I am NOT the Little Mermaid...I wouldn't trade my voice for anything

"I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid

To take a stand, to take a stand

Everybody, everybody

Come take my hand, come take my hand

We'll walk this world together through the storm

Whatever weather, cold or warm

Just lettin' you know that you're not alone."

-Eminem

Standing in a league of veterans I was a minority newbie at the Occupy Wall Street protest, last evening. I made sure I was one of the first into Zuccotti Park, after going through months of keeping myself removed, watching from afar. I sat restlessly on the end of my chair for most of the day at work, waiting for the second I could go down the elevator and walk over to the park. Up until yesterday, I sidelined myself.

Often times, during my sports career, I was told that by watching our teammates, and our leaders, that we can pick up a lot, that we can learn, and that we can become competitive when we, or our coach, chooses our time to make moves and have an important impact in the game. Like sports, this tactic seemed to work for me in regards to the current movement of the 99%. Hassled on numerous occasions for what people perceived as me being "apathetic" toward the cause, I remained calm and diligent about my research, my reading, and my questioning and concerns. I didn't want to march or protest until I knew exactly why I was marching or protesting. I wanted to be educated, and I wanted to feel prepared when I finally stood up for my beliefs and for the betterment of others.

Early on, the media was not down at Zuccotti. The camps seemed like they could soon die down. People on the outside of the movement weren't yet taking it seriously, making jokes on Twitter, Facebook, and in blogs. And then something happened. The movement got bigger...and bigger...and bigger. And then it started taking over not just parks and bridges, but cities, states, and countries all around the world. People from California started linking metaphorical arms with people in NYC. People in Italy marched in Rome, a bit more violently, but nonetheless--they marched. And then at once, the media began to obsess over the realities of the demands, the realities of the struggling class, the realities of police brutality on sites, and the reality of the movement. Suddenly--more people took notice, and more people understood--and more people cared.

Following the arrest on the Brooklyn Bridge, early on in the protest, I remained vigilantly on the outside of it all, still, convinced that there were details missing, that something was being displayed improperly, that the arrest of all the protesters somehow was blown out of proportion. But then I kept reading, kept learning, kept pushing forward on my own movement to educate myself. And I slowly began to understand the wants and the needs--the way the bail out truly worked out and how we were all sold out on the side. I began to understand that students were never going to see the end of loans, that our children would never have the money to afford an education--and that we may not have the money to raise them in a healthy home. I can barely feed myself nutritiously--and affordable, how could any of us begin to afford the life of another human being. We were being sold out on the cheating ways of those above us--we were being sold out by the 1 percent.

BUT again, even with more understanding, I remained on the sidelines. However, like a field hockey player, I'd turn to my teammates or co-workers and nudge to ask what could be done...what they felt would make the game more playable, how the players could truly shine. I was starting to care a bit more, but was still unsure I was ready to hit the park.

That is until Tuesday morning when I woke up and my Twitter feed had exploded with updates about a violent and illegal raid of the park at 1:15am. That is until I read that the entire encampment had nearly been destroyed, that people's tents were ripped to shreds, and that the community library had been tossed in the garbage. That is until I read that nearly 200 people had been arrested....That is until I read that there was a media blackout.

As a woman who studied to become a media elitist one day, a documentarian, a seeker of the truth, I was outraged by the fact that journalists were not permitted to cover the event on site, that press persons were not allowed to show the whole world what was happening in the late hours of the night when protesters were peacefully sleeping. I was outraged that people lost everything they owned--and that no news stations could show the terror. I was outraged that press persons including a camera person that I have worked with was arrested for doing what they are trained to do: give people the news. I was outraged that the voice of the people was taken away by people who had traded theirs for money and guns (....to protect?). I was outraged that people's things were stolen--and destroyed--and that 2 am became a legalized hunting period for the occupier encampment-in military fashion-a fashion that had been practiced behind closed doors earlier the same day. I was outraged enough--that i became passionate--passionate for the movement, and passionate for my voice. Because no matter how hard anyone tries, you can not steal someone's voice--you cannot steal someone's First Amendment.

And while the enforcing officers and city officials declared that it was for the safety of the journalists, I became even more outraged...and passionate toward this cause.

We send our journalists to wars--they ride in tanks--they take slaps and punches in the face--and they are held in foreign prisons and tortured--but suddenly we are worried about their well-being at a public park that is being raided at 2am?

I became so passionate that at 5:00pm, following a long day at the office, I made my way to Zuccotti Park, and I chanted with the protesters: "Let us in," and I listened to stories, and I thanked media people for putting their efforts in to be there--to show people what was happening. I watched as the medical team tried to restructure their center area--after losing all the cold medicine that they had been using to help those who had become sick. I observed as police officers stood illegally on walls that they told protesters, "No one could stand on due to safety issues." I spoke with people who had been there before and they asked questions and then made statements and then helped people understand the movement better. And I watched as this community developed much like our early settlers did--through strife and movement. Slowly--but surely. Apart--but together.

And I spoke up during stacks and told the park full of people, how they had inspired people each and every day, and how I was happy that they had inspired me--how change would come--how it was working. And then I looked around at the sea of veterans...and suddenly knew that veteran vs newbie didn't matter. We all were fighting for the same thing--our voices to be heard--the voices of the majority of the world to matter. The voice.

And I wouldn't trade my voice for anything.

Note: If you haven't joined the movement yet, I suggest asking as many questions as possible, researching, reading, finding out what you can be passionate about, finding out what matters to you and then throwing yourself in there.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end...

Standing on the sidelines of a field hockey match up between my summer field hockey coach's college team, and my high school team-mate's team, I watched and realized how bitter-sweet any end to this match would actually be. For one of my friends, the season would be over with a loss; but, in addition, for one of my friends, her career would be over with a loss. Neither one was ready to lose. The game took double over time to cater a winner...and that winner was the one who would be fortunate enough to have her team next year--to have her sport--My summer field hockey coach.

My friend, and my high school teammate, who played her heart out, along with the rest of her teammates, knew exactly what this loss meant: it meant the end to something that started as just a fun after-school activity, something that grew into the daily routine of life--something that became part of her...something that truly owned a huge chunk of her heart.

I watched as girls walked off the field, with pride in their hearts but tears in their eyes. I watched as parents hugged their girls who were baffled at how field hockey could be such a huge part of their life one moment--and gone in an instant the next. And I watched as hearts broke over something that had become closer to them than anything else over the last 10 years of their lives. And I was suddenly reminded of all those feelings--all over again.

And I was reminded, again today, when I read that the University of Maryland may be cutting their swimming teams after this season. After the field hockey team was eliminated at URI, my mother and I wrote a joint article for Inside Higher Ed. entitled: Foul Play which uncovered the emotion behind losing your sport-ending your sport-giving your life to sport.

As athletes, we spend our entire careers devoting time, energy, and body parts to a sport that welcomes us with open arms--to a life that promises us pay-off with the pay-in. We work hard so that we can attend Division 1 colleges--though no one tells us how difficult it will be once we get there. We give up going out on Friday nights for a curfew that is bestowed upon us so that we perform better the next morning. We form bonds with teammates and coaches. We lose ourselves and find ourselves. We discover our strengths--and our weaknesses. We learn what it means to lose--and what it means to win. We gain pride--and passion. And we fall in love--with sport. So when we lose that--it only makes sense that our hearts break--that the pieces are left on every field or in every pool or on every course that we ever played on, swam in, or ran on. That we feel like an out of tune piano--or an unsharpened knife in the drawer. When our team is taken away from us--or when our careers end due to it being time for it to end--it is unexplainable the emotions that go through us. There will always be some void...but we have to remember that there will always be the memories to fill that void:

As my mother wrote in that article: "To use words like death and grief--is not to exaggerate."

When I lost field hockey at a sophomore in college, I compared it to losing a friend--to losing a relative--to losing someone that I loved. It still feels that way. But like losing friends--and losing family members and losing people we love...we learn to find ways to look back on these things--these events in our lives, these huge parts of our lives and smile at what we were lucky enough to have. And suddenly the void of that person or thing is filled with smiles of memories...moments in our lives that we know we can't ever return to, but that we were fortunate enough to have.

Disclaimer: In regards to the cuts at UMD--I do not support UMD's decision and intend to write a letter to the university. I understand that universities are undergoing hard times right now--just as are all businesses, but cutting academics and sports are entirely too heartbreaking for students and athletes that we tell to dream big their whole lives.

In plane flights, in paychecks, in good times, in cappuccino...how do you measure a year?

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes…

How do you measure, measure a year?

In plane flights, in paychecks, in good times

In cappuccino?

In choices, in smiles, in laughter, in love…

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty five thousand

Journeys to have…

It's hard to say how quickly a year goes by. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. Fast. Slow. On repeat.

365 days to make an impact. 365 days to experience change. 365 days to make a difference. 365 days to live from one memorable moment to the next. I often find that I can't measure my moments by my years in my age, because I find the truest and most wonderful moments to be those I don't expect, and don't plan. I find the spectacle of life in being most truly beautiful in the spontaneity of living it without knowing--without seeing what's next--without having an eight ball to say it will all be okay.

I may appear differently to people, always planning, always scheming my future, but it is in the decisions I make on whim that have made most of my life it's own spectacle. It has been in the decisions that I have made to take chances and risks that have made me incredibly grateful for the years behind me, and the years that I can see ahead.

It has been 12 months/52 weeks/365 days since I packed my bags, boarded a plane, woke up in a different time zone, and stumbled across cobblestone with a backdrop of the Tuscan landscape. It has been one year since I moved to Italy...since I took a leap, made a jump, and landed on my own two feet with no regrets.

It has been a year of meeting people, a year of leaving negativity behind, a year of saying goodbye, a year of fresh starts, humble endings, and letting go; it has been a year of traveling, a year of exploring far off destinations, a year of believing in myself and every choice; it has been a year of beginnings, a year of risk taking, a year of fine-tuning; it has been a year of pushing others, a year of reaching out; a year of living. it has been a year of forging ahead, a year of discovering what I truly want--a year of finding who I truly am.

It has been a year of seeing that even if our initial plans don't follow through, there's always something else standing by, ready to take us in it's arms, accept us, and warm us back up to our positive glow.

On November 5, 2010, I believed that on November 5, 2011 I would still be standing on the cobblestone, sipping on cappuccino, and living with a beautiful Italian man in a castle (okay maybe a bit of an exaggeration)...but I did believe I would still be in Italy making a life of my own there. But I was wrong. I am not in Italy...I am not in Europe. I am back in New York City, where I first moved to on a whim, nearly two years ago. I have been home for three times as long as I spent in Italy. For those of you that don't want to do the math--that means I have been home for 9 months. And what I have found is that while Italy made me happy, New York has made me feel home. I should have known this in the arguments over the greatest city in the world, while I lived in Rome. I should have known this after I heard Alicia Keys second version of Empire State of Mind--and cried. I should have known this from the start. But it is in the decisions we make--and the experiences that we have--that we can have those moments of clarity--those moments of beauty when our minds and our hearts meet in the middle and finally match--and those moments of certainty of what we want and where we want to be.

I know what I want--and where I want to be. I know who I am--and what I want to do. Most of all I know that this last year isn't the last good year...No. It's just the start.

But this year I am not going to measure...I am just going to live (of course--one cappuccino at a time).

Libs on the REAL: A toast to 100 posts and more

It only seems fitting that my 100th post is the day after one of my dreams came true. Last night I had the opportunity to do stand up comedy for the first time at Gotham Comedy Club. And if I thought I couldn't love NYC anymore, I was completely and utterly wrong. If I thought my friends couldn't be anymore amazing, I was completely ignorant. Because there is ab-so-lute-ly no doubt in my mind that I do live in the best city, and that I do have the BEST friends. (And if you try to fight with me...I guarantee I'll win)

Last night was one of those moments that you imagine a television show to run in slow motion, in order to exaggerate the wonderfulness of it all. Last night was one of those moments where you realize you can do something you never believed you could, and where you realize that picking up the world and shaking it up a bit--isn't so difficult. That picking up your own life--and shaking it up a bit, isn't so difficult

Looking out at my friends--new and old, my co-workers, my brother, his wife, the strangers I didn't know, and the other comedians there to perform--I felt at ease. I don't think I have ever felt so much support in my entire life, and I've definitely never felt more fortunate to know the people that I know, who come from all different walks of life.

As each friend had walked through the door earlier in the night, I gushed with happiness. At one point, I thought, wow...I think I am more excited for all my friends to be in one place--than I am to even get on that stage right now. I don't know how to say it any other way but that these people--these friends, these co-workers, these family members--they mean more to me than they could ever know, than the word love could ever mean. I appreciate not only their support of my night on stage, but their love and passion and desire for life, in general, as it ignites me to want to succeed and do well in my own.

I've quoted One Tree Hill many times before, but that won't stop me now,

because really... "their art matters--it's what got me here."

But even after last night, I have the confidence to say...my art matters too--it got me here too.

I started this blog originally to brief on my New York City life and the reel--to discuss my internship in television, my daily star sightings, and my feelings on the entertainment industry. I started this blog so that I could receive the last three credits I needed to graduate with a double major in college. I started this blog, with no intention of it lasting till now. I called it Libs on the Reel. What I should have been calling it all along was Libs on the REAL. Because I started seeing that the reel life I was experiencing--was leading me to an entirely amazing REAL life...one that's moments aren't captured in slow motion to exaggerate their wonderfulness, one that can't be rewound or paused to literally re-take or take in a moment, and one that wasn't just a projection on a screen. A life that's moments are worth waking up for every morning--not ones just worth imagining.

The first sentence I ever wrote in this blog was:

"When I was younger, I swore I would never go to school in New York, and that I would never live in New York..."

After last night--after finally feeling like I had found my niche, after seeing many of the people I care about come out to support me and my endeavors...I think the new first line of my blog should be:

"I don't think I'll ever leave New York City...again."

I can sleep when I make it...

"It gets exhausting doesn't it?"

"What?"

"Trying to make it... you know...putting all your money, your effort, all of it into one thing?"

"But I love it...every second of it--I have to..."

It's just another day in New York City. There's another girl, with another notebook, writing next to another coffee shop window.

There's another guy strumming another guitar in another subway tunnel.

There's another person trying to make it--exhausting their funds, their energy, but never exhausting their dreams--never waking up to a world full of nightmares.

It's a city that sparkles with ambition and that shines with desire. It's a city of magic, a city of passion, a city that never exhausts. It's a city of dreamers. It truly is a city that never sleeps.

"So you don't get exhausted of it...ever?

"No...I can sleep when I make it"

She was an American Girl...

"American Girl" could likely be the theme song to Amanda Knox life. The woman, arrested and charged for the murder of her roommate in Perugia, several years ago, was acquitted today at just about 10:00pm Italy time.

The road for her has been long and exhausting. And it's the story that any American girl could have found herself a part of--if they were in Amanda Knox situation.

In 2008, I studied abroad in Rome, Italy. Prior to going, I had not known the aggressiveness of European culture or the many cultural differences that there are--In fact, that's why I went--to find out. But what I learned, rather, was that many men can be very confusing with young women---young women who can be persuaded by good looks and a romance language--young women who can easily be swooned by a twinkle in an eye, and a shiny vespa to ride on the back of--young women who have never ventured outside of their American state...young women who are too trusting.

Even when I returned to live in Italy, I found myself on a date with a young Italian man in a small city outside of Florence--Brisighella--a man who I had met through penpals.org. And while I admit it was not my best choice--or my brightest moment, I felt okay at the time. This does show--just how naive we can be--even after having lived there, previously. Nothing happened to me--and it turned into a lovely day, at a wonderful Truffle Festival, in a beautiful city, but who knows what could have happened to me. We just NEVER know. And that's why we take chances and go with our gut. Knox never looked back when she pranced into a police office to discuss what happened to her roommate, because by all evidence, she had nothing to be worried about--she clearly was not there.

I have MANY Italian friends...and so did Amanda Knox...but it's easy to misunderstand--with a language barrier, and it's easier to be taken advantage of by strangers--just as it would be for someone in America who isn't fluent in English--or for a Russian in France, who doesn't know French. Anywhere that there is a language barrier and that there is someone who is relatively new to a place--there is likely to be some sort of misunderstanding. It can happen in foreign countries--and it can happen in our own cities.

So when Knox was taken in for questioning, following her roommate being found dead, it's no wonder she was coerced into a "confession," and it's no wonder that she was soon made out to appear as a "Foxy, Knoxy"--a name she had actually picked up by being good at soccer, not by being a sexy young woman in America.

Looking back at the entire trial--the entire four years that this has gone on, it is CLEAR as day that this could have just as easily been any other American girl--any person I studied abroad with--any American I met when I lived there recently--or even me. Many people will say that Knox was dumb--silly--stupid--naive. But I firmly believe that in ANY case in a foreign country, anyone would come off as dumb, silly, stupid, and naive--especially when language is a barrier--when a translator is feeding words into your mouth--when police officers are forcing you to believe something happened the way they want it to appear it happened, and when the MEDIA is hounding you and creating a persona for you that you never once filled at home.

Reading Twitter feeds today and Facebook statuses, it is still unbelievable to me that many of the people commenting are unaware of the man who has actually confessed to the murder--the man who convinced police that Knox was there--in order to lessen his own years in jail--the man who's footprint was left in the blood--and who's feces were left in the toilet. But it is NOT unbelievable to me that an American girl got caught in the trial of such height...it could have been any of us.

Welcome back to the states, Knox. Salute.

I hope you are lucky enough to hold the most fragile thing in the world...Love

If you can remember a time you were in love, and you can still smile about it--then it wasn't lost at all. It's never going to go away. And that makes you one of the luckiest people in the world. Some people never find good love--some people never find love at all.

I wish someone had told me those exact words when I was younger. Instead I made friendships with all the wrong people. I became best friends with Joey and Dawson, I invited Zack and Kelly over for playtime, I asked Lucas and Brooke to go out with me every Wednesday night, and I went on endless dates with Cory and Topanga. While they each offered me escape from real life, from dealing with the bullies at school, from dealing with the loneliness--they also offered me a number of terrible things...like an imagination of how the world really spins:

1. You should definitely have a group of six friends. The gender breakdown doesn't really matter, just as long as that group of six friends can be the root of one long-lasting relationship.

2. You can skip class and get away with it ALL the time.

3. You will have a teacher or principal that actually becomes your best friend. (I think this explains why I am Facebook friends with many teachers dating back as far as 5th grade). (Please see 1. Pacey's English Teacher girlfriend. 2. Mr. Belding. 3. Mr. Feeny).

4. If you do complete the task of having your ONE group of SIX friends, then your group is bound to go through every single teenage issue: IE: (Teen pregnancy-please see Haley in One Tree Hill; Abby for rehab in Dawson's Creek; Zack for drunk driving accident in Saved by the Bell; and Cory and Topanga for high school engagement: And we can't forget about school shootings, sex with your English teacher, death from illness, divorce, stars of the high school basketball team, becoming valedictorian, etc).

5. You absolutely WILL fall in love and get married to someone you met in high school. It may not be the person everyone thinks you will marry--but you WILL marry someone from your high school group. (Please see Joey and Pacey; Zack and Kelly; Lucas and Peyton; Haley and Nathan Cory and Topanga)

The truth is it doesn't work this way at all--not one bit. In fact, every time I have fallen in love it's been not only with people (who I didn't even go to high school with)--but with places--and memories.

Love is much bigger than the cliche teen drama.

It's the place you visit--and one day tell yourself you will return to.

It's the person you shared all your secrets with--even if you knew them for just three months. And it's the memories you look back on--and smile about, even though you know you can never go back. It's not something you imagine, and it's not something you physically hold in your hands...but it's the most fragile thing in the world.

And if you can find it. Well you are a lucky one.