden benches placed along three sides. A lone suitcase sits on the floor. The actors enter, dressed in costumes ranging from suits to the turbans and mountain garb of the mujahideen.

The narrative is both riveting and instructive. The acting is top-notch. I reached out to J.T. Rogers to get additional insights into his process and endeavors in “theater that engages the public realm.”

This is not the first play where you have written about a political situation. Previously, in The Overwhelming, you tackled Rwanda. You have frequently noted that your father taught political science, and as a boy you lived in Malaysia and Indonesia. How has your background informed your choice of material?

I read an interview with Marsha Norman twenty plus years ago in which she made an observation that’s always stuck with me. She said that there are two kinds of American writers: Northern ones, who are both able–and go out of their way–to reinvent themselves; and Southern ones who know, no matter how far they travel, they will always be called home. I’ve always seen myself in the first camp, but now I’m not as sure. I was raised by divorced parents, spending much of each year both in central Missouri with my father and in the East Village. The constant in both homes was a passionate engagement in politics and a deep knowledge of and interest in other countries–both my parents having lived, together and apart, all over the world. As a playwright, I spent many years working through and then shedding different skins, trying to find my voice and the subject matters that truly gripped me. It’s only with hindsight that I understand that what my parents exposed me to, and what they raised me to value, would so inform my work. In essence, writing plays that delve into and are set against international and political concerns is simply me, as a writer, being called home.

As preparation for writing the play, you were able to dialogue with Steve Coll, author of Ghost Wars, and Jack Devine who served at the CIA and oversaw the sale of the Stinger missiles—featured prominently in the story line. How did you weave those conversations into the fabric of Blood and Gifts?

In a nutshell, the process works likes this for me: I read an enormous amount about the historical and political history that the story I’m going to tell is set against. Only after I’m stepped in the events do I start interviewing people who were personally involved. My aim is not to talk with folks about “talking points” or to be further educated but to get into the personal: What did you eat? What was the light like? The smells? Who really, really pissed you off? And on and on. Playwrighting is about detail and specificity; I take the specific details that folks are kind enough to share with me and I weave them into the characters I’ve created. The characters are mine, but these details help to ground them.

The first section of the drama establishes the characters and the backstory of the conflict in Afghanistan. There is a lot of material to digest. In tandem with this arc, you present the personal histories of the main players—which connect them as individuals and through parallel situations. How did you create a balance between the two elements?

I don’t break the story or characters up that way. I try to create dramatic situations and personae where people have to talk about politics—where it is as life-and-death important as, say, sex or violence is in many other stories. There is some “table setting” in the first act, so that there is an emotional wallop and a good yarn in act two, but I’ve tried to weave the personal and the political throughout.

When a large American flag descends, to serve as a backdrop for a hearing at

Photo: T. Charles Erickson

the United States Senate Building, the energy shifts. The murky cloak and dagger machinations of covert operations give way to spotlighting the issue of getting funding for the Afghan freedom fighters from “American taxpayers.” The previously established relationships, impacted by new forces, are operating in a new sphere. As the next piece in the puzzle, did you see this juncture as the place where the audience would readily identify?

Audiences tell you what your play is about. I’m always intrigued by how they react differently than I expected to some part of the story. In this production, when we arrive in DC at the top of Act Two there’s a palpable lowering of shoulders. There’s a collective sense of, “Ahhhhh, I know this world, I’m comfortable here.” But they do go back with me to Pakistan, and then Afghanistan, as the play hurdles on. The DC scenes have become an unforeseen “battery charge” for them, revving them up to go back to places and events that are deeply foreign to most of them.

The American agent, James Warnock, has a scene with his CIA boss where the focus is a moral exchange rather than one dealing with logistics. In this sequence, he asks, “Which action that I take will do less evil?” He is given the response, “In this work there is no perfect and no good.” By highlighting the personal as well as the national quandaries, you make the issues very relatable. What do you hope that theatergoers will take away from the play, and how does that reflect you initial goals in writing the play?

To say, There but by the grace of God go I. To ask themselves, “If I were in that position, screws tightening, the world seemingly hanging on my decision…what would I do, and what would my choice say about me?” I don’t have a point to make or theme to underline. I try to put the world on stage and let the audience decide what they think about who they meet and what transpires. Lots of questions raised but no answers given. Theater is good at the former, not so much at the latter.

This article originally appeared on cultureID

In her new memoir, Becoming Ginger Rogers: How Ballroom Dancing Made Me a Happier Woman, Better Partner, and Smarter CEO, Patrice Tanaka shares the story of how she committed to living in the present while putting joy in her life.

The shattering events of 9/11 are a backdrop to the beginning of Tanaka’s narration. The Twin Towers had been part of the view from her office window. She found herself repeatedly reflecting upon the losses experienced by those in the New York community—and the temporal nature of human beings. She was also dealing with her own struggles, both professional and personal.

Tanaka lays out the health challenges that she experienced from 1989 through 1990, and the illness of her adored husband, “Mr. Sweetheart,” who fought a cancerous brain tumor for fifteen years. During this period of time, she watched her spouse endure surgeries, radiation, and chemotherapy treatment. Tanaka became his caretaker, and despite the draining effects recognized a major message on the choice of how we experience life—“as a chore or as a joy.”

At the end of 2001, Tanaka was “exhausted and depressed.” A session in mid-2002 with an executive coach became a turning point for her when she was challenged with the question, “What is your grand mission in life, your true purpose on the planet?” Tanaka, still consumed by thoughts of those who had perished in the 9/11 attacks, kept focusing on the concept of living in the moment in a way that was meaningful. She told her coach that her specific meaning was to “choose joy each day.” When pressed to identify what brought her joy, Tanaka responded unequivocally, “Dancing.” She was given the assignment to book a dancing lesson for herself.

The reader follows Tanaka into the world of ballroom dancing, where her life was about to change in unexpected ways as she masters lessons on the dance floor that resonate far beyond new steps and winning competitions.

Photo Courtesy of Albert Parker

The text is punctuated with terpsichorean related quotes, “Intermezzo” pages that detail different dances from the Mambo to the Tango, and excerpted aphorisms from her revelations. Without a doubt, women will personally relate to the material. This includes the quest for perfectionism, apologizing too much, the need do put matters into context, and fear of failure or losing control. Through her dancing, Tanaka gradually morphs from a top PR executive who has carried the nickname “Ayatollah Tanaka,” to an in-the-moment “Samba Girl,” who can stop to celebrate her achievements and dance through her mistakes.

Eager to dig deeper into her insights, I spoke with Tanaka by telephone. She was open in discussing her personal transformation, telling me, “It’s about pursuing your joy. It will permeate your being. There is no downside!” Tanaka told me that she had written the book to help others and to communicate the key message, “Pursue your joy with a sense of urgency. Live out full and fiercely today with no regrets.”

I asked her to comment on the blocks that had hamstrung her and that remain problematic for so many women. On perfectionism she said, “It’s a fear based approach to life. We want to be perfect because we worry that if we make one mistake, people are going to stop loving us.” She qualified that path as a way of “disenfranchising others.” She explained, “Just because I make a mistake, doesn’t mean I’m a failure. Failures are stepping stones to success.” She specifically underscored how they could be applied to moving forward.

Regarding always putting other people’s needs first, Tanaka pronounced it a “female thing,” noting, “We want to make sure others are taken care of. We’re trying to be there 200 percent, and we put ourselves last.” In her business practice, Tanaka referred to the habit of giving more than 100 percent as “over-servicing.”

Underscoring the choice to choose between focusing on negativity or on blessings, Tanaka believes getting in touch with the gratitude can stop “the slide into the abyss.” One of the tips that she shared when we spoke was about creating a “joy calendar,” where you actively schedule two to three things per month to look forward to. In addition, every night she makes a mental note of the positive episodes of her day. She is a firm believer that “whatever we request and are mindful of, we generate.”

Tanaka’s instructor, dance champion Emmanuel Pierre-Antoine, repeatedly conveyed, “Focus on your present step and do it full-out, because your present step is what’s going to produce our next step.” When Tanaka became able to implement this advice into her dance work, she then translated that mindset into her corporate life. She connected to the concept of “manifesting” results rather than forcing them.

My favorite takeaways were: “Let’s try to make the best decisions we can in the moment; Just breathe; Let’s jump off that bridge when we get to it!”

At the conclusion of Becoming Ginger Rogers, Tanaka has reached the Silver level in Pro-Am ballroom competition. Her philosophy has evolved to using her energy in a more productive way. She has “aligned” the different facets of who she is to reinforce each other. Most importantly, she has reconnected with herself, physically and emotionally.

Before our conversation ended, Tanaka reiterated, “We must pursue our joy with a sense of urgency. We don’t have an infinite future.”

As we move into 2012, the target of “staying the in the present” with that joy is a valuable aspiration.

This article originally appeared on the women’s health site EmpowHER.

Setting the stage is information outlining how coal plays a part in the American energy equation:

• Almost one-half of the electricity in the United States comes from burning coal
• 16 pounds of coal are burned daily for every man, woman, and child in the United States
• One third of the coal comes from the mountains of Appalachia

Juxtaposed to this data is footage of ordinary people holding signs that read, “Stop Blasting: Save the Kids.” They are residents of Coal River Valley, West Virginia. Their goal is to protect Coal River Mountain, home to biologically diverse forests and their way of life. “People have had enough and they’re standing up to the coal companies,” says one demonstrator.

With the hopes of evening the odds in their battle, the West Virginia citizens reached out to Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—an environmental lawyer with established creds. The film shows him as a 10-year-old, visiting his uncle John in the White House to discuss his concerns about the environment. Over forty years later, in the fall of 2009, he spoke to President Obama about the liabilities of mountain top coal mining.

Kennedy appears at pivotal moments throughout the film. He is the father of three children with asthma caused by “ozone and particulates from burning coal illegally.” Giving a brief history lesson, Kennedy discusses how regulations that were supposed to be in effect eighteen years ago were transformed when George W. Bush abolished the “New Source rule.” With a nod to ongoing arguments about the economy versus health priorities, Kennedy explains that up until the 1870s, if a factory in America emitted smoke that permeated your house, you had the right to shut them down. However, the laws were eroded by the Industrial Revolution, in order to facilitate the growth of manufacturing. Kennedy says flatly, “So we will allow industry to pollute.”

Walking through a destroyed mountaintop, Kennedy comments, “If the American people could see it, there would be a revolution in this country.” When directly confronting a coal company representative on how a demolished mountaintop has been reconstructed, Kennedy points out, “This is supposed to be a forest.” Reacting to the talking points response he receives, he asks sardonically, “How many lies do you have to tell to make this whole fiction work?”

There is ample footage that demonstrates exactly what transpires in order to extract

Maria Gunnoe at Mountaintop Removal Site. Photo courtesy of Vivian Stockman

coal from the Appalachian Mountains. First, the trees are cut down. Then the mountains are blasted. Boulders tumble down to the homes in the valley below, filled with silica dust (this contributes to the disease silicosis). With 2500 tons of explosives detonated daily, the mountains are reduced to rubble. Maria Gunnoe, a mother who comes from two generations of coal miners, conveys, “You feel like you’re under attack.” It happens several times a day as 800 to 900 feet are taken off a mountain and dumped in the valley. Gunnoe, who lives in Boone County, West Virginia, discusses how the persistent and severe flooding on her land pushed her to become proactive. A coal company engineer defends the rainfall flooding as, “Not our fault.” Rather, he attributes it to, “An act of God.” Gunnoe, previously a waitress, now works full time for the Ohio Valley Environmental Coalition (OVEC), and is a powerful presence in the movie. Her concerns embrace not just those of ecological balance, but also the potential loss of Appalachian culture and heritage.

Those fighting tooth and nail to halt mountaintop removal have deep roots in the area. Bo Webb’s father was a coal miner. His family’s property on the banks of Coal River was homesteaded in the 1830s by previous generations. Destruction of the mountain ridge above his house pushed Webb to co-found the grassroots organization Mountain Justice Summer. Mountain removal mining has destroyed 500 Appalachian Mountains. This translates into one million acres of decimated forest and 2,000 miles of buried streams—with contamination of thousands of additional miles. The result is heavy metals in both well waters and springs.

Jennifer Hall-Massey, a resident of Prenter, West Virginia, joined with 264 neighbors to sue nine coal companies on the grounds that they were responsible for the contamination of the local water supplies. Their small enclave has witnessed a cluster of brain tumors, with fatalities including Hall-Massey’s 29-year-old brother. Hall-Massey points out that the national average for brain tumors is one in 100,000.

The Bruce Mansfield power plant, one of the country’s largest coal-fired facilities, is located a few miles from Shippingport, Pennsylvania. The plant has blanketed the town with toxic fly ash. There are eight children in the area with autism, including Susan Bird’s son. She has become part of the environmental group Penn Future to amplify her concerns. She asks ruefully, “As a parent, you sit there and wonder, did I do this? You know, if I lived somewhere else would he have been healthier?” Currently, researchers have undertaken a ten-year study on the relationship between autism and air borne pollutants.

The documentary makes it clear that the people pushing back are up against very heavy hitters. This includes representatives from both political parties, lobbyists for varied interests, as well as the coal industry. In 2004, George W. Bush, who received enormous contributions from the coal sector was quoted as saying of his re-election, “This is a coal-fired victory.”

Massey Energy (which was acquired by Alpha Natural Resources in 2011), and its CEO (through 2010) Don Blankenship, serve as the major representatives of the coal industry’s point of view. The largest coal company in West Virginia, Massey does more mountain top removal mining than any other company in the country. Their track record includes evicting the unions from their mines and replacing jobs with mechanization. Over the past thirty years, that move has increased production by 140 percent while shedding 40,000 jobs. Massey paid the largest fine in EPA history (20 million dollars) for over 60,000 violations. In 2010, twenty-nine Massey miners died in the worst American mine disaster since 1970. The company came under investigation later that year. During his eighteen-year tenure as CEO, Blankenship’s compensation was in excess of 190 million dollars.

Another one-time Massey employee, with a very different outlook, is Ed Wiley—who served as a contractor to the company. Little did he know that he would go head to head with his former boss. His mission was to fight for the health of his granddaughter and her classmates, who attended elementary school adjacent to a Massey industrial coal processing plant. The children and teachers were subjected to air borne coal dust sucked into the school’s ventilation system. Wiley describes the situation as “a hornets nest sitting over the school.” With an elevated rate of cancers and respiratory ailment in evidence, he becomes determined to have the school resituated. He marches with signs asking, “Massey: Why are you poisoning our kids?” He confronts then governor Joe Manchin, who self-identifies as a “friend of coal.” Pointing to his granddaughter Wiley instructs, “This is not an environmental issue, this is a little human being.” Along with Bo Webb and other members of the community, the town finally gets a new school—with Massey footing 20 percent of the bill.

Facts disseminated on screen point to the manifest impact of coal on health. Each year, emissions from coal-fired plants contribute to:

• More than 10 million asthma attacks
• Brain damage in up to 600,000 newborn children
• More than 43,000 premature deaths

Burning coal is the number one source of greenhouse gases worldwide. There are 600 coal-fired plants across the United States; their emissions cover the entire country. There are 600 ash ponds nationwide filled with 150 billion gallons of toxic sludge.

By focusing on the stories of those whose physical well being and families have been directly affected, The Last Mountain shows, in the words of director Bill Haney, “the power of ordinary citizens to remake the future when they have the determination and courage to do so.”

This article originally appeared on the website Moms Clean Air Force.

Pamela Hogan - Photo Courtesy of Joseph Sinnott ©WNET

A co-production of THIRTEEN and Fork Films, in association with WNET and ITVS, the series was created by executive producers Abigail E. Disney, Pamela Hogan, and Gini Reticker. I had the opportunity to speak with Hogan by telephone about her role in the series, and to learn the back story on the project.

Hogan, producer/writer on the Bosnian segment “I Came to Testify,” and co-writer on the Colombian entry, “The War We Are Living,” has a long track record in the documentary film arena. She served as series producer for the initial six seasons of WIDE ANGLE for PBS. This run included Ladies First, which chronicled women working to rebuild post-genocide Rwanda. When I asked Hogan about the intended goals for Women, War & Peace, her response evidenced her passion for women’s issues and human rights. She spoke animatedly about the core motivation of the series: “To have a bigger footprint and to start a conversation.”

Hogan outlined the genesis of her partnership with Disney and Reticker, explaining how the series concept “came out of three people having the same idea”—an interest in “women in conflict resolution at the center of foreign policy as an underutilized resource.” Their efforts were directing toward “shifting the paradigm to see women front and center with men.”

With a clear understanding of the reach of social media tools, Hogan discussed how the team had crowdsourced funding and was currently working with a range of platforms to amplify the show’s content, extending public awareness. Major financial contributions came from a group that took the name 40×50, signifying forty key “visionary” donors who each gave $50,000 to the initiative. A robust website was put into play, supplementing the broadcast by showcasing exclusive material, original reporting, interviews with journalists and scholars, and video from on the ground reports. It also features a link for educators, with tools to give structure to broadening the dialogue.

Hogan told me that they had been working with “hundreds of groups hungry for material.” This activity has included both partnering with NGOs and law schools, as well as providing living room screening guides on how “individuals and groups can impact change.” “The War We Are Living,” which tracks displacement as a tool of war used to drive the Afro-Colombian population off their land rich in natural resources, has been shown in Washington, D.C. The intent is to educate those in Congress about the imperative to ensure that the Colombian government is “meeting their obligations.”

In a personal anecdote, Hogan shared an experience that occurred at a St. Louis screening of “I Came To Testify,” where there is a sizable Bosnian diaspora. A married couple, that had lived through the period of ethnic cleansing, informed her that the film had given them a starting point to discuss their experiences with their children.

In the finale, “War Redefined,” the Hillary Clinton axiom from the Fourth World Congress on Women in 1995 that “human rights are women’s rights and women’s rights are human rights,” is highlighted. Clinton is straightforward in her call for an end to “impunity against women” and for “stopping these heart of darkness activities.” Equally eloquent and incisive on the challenges facing women is Leymah Gbowee, featured in Pray The Devil Back to Hell, the second installment in the series. She states, “All of the wars in our region now are fought on the bodies of women.” Aware of the power that women can harness when they speak in unison, Gbowee notes with insight and a touch of irony, “When women gather, men get afraid.” It is from her experience that she has learned that “women are able to start the dialogue, even if it is painful.”

Women, War & Peace illustrates the power of women to challenge the male-dominated structure of the peacemaking process, formulating their own version of pushback. As Hogan told me, part of the evolution on her side of the camera included the realization about how overwhelming the strength of women is. She said, “We stopped using the word victim, and inserted survivors, leaders, and revolutionaries.”

Melding journalistic reportage and visceral narrative, Women, War & Peace stands as an example of the power of film to ensure that under-recognized subjects become part of the permanent record.

Photo Courtesy of Oscar Bernal

Photo: Francia Márquez, leader of the Afro-Colombian community of La Toma, Suarez, delivers a speech at a government meeting in which they defend their ancestral rights to the land (May 26, 2010). The community faces the threat of eviction due to authorization of mining licenses without their prior consultation.

This article originally appeared on the website cultureID.

The project has garnered top tier talent on both sides of the camera. Executive Producers include Jennifer Aniston, Marta Kauffman, Paula Wagner, and Kristin Hahn. Helming the director’s chairs are Demi Moore, Alicia Keyes, Patty Jenkins, Penelope Spheeris—and Aniston. Participating actors cover the generational continuum, from Bob Newhart portraying a doctor, to Rosario Dawson as an independent career woman.  Patricia Clarkson, well known in the indie film sphere, brings edginess to her character “Mia,” in a tale that combines caustic humor with hope and redemption.

Woven into the scripts are facts including “one in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer,” references to the BRCA gene, dialogue on the trajectory from diagnosis to mastectomy and reconstruction, and the too often ignored detail that men also get breast cancer (one in 1,000).

The narrative begins in 1969, as a family gathers around a television to watch Apollo 11 land the first man on the moon. Young Pearl is aware that her mother is sick, but she is left in the dark about the extent of the illness. Although 1969 was also the year of Woodstock and growing domestic unrest, Pearl’s family dynamics reflect a sensibility and a rigid framework that seems more in keeping with 1960. The inadequate way that her mother’s imminent death is handled will push Pearl to find answers and empowerment through a career as an oncologist. Later, when she receives her own diagnosis of breast cancer, Pearl will be in the role of the parent. Deciding how to inform her daughter, she agonizes over how to create an experience for her child—the same age as she was—that will stand in sharp contrast to the trauma that so deeply impacted her. In the process, Pearl gains insight into her father’s struggle and his inability to provide the parenting she so desperately needed.

The five stories encompass concerns that reflect the multitude of challenges facing a patient who has received a breast cancer diagnosis. Addressed are the topics of asking for help, interacting with caregivers, reframing life attitudes, family relationships, challenges based on age demographics, and cultural messages about women’s bodies.

In the segment titled “Cheyanne,” a dancer in her twenties must confront how her self-identity and career, which have been enmeshed with her breasts as physical attributes, will be impacted by an acute prognosis. The camera does not shy away from showing a visual of her upper torso, post-mastectomy. Rather, it uses the imagery to illustrate the evolution of her intensely sexual relationship with her husband as it morphs from lust and passion to tenderness, appreciation, and a different form of love.

I spoke with Executive Producer Hahn by telephone, to get a deeper understanding of the impetus behind the project. She related that Susan G. Komen for the Cure had approached her with the “seeds of an idea,” which she saw as a challenge “to push the envelope to create something that felt fresh—combining humor and irreverence with drama.” The producing team got the “best five writers” to brainstorm on potential stories, with each person contributing a script. According to Hahn, it was important that each segment work “both individually and as part of a whole.” It was at this point that Lifetime came on board.

Hahn said, “I hope the film will truly inspire dialogue.” She related an experience about an e-mail she had received from a woman who had attended a preview screening. It said, “I’m Stage 4. After seeing this film, I had my first real conversation.”

Getting through the “fear of asking questions, stimulating research dollars, and bringing the issues to light,” were core objectives enumerated by Hahn. “We all know someone who has been impacted,” she said. “It’s more than an epidemic.”

In a graphic featuring data culled from the American Cancer Society and the National Cancer Institute, stats show that there are 2.5 million breast cancer survivors in the United States. The median age at diagnosis for breast cancer is 61. The median age at death for breast cancer is 68. In 2011, 39,520 women and 450 men are expected to die from the disease.

To capitalize on the momentum of the movie, Lifetime has partnered with top cancer organizations to form the FIVE Coalition (Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation, LIVESTRONG, the National Breast Cancer Coalition, the Noreen Fraser Foundation, the Prevent Cancer Foundation, Stand up to Cancer, and Susan G. Komen for the Cure). The network is donating airtime to Public Service Announcements, and has provided a discussion guide written by Hahn. Action links have been set up at mylifetime.com/stopbreastcancer. Currently, Lifetime is spearheading an initiative to ensure that health insurance companies give their approval to making a 48-hour hospital stay after a mastectomy the “standard of care.” Previously, Lifetime was able to mobilize 26 million signatures in support of The Breast Cancer Protection Act.

In our conversation, Hahn reiterated the theme of the astronauts as a metaphor for the miracle and wonder of science. She reflected, “If we can land a man on the moon, we can cure breast cancer.”

All photos courtesy of Lifetime Television

This article originally appeared on the women’s health site Empowher.

Director Jim Whitaker has fashioned a film that is both an oral history and a meditation on healing.  It is virtually a primer on grief and its shifting stages.

The production makes extensive use of time-lapsed photography, via fourteen cameras sited in strategic locations around the World Trade Center site. Captured are multi-angle views of construction in progress 24 hours a day.  This sets up a juxtaposition and visual parallel of the site’s devastation and reconstruction—with the personal stories of loss, rebuilding, and restoration of spirit.

Whitaker, previously an executive at Imagine Entertainment, came to the project almost inadvertently.  A visit to Ground Zero a month after the attacks led him to the belief that there needed to be a specific approach to an account of what had transpired.  Having lost his mother six months prior, he was also experiencing his own issues with the bereavement process.

Five individuals, directly impacted by 9/11, openly share their feelings on a yearly basis from 2002-2009. The viewer follows them in their evolution from overwhelming pain, through grappling with the tremendous shifts in their mental transformations.  In the case of Ling, who was severely burned, her physical adjustments are central to her journey.

There are no interviewer’s questions heard. The participants, positioned against a simple black background, relate their feelings and evolving insights.  Home videos and photos are intercut with their testimonies, creating a collage of their memories.  The original score, written by Philip Glass, develops an aural background balanced between anxiety and tranquility, stasis and continuity.

As the subjects develop a relationship and rapport with Whitaker, the viewer becomes intimately invested in each of their struggles to make sense out of what has happened to them.  Their testimony bears witness to the human effort to understand relationships, love, pain, and psychological ambivalence.  Personal philosophies shift, as they each endeavor to emerge from the ashes of the phoenix.  A consistent theme is the ambivalence of being caught between the desire to move forward and a need to stay connected to the past.  Tanya, who lost her fiancé, a New York City First Responder, explains it as, “Letting go without letting go.”  Later, despite the new beginnings she has been able to forge, she reveals, “The truth is, you don’t move on.  Something is always there.”  However, she notes, “The grief is very private now.”

Anger, brokenness, survivor’s guilt, PTSD, and hopelessness about lives previously “well-planned” are all grist for introspection. Midway through, Brian, a New York City construction worker whose youngest brother, a firefighter, died when the towers collapsed, says, “I don’t think I’ve started to heal yet.  I think I have a ways to go.”  By 2007, Nick, recovering slowly from the death of his mother, who worked on the 104th floor of the World Trade Center, can say that he has “let go of the anger and terror of that day.”  He will work through an estrangement from his father, who remarried a close friend of his mother.

In 2009, Tim, a firefighter on the scene who suffered when his best friend and colleague died in World Trade Center One, admits to the exhaustion of holding on to the sorrow.  “I am just done with it,” he says.  “I can’t live there.  It’s making me tired.  I’m happy to be alive.”  That same year Tanya accepts, “Life has obviously moved forward, and I have to move with it.”  Giving herself permission to live in the present with a husband and two children she acknowledges, “I have to let myself off the hook.”  However, the push-pull dynamic between “moving on” and the “something that is always there” remains a subtext.

Ling, enduring forty operations in eight years, is not just the film’s core indomitable spirit, but also the physical metaphor for the emotional scarring that has taken place.  Where previously a life overtaken and ruled by doctors visits had made her “feel useless,” she reaches a place where she can reflect, “It happened, but I’m still alive.”

An integral part of the film’s genesis was the development of Project Rebirth.  As specified during the end credits, all proceeds from the documentary will go to “help first responders and other support communities that are impacted by trauma and future disasters.”  Included in the mission of the Project Rebirth Center will be “to develop and provide new multi-media tools to aid the therapists, academics, First Responders and others working with people recovering from disasters and violent conflict, as they confront the trauma of the past and build new futures.”  Whitaker has remarked that he sees the movie as a vehicle to raise the inquiry, “How can we best repair the many lives unraveled by war, conflict and disaster across the globe?”

There were countless indelible and resonant images in Rebirth.  However one that was particularly evocative was the video showing Nick delivering a eulogy for his mother, when a baby sparrow alighted on his head.  The bird allowed itself to be held by him briefly before it flew away.

It was a simple but powerful symbol.

Photo Courtesty of Oscilloscope Laboratories

The film will premiere on Showtime on September 11, 2011 at 9:00 EST, with repeated showings throughout September.

This article originally appeared on the website cultureID.

These words stand as the most salient message of the documentary Semper Fi: Always Faithful, a film that encompasses the worlds of environmental justice, the military, politics and science.

The protagonist of the narrative is Ret. Master Sergeant Jerry Ensminger—a formidable presence.  When framed against the backdrop of the United States Capitol, his physical demeanor telegraphs that he is a man to be reckoned with. For Ensminger, the narrative begins with his daughter, Janey, who died at the age of 9 from a rare form of childhood leukemia.  Trying to understand the reason behind her illness is the subtext of Ensminger’s quest, as well as the connective tissue for the ensuing narrative about water contamination at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. Ensminger’s relentless search for truth is driven by the need to get answers not only for himself, but also for the nearly one million people who were unknowingly exposed to toxic chemicals at the base.

The backstory gets set in motion in 1941, when a fuel depot in operation at Camp Lejeune had leaks that were seeping into the ground—1500 feet from a drinking water supply well.  The estimated start date of the water contamination was 1957, when other improperly disposed of solvents additionally entered the mix.  In 1975, Ensminger was living at Camp Lejeune.  His wife was pregnant with Janey.  In 1983, his daughter received her diagnosis.  Ironically, unbeknownst to Ensminger, between 1980-1984, the water was being tested at the base with results consistently finding contaminants and “health concerns.”

In 1985, the Commanding General at Camp Lejeune notified residents to conserve water because of well closures, but neglected to mention that eleven wells were closed due to contamination—referencing only “minute [traces] of several organic chemicals” present in the water.  In actuality, the chemical levels were 20 to 280 times the safety standards of today.  The last contaminated well was closed in 1987, without notification to any of the residents of Camp Lejeune, either past or present.

It wasn’t until 1997 that Ensminger had a clue about the situation.  He heard a report on the local news about a “proposed health study on adults and babies” exposed to carcinogens in the water supply at Camp Lejeune.  Then it all started to click.

When Ensminger found out that the Marines were not taking care of their own, he felt totally betrayed.  Yet his close to twenty-five years of military service as a drill sergeant had comprehensively prepared him to become a forceful opponent to the Department of Defense (DOD).  He applied the Marine mindset—“Don’t give up ground; No person left behind”—to the task at hand.  It gave him the tenacity and grit to take his case all the way to the halls of Congress.  The juxtaposition between hardnosed non-com and grieving parent presents Ensminger as a multidimensional anchor for the action around him. The film captures Ensminger’s righteous anger in a sequence when he visits a cemetery near Camp Lejeune, pointing out a series of headstones marking the graves of babies.  Later, while detailing the pain his daughter endured from her illness, it comes as no surprise when he states emotionally, “You understand my resolve.”

Ensminger came to realize that he was dealing with a cover-up, and that the government regulations “were a burden that was unwelcome” by the DOD.  An interaction between those who have been harmed and Marine Corps representatives is telling.  “A very difficult and laborious task” is how the Marines qualify notifying those who have been impacted, adding feebly, “We could try.”  One of the key characters fighting cancer, former Marine Denita McCall, is overwhelmed by frustration.  She states, “If I die tomorrow, my family gets nothing.”

The movie, which began shooting in mid-2007 and wrapped at the end of 2010, is able to encapsulate Ensminger’s journey through the political maze.  He graduates from consistently unreturned phone calls to finding support from Rep. John Dingell (D-MI), Rep. Brad Miller (D-NC), Sen. Kay Hagan (D-NC), and Sen. Richard Burr (R-NC). Miller has reintroduced the Janey Ensminger Act, which would require the Department of Veterans Affairs to provide health care to veterans and their families who have been impacted from their exposure to toxic water at Camp Lejeune. Burr has sponsored a bill in the Senate, the Caring for Camp Lejeune Veterans Act of 2011.

With approximately one in ten Americans living within ten miles of a contaminated military site, Ensminger comments, “Camp Lejeune is just the tip of the iceberg.”  His verbal asides lend color and a down to earth voice amidst the technical jargon of science, military, and law material. A meeting at the National Academy of Sciences to review the classification of the chemical PCE, is an opportunity for Ensminger to weigh in on the testifying suits. “These people come flying in on jets…Why is the benefit of the doubt going to the chemicals?…It’s all about money.”

Semper Fi: Always Faithful had its world premiere at the 2011 Tribeca Film Festival, and is rolling out in theaters on August 26.  At a time when the Environmental Protection Agency is coming under attack for “over-regulation,” the film stands as a testimony to what happens when the public’s health is neither protected nor considered.

I spoke with Rachel Libert (who co-directed the film with Tony Hardmon), to discuss the political ramifications of the documentary, and her commitment to creating films that “raise awareness and effect social change.”  Libert characterized the information they encountered as similar to “layers of an onion peeling away.”  She never expected to learn how “broken” the public health and environment regulatory systems were.  Libert expanded on the enforcement issues the EPA was having with the DOD, clarifying that as a government agency—the DOD has been able to circumvent standards that would be strictly applied to private companies.

As Libert explained it, Ensminger ‘s search for the truth rippled out into an examination beyond water contamination and illness.  It entered the spheres of the clout of special interests and how to determine guidelines on regulating toxic chemicals.  She said, “When you make a film like this, it doesn’t just exist in the entertainment world.  Our first question was, ‘What can we do?’  Film is a very powerful tool to reach people you wouldn’t normally reach.  It has the ability to do that.  It’s a pathway to action.”

To that end, the film’s website has a “Take Action” link which encourages the public to write their representatives in support of the pending legislation.  Community screenings have been set up across the country, and partnerships have been forged with environmental groups.

For Libert, the fact that the film could push forward an agenda was a “dream” for her as a filmmaker.  It also left her with a new sense of optimism.  Despite the fact she knew that Ensminger was a man of “relentless determination,” she was cynical about how much he could actually accomplish.

Liebert pointed to the ultimately “hopeful message”—Individuals can make a difference through the power of one.

This article originally appeared on the website cultureID

Ret. Master Sergeant Jerry Ensminger

©Jason Laure, 1969/courtesy of HBO

Gloria Steinem has frequently spoken about the importance of sharing stories, using the imagery of communicating oral narratives around an ancient campfire. She has done that with her own personal history in the HBO documentary, Gloria: In Her Own Words.  Responding to questions asked by director Peter Kunhardt and co-producer Sheila Nevins, Steinem has added depth to readily accessible facts by opening up about the darker corners of her emotional life.

Two juxtaposed Glorias emerge.  One evolves from a brunette young woman who came to New York City via Smith College.  (Early on, Steinem had determined that she would get out of Toledo, Ohio—even if it had to be on the winged feet of her tap dancing prowess.) The other is a woman who has lived seven decades, delved into the journey of self-knowledge, and come up with the hindsights that the passage of time affords.

Repeatedly referenced as a “feminist icon,” Steinem often functions as a blank slate upon which others imprint their own anxieties, appreciation, disapproval or angry resentments.  In a society that habitually discards its most prominent contributors when they are deemed no longer relevant, Steinem radiates resilience. Functioning as a stand-in Rorschach test for all the attributes and shortcomings of the feminist movement, her best armor has been an acute sense of humor.

I saw the documentary first on a preview DVD, and then at the Women’s Media Center screening at the HBO building.  The 120-seat theater was filled with women (and a handful of men) representing a continuum of ages and a modicum of diversity.  As Steinem quipped when she appeared to answer audience questions—fresh from a taping with Stephen Colbert, “For a lot of people in this room, it’s a home movie.”  Archival footage of the 1972 Democratic convention (where one third of the delegates were women) and the march in Manhattan down Fifth Avenue gained a breadth of scope on the larger screen.  The experience of hearing in unison laughter when a 1960s broadcaster intoned, “Women have a problem with concentration,” lent a feeling of community.  Yet Steinem’s private revelations were more intimate when viewed via television’s smaller scale.

Throughout the film, a window into the burgeoning women’s movement runs parallel to the storyline about the girl born in the 1930s who described her awareness as, “I’m not sure if I knew what feminism was.  I thought if I was having difficulty, it was my own personal fault.”

Pursuing a career as a freelance journalist, Steinem was continually assigned features on food, beauty, and babies despite her interest in political topics.  “The low point,” she said, “was writing a piece on textured stockings.” Friday afternoon propositions by the boss were not uncommon.  Steinem notes of this time, “There was no word for sexual harassment.  It was just called life.”

In 1963, Steinem got what she called “the bunny assignment,” to do an undercover report about employment conditions at the “glamorous” Playboy Club. What was written as an exposé of “grinding work in three-inch heels” ended up creating new problems of credibility for Steinem’s writing—as she got stamped with the “unserious” label.

By the time Steinem hit her 30s, she realized that she wasn’t the only woman having problems. She put it concisely, “I wasn’t crazy, the system was crazy.”  Her “aha” moment came in 1969, when she was covering a story about an abortion hearing for New York Magazine. For Steinem, “That was the big click.”  At 22, she had an abortion and never told anybody. The black and white sequence of the meeting illustrates irate women speaking up and refusing to be silenced.  It is evident how the energy and dissension in the room telegraphed a message to Steinem that she was now ready to decode.  She observed, “I began to understand that my experience was an almost universal female experience.”

A montage of top male news anchors delivering reports in 1970 about the new “women’s liberation movement,” serves as a mordant backdrop to Steinem discussing her frustration about not being able to get her work published.  It pushed her to seek a different venue to get the word out.  She moved into speaking publicly, embarking on a national tour in partnership with Dorothy Pitman Hughes.

By then, Steinem had evolved into the “Gloria persona.”  Explaining the genesis, she said. “I used the aviator glasses to hide behind.”  The blonde streaks at the front of her long hair owed their origins to Audrey Hepburn’s character Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s–and Steinem’s appreciation for Golightly’s determination not to lose her freedom in a relationship based on “belonging to another person.”

The recognition that there was no place for women to read content uncontrolled by men was Steinem’s impetus for co-founding Ms. magazine.  Feminism hadn’t been faring well in the media, though as Steinem slyly pointed out, “Hostility is a step forward from ridicule.”  Harry Reasoner pronounced the periodical’s mission as “sad.”  The number of issues printed was supposed to last on the newsstands for three months.  They sold out in a week.  Seven months later, Ms. was in the black. For Steinem, making a point of using her “anger constructively” had paid off well.

Despite what appeared to be a successful and glamorous life, Steinem was dogged by criticism—from outside the movement and from within. “A woman who aspires to be something is a bitch,” she said.  Both lauded and excoriated for her appearance, Steinem stated, “I work really hard, and then it’s attributed to looks.  That’s really painful.”  Esquire magazine ran a story (with an accompanying comic strip) portraying Steinem in such a negative light that she characterized it as “cruel.”  Some of the sniping, bubbling just below the surface, came from other contributors to feminism who resented the limelight coalescing around Steinem.  The most prominent conflict played out with Betty Friedan, author of the groundbreaking The Feminine Mystique. Steinem said of Friedan, “She considered herself the owner of the movement.”  Looking to expand feminist alliances with other constituencies marginalized by traditional hierarchies, Steinem forged friendships with women who shared her sensibilities—such as Bella Abzug and Flo Kennedy. Qualifying Friedan’s approach, Steinem elucidated, “She didn’t identify down, she identified up.”

In 1977, The National Women’s Conference took place in Houston, Texas. Steinem refers to it as a major highlight of her career.  First Ladies Ford, Johnson, and Carter were present. The 20,000 women in attendance had different objectives for the proposed National Plan of Action, twenty-six resolutions that were put to a collective vote.  Ultimately, abortion and lesbian rights—along with support for the Equal Rights Amendment—were included in the Plan submitted to President Carter in 1978.  Steinem worked non-stop to promote her ideological agenda, pushing herself relentlessly.

Viewers get an unguarded glimpse of Steinem’s core in the segments where she addresses her dysfunctional upbringing.  She describes her father as a “charming” but “totally irresponsible man,” and tells how her mother, a “pioneer in journalism who couldn’t do it all,” was debilitated by what was “at that time called a nervous breakdown.”  In a childhood that Steinem depicts as scary and depressing, she became a caretaker to a mother who couldn’t function. When her father departed, they were a household of two women, enveloped by the sound of a persistently playing radio.  Steinem learned to rely on the defense mechanism of “detachment.”  She came to understand, in her later adult years, that she had distanced herself from her mother out of the apprehension of “not being her.”  Steinem expresses profound misgivings about her handling of the demise of both her parents.  Her father, who was mortally injured in a car accident in 1961, died alone.  Resisting the call to travel to California to be with him, Steinem feared being recast in the role of caretaker.   She was at her mother’s side during her last hours, yet confesses that in retrospect, “I so regret that I wasn’t more of a companion to her.”

Steinem’s 50^th birthday was celebrated by a party attended by luminaries—or as Phil Donahue put it, “The revolution comes to the Waldorf.”  She saw the year as a definitive marker.  Yet, it was a diagnosis of breast cancer (she had a lump excised and was treated with radiation) that served the purpose of making her aware of the passage of time.

In the segment titled, “There was a period when the world was in black and white instead of color,” Steinem sorts out an interval when she dealt with depression.  Moving from “bottoming out,” she looked internally.  Burnt out from constant traveling and speaking gigs, the solitary din of a radio in her hotel room brought back the memories and unfinished business of her childhood—and the “neglected child” who felt “she didn’t exist.” With this realization, Steinem knew that she “couldn’t go forward in the old way.”  Her book on self-esteem, Revolution from Within, uses her own issues as an anchoring point.  She admits, “Even social activism can be a drug that keeps you from going back, as you keep trying to fill up an emptiness which can’t be filled by anything external.”

Married in 2000 to David Bale, it was a union of two partners who understood that “love is not about power.”  Steinem affirms that for the first time since childhood, she felt “in the present.” Bale developed brain lymphoma in 2002, which lasted a year.  In considering what she learned from Bale’s illness and death, she recounts her appreciation for the chance to do-over her part as a caretaker—this time as an adult.  The exchange is another parallel of the younger Gloria and older Gloria—underscoring her psychological progression.

Why did Steinem evolve into a symbol of so much to so many?  It’s impossible to know.  She became a vessel through which some women discovered themselves, their potential, and the strength to advocate for their own truths.  For others, she will remain the scapegoat for the “downfall of our beautiful American family,” as an irate caller to Larry King pronounced.

On her own place in the feminist pantheon, Steinem tells audiences on college campuses, “Don’t listen to my advice.  Listen to the voice inside you and follow that.”  She is clear that being of a different generation, girls coming up now need to have their own feminist heroes.  In a self-effacing manner Steinem suggests, “The primary thing is not that they know who I am, but who they are.”

Her hope for the future is succinct—a time when being a feminist means you see the world whole instead of half.  “It shouldn’t need a name,” Steinem pronounces.  She adds, “One day it won’t.”

©Annie Leibovitz, 2010/courtesy of HBO