Motivational Adventure Stories

Doing Something is Better than Doing Nothing

2008-09-14T05:16:00.002-07:00

By Antonio Graceffo

Since earliest childhood I had the dream of being a movie star. I wanted to be rich and famous. When I read that Elvis had to rent out an amusement park, just so he wouldn’t get mobbed by his fans, I said, “that is exactly how famous I want to be.”

I am still not there. Occasionally my family recognizes me, and I do get fan mail from people I owe money to, but I am more famous this year than last year. Since leaving the world of finance behind me in New York, I have published five books. I do get fan mail every single day, but usually only one or two pieces. I earn book royalties and magazine story fees, but not even enough to afford the concrete bunker I was living in the Philippines.

I got a few spots on TV shows on the History Channel and wrote a show for Discovery.

I didn’t get my own TV show, but I did manage to get my own web TV show, “Martial Arts Odyssey.” I also starred in a series of videos shot inside the war zone in Burma. Even with spelling errors and doing a low budget production, we were able to bring a lot of attention, and help to the people of Shanland Burma, while raising awareness of their plight. It also gave me one more credit as a journalist and film guy. Would it have been better to do a big production for television? Yes. But if I had waited for that to happen, it might never have got done. Also, now, I can show my flawed videos to production companies and say, “If you back my financially I can do a better version of this.” They can see the concept, and make a more informed decision.

It’s not Hollywood. After seven years of traveling and writing, I am not rich or famous yet. But this year was better than last year. And hopefully next year will be better again.

The point is, if you have a dream, follow it. You may not get the exact success that you want, or it may take a long time to get there, but you will Never reach your goal if you don’t try.

Because of my decision to leave the normal career path, I have had the opportunity to do and see things that most people can’t even dream of. Sometimes I don’t have food or a place to sleep. And of course, a lot of people tell me I would be better off quitting. It gets tough sometimes to stick to my dreams, but I have learned to live by two very important axioms:

Incremental success is better than no success at all.
And
Doing something is better than doing nothing.

My friend Shlomo is a would-be film maker, who helped me with a lot of my youtube videos, which related to Burma and my work with the Shan refugees and rebels. He wrote me, while I was at school in the Philippines and said that, although he had spent almost as many years in Asia as me, and although he had shot hundreds of hours of raw footage, the only videos he ever managed to finish and publish were mine. And, he didn’t know why.

I told him that when I worked on Wall Street we learned that there are a lot of people who never even begin working on their dreams. In fact, probably 80% of businesses dissolve before they sell their first widget. The person, or people, who conceived a particular business plan made it seem like it was their life’s dream, an all consuming desire. Then it evaporated for one reason or another.

Back in the States, a friend of mine wanted to start a wine importing business on the internet. He talked about it non-stop for weeks, drawing up plans, designing logos. He saw the wine business as a ticket out of restaurants where he worked as a waiter. And best of all, he could work on his business at night, when he got off work, so he wouldn’t need to quit his day job. He didn’t even have to buy the wines. He would just find them, take orders, then purchase them. The plan sounded good. In my opinion, even if he didn’t make millions, he would earn something, more than what he had now. And once you get started in business other opportunities and problems arise that you never planned on. But you can’t know until you get there.

The guy who started Wrigleys gum, gave the gum away as a premium for people who bought his soap powder. After several months, he realized the gum was more popular, so he did it the other way around, selling the gum and giving away the soap. He made millions. In fact, most people don’t know this, but Wrigleys gum is the only American product which is sold in every single country in the world. Even Coke doesn’t have the penetration of Wrigleys. Nearly every stick of gum, made by every company, is owned, in some way, by Wrigleys.

But Wrigley couldn’t have anticipated that. He couldn’t have known it until he got out there and gave it a try. I think you are always better off doing something than doing nothing.

My friend with the wine business applied for a small business loan to buy a computer. The bank turned him down and he went into a violent deep depression. “Now, I will never be a business owner. I will be stuck as a waiter forever.”

“Why don’t you just work from an internet café until you earn enough to buy a computer?” I asked.

I don’t remember his exact objection, but my friend gave up on his dream. He liked to believe he was a victim of fate and this experience confirmed his belief. People like to be right, not successful.

Reasons are always given when people give up their dreams, but the fact is, people sabotage themselves. And I don’t know why they do it. And I have done it to myself. Just be aware of it and ask yourself why you didn’t do this or that, which you have always wanted to do.

On my last visit to Cambodia, my master needed my help with several things. We had been working together, over a period of years, to preserve the Cambodian martial art of Bokator, which had nearly died out.

1. He needed a free basic website
2. He needed me to write the English text for his book.
3. He needed us to do some youtube movies together.
4. He wanted to build a massive Bokator temple, and he needed $30,000,000 to build it.

I looked at his list and I told him, “I will interview you every day over the next few days, and then transcribe the interviews. We can use that text for your book, and your website. I can set up a basic, free, website for you, but someone with more skill will need to refine it afterwards. I can write the Bokator videos and arrange for my friend Alfred to film them for us.

We made an appointment for me to come and start the interview process. When I showed up, he told me, “I am sorry. I am too busy designing the temple. And I just can’t get any of these other projects done till I know the temple is complete.”

Obviously he didn’t have thirty million dollars. He would never have thirty million dollars, which meant the temple would never be done. Which meant, he would never do the other things on the list.

This is how 99% of people live. They are incapable of completing anything.

Another master I train with told me, “I received phone calls and email from around the world because of the youtube videos you did of me. And many journalists found me and did stories on me. And the association gave me an award for helping to promote the art.”

I thought this all sounded positive. Then he said to me. “But I looked at the video, and I wished we hadn’t made it because it is not perfect. I wish we could take it down till I make a perfect one.”

Once again, he had no capacity to make a better video. He reaped so many positive benefits from our faulty one, and yet he wanted to go back to when he had nothing.

Go figure.

People who read “Monk from Brooklyn,” and my first several books complained that there were a lot of misspelled words and typos. And I agree. They also say that there was no marketing and sales were low. Also true. But, because of those early books, I am a published author, which now is opening other doors for me. I am infinitely better off for having published faulty books than I would have been had I waited to publish perfect ones. I don’t care about the problems with my books. The rights to Monk revert back to me in 2008. I can rewrite it and released it with better editing. The same is true of the other books.

So many people send me email to tell me that my website, speakingadventure.com is far from perfect. I always say, “ok can you fix it for me?” The answer of course is always “no” and that I should take it down till I can afford to do a good website. Screw them! I have no money for a better website and don’t anticipate having money for a better website. Right now, at least I have a website. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t get any work at all. Later, hopefully I can hire someone to build a better one. But take away my books and take away my website, and I am not a working author, I am back at square one. And no one gives you anything when you are at square one.

People are hung up on stupid details that prevent them from moving forward. I don’t know why, but seems to be the natural way of man.

The first step to achieving your goals is to start. The second step is failure. You will fail along the way. You will meet problems, and successes, that you never could have imagined till you started on the path. Most people don’t fail to achieve their dreams, they QUIT. So, the obvious two rules are, “Start working on your dream.” and “Don’t quit.”

And one more rule, tell everyone about your dreams and ask for help.

So, taking my own advice: My dream is still to get my own TV show and be wildly successful, rich, and famous. So, if you liked this article, and you can help me with that dream, please contact me.

Antonio Graceffo is a former investment banker. He left the world of finance to pursue his dream of being an adventure and martial arts author in Asia. For seven years he has traveled around Asia, living and studying in temples, learning languages and martial arts. He has published five books, available on amazon.com and several hundred magazine articles. He is the host of the web TV show, “Martial Arts Odyssey.”
See his website: speakingadventure.com. Join him on facebook.com
Write him: Antonio@speakingadventure.com

Antonio is a professional, motivational speaker, available to tell his inspirational story of rags-to-riches-and back to rags.

Where I am now and what I am doing

2008-09-14T05:16:00.001-07:00

By Antonio Graceffo

Just wanted to touch base and let you know where I am and what i am doing.
I was in and out of Burma with the Shane State Army rebels for about five
months, doing a serties of short films and articles.

here is a link to my youtube films.
http://tw.youtube.com/results?search_query=antonio+graceffo&search_type=&aq=f

I left Thailand and headed to Philippines, where I completed a course for
EMT emergency medical technician. I also complete swim rescue training and
another black belt in traditional martial arts. I stayed in Philippines,
volunteering on an ambulance crew in a pretty rough neighborhood, till my
money ran out. I had been living in a ten by ten, concrete room with no
windows, no air conditioning and only a wooden bed, with no mattress. It
was brutaly hot and terribly uncomfortable. Eventually, I couldnt even
afford this luxurious accomodation.

My plan was to return to Burma as a medic or medic trainer, but I ran out
of money completely. So, I went to Taiwan, my current location, where i am
teaching school. I taught English, wrestling, and Tae Kwan Do for the
summer and will be teaching English, writing, and public speaking for the
fall.

I have spoken to a couple of NGOs about going back to Burma, and maybe
cambodia, as a medic trainer and have talked to some film crews about
going back into Burma to do a higher quality documentary. It seems that I
will most likely be going back to Burma in December.

We are looking for markets for the film. I am looking for markets for the
stories. I am still looking to get my own TV series, and I am looking for
a publicher for the book about Burma.

If you have any connections or anyone who could help me out with any of
this, that would be huge.

Antonio

Antonio Graceffo is a former investment banker. He left the world of finance to pursue his dream of being an adventure and martial arts author in Asia. For seven years he has traveled around Asia, living and studying in temples, learning languages and martial arts. He has published five books, available on amazon.com and several hundred magazine articles. He is the host of the web TV show, “Martial Arts Odyssey.”
See his website: speakingadventure.com. Join him on facebook.com
Write him: Antonio@speakingadventure.com

Antonio is a professional, motivational speaker, available to tell his inspirational story of rags-to-riches-and back to rags.

Be The Hero of Your Own Life Story

2008-08-22T19:01:00.001-07:00

Nim's Island and the Brooklyn Monk
By Antonio Graceffo

“The key to immortality is first living a life worth remembering.”

This quote has been attributed to everyone from St. Augustus to Bruce Lee. I don't know who actually said it, but it rings with a powerful truth.

At cocktail parties, when people find out that I am a published author, they often say to me, “I also want to be a writer, but I don't know what to write about.”

In my opinion, they are suffering from a sequence error, putting the cart before the horse. First you start with what you need to say, then you write it. You use writing as a way of communicating those feelings and ideas which you wish to express. But the writing starts with the idea, not the desire to write.

Every writer is different and has a different path. There is, however, one commonality to the history of every writer great or small, who made it or not. Every writer knows the taste of poverty and will eventually wind up teaching a writing class at a community college somewhere, just to survive. The first time I taught one of these classes, a student came to me and said, “Teacher, I want to be a great writer, but I don't know how to start.”

I told him, “The first step to being a great writer is to go do something worth writing about.”

From childhood, I knew that I would someday be a writer, and that the subject of my writing would be my own life. And so, I lived accordingly. In my youth, I distinctly remember making bad or even destructive choices which I believed had a lower probability of success, but which would be a better story when I sat down to write.

Consequently, I was in three branches of the military and held most of the ranks between private and NCO two or three times.

Later, I made good, but interesting decisions, like quiting my job on Wall Street to go to Asia and live an adventure life.

When I returned to the USA and did a speaking tour, I met a lot of nice, hard working people with careers and families, who basically said to me that if the cost of becoming a writer or speaker was that they had to go on wild adventures, they simply couldn't do it. They had family obligations and jobs that they couldn't just walk away from.

I realized at that point that the adventure life could easily be interpreted as very self-centered. So, the next evolution in my adventure writing was to find adventures that would help people, like going into Burma and aiding the Shan rebels who were being subjected to genocide by the Burmese government.

This was in many ways better than what I had done before. The writing was deeper and more interesting. The missions across the border were hopefully brining aid and work attention to a forgotten and suffering people.

But, it still wasn't something everyone could do. I thought of all of those millions with careers, houses, and families. Were they precluded from being writers? Were their lives disinteresting simply because they had some stability?

When I was in Philippines, working on an ambulance crew, I started revisiting the writing of David Sedaris. He is hilarious. His books always make me laugh out loud in public places, to the point that I felt embarrassed reading them in the waiting room of the Emergency Room, fearing that my laughter would seem irreverent. After a number of angry stares and rude comments from suffering families, I limited my reading to the back of the ambulance. If the patients were unconscious, they really didn't care what I was reading. Once or twice, the nitrous-oxide wore off, the patient woke up and made some comment in favor of Tom Robbins. But I just shot him up with three ccs of Demerol. Everyone knows David Sedaris is funnier than Tom Robbins.

David Sedaris is a brilliantly funny author who only writes about his own life. Taken objectively, his life isn't particularly interesting. He has some sisters, a mother and father, and his family moved from Upstates New York to North Carolina. They aren't circus performers or private-eyes. His dad has a corporate job and his mom is a homemaker.

There is nothing unusual or funny about David Sedaris's family or his upbringing. He writes about how, as a child, he felt compelled to lick light bulbs, but who didn't go through this stage? I once got my tongue caught in the keyboard because i wanted to see what my writing tasted like.

Dirty plastic.

For writers, I guess the lesson we could learn from David Sedaris is that life is funny. Life is interesting. Your life is funny and interesting. The skill is in finding the interesting side of the mundanities of life, and writing them in a way that makes people want to write them. Jerry Seinfeld made millions writing “a show about nothing.”

After all of this thinking and re-thinking and light-bulb licking, I realized that while all of these discoveries gave hope to would be writers, not everyone wants to be a writer. So, where is the hope for the normal person, leading a normal life?

While I was in the Philippines, I often skipped meals so that I could go to the movies. I had just come out of Burma, and they don't have the latest Hollywood releases there. So, the Philippines gave me a chance to catch up on my movie viewing.

Being me, I watch a lot of cartoons and kids movies. A lot of adults do, but I think I am unique in the way I later dissect them, and use the lessons to create a modern religion. I was a Mulan-ite for years following the teachings of Mushu, the tiny dragon. In addition to teaching me that women could do anything men could do, and that a small dragon could be as powerful as a big dragon if he is a complete slacker, Mushu also taught me that large groups of men living together smell like Cheetos. As a writer, I am always look for new ways describe smells, and this Cheeto revelation really helped my career.

One of the kids films that I saw in Philippines which left a lasting impression on me was “Nim's Island.” The movie is about a little girl named Nim, who lives on a secret island, with her father, who is a naturalist scientist. Up to this point, most of us can't relate. If my father and I had been alone on island, while I was growing up, I am sure only one of us would have survived. But, the story gets better.

Nim is addicted to reading adventure books about an Indiana-Jones-esque hero named Alex Rover. He has the whip, the hat, the overcoat in the desert heat, all of the pieces of adventure equipment I wish I could have to round out my jungle ensemble. When Nim's father goes missing at sea, she contacts the author, who is also named Alex Rover, and asks him to come and help her rescue her dad.

This is where the story takes a turn towards reality. Alex Rover, it turns out, is actually Alexandra Rover, a complete recluse, who hasn't left her home in years. She created Alex Rover, the irreverent adventurer as a kind of alter ego, who could go and do all of the things Alexandra could not.

When Alexandra reads the email from Nim, she is concerned that a young girls is alone on an island, and wants to help, but she is afraid to even go out of her house. The Alex Rover character materializes and argues and cajoles Alexandra into not only leaving the house, but flying by sea plane to the island, in order to save Nim and her dad. When Alex finally arrives, she realizes she lacks any of the diverse skills she would need to help Nim, much less survive in a jungle environment. She turns to Alex and asks, “What do I do now?” Alex laughs and basically says, “I am done. You are on your own now.”

He turns, and walks into the sea, leaving Alexandra to her own fate. He tells her, “You don't need me anymore. You can do it by yourself.” The last thing he tells her before he disappears beneath the waves is, “Be the hero of your own life story.”

“Be the hero of your own life story.”

This was the line that I took away with me. My life, and this article, began with me writing my life as a story, and now I realized that we are all just writing our life story. That means everyone is an author. You will write, at the very least, one great epic work, which only you can write, YOUR LIFE IS YOUR OPUS MAGNUS!

This week I pissed away a lucrative writing contract when the editor asked me to make too many changes to my manuscript. Yes, I desperately need the money. But I am still not willing to compromise or change what I write. The benefit is that I will have complete freedom. The down side is that I will live in poverty. But as with all decisions in life, you weigh out the consequences of your actions and if you are willing to endure the consequences, then no one can ever tell you what to do. You will have complete freedom.

As an author, you are in complete control of your writing. You chose the hero of your life story. If you will chose yourself, there is nothing in the world that you can't accomplish. Your life-story will be a fascinating tale, with a happy ending. You can write it, or just keep it inside yourself, giving pieces of it to your children and those you love. Either way, you will have peace of mind. You will know that you have lived well and that you are a great success. And you have been a hero to at least one person. Most likely you will find that by being a hero to yourself first, you will become a hero to many others.

“Be the hero of your own life story.” As the author, you are in complete control. Remind yourself of this each morning when you wake up and begin to write.

Antonio Graceffo is an adventure writer living in Asia. He has four books on amazon.com. His website is speakingadventure.com contact him: antonio@speakingadventure.com Antonio is a professional speaker and available for public speaking engagements.

Around the World and Back to Your Beginnings

2008-08-22T18:57:00.000-07:00

Audio CD from Brooklynmonk, Antonio Graceffo

The wisdom of Shaolin Temple monks and years of adventures in the deserts and mountains of South East Asia culminate in this motivational message which will help you to discover your own path. In fact, you are on it already. (Spoken word)tracks

http://www.amazon.com/Around-World-Back-Your-Beginnings/dp/B000M4RLBU/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1218340784&sr=8-6

Before September 11th, Antonio Graceffo was a successful investment banker working on Wall Street. In 2001 he left behind the world of high finance and to pursue a childhood dream - the life of a full-time adventurer and writer.

Originally from New York City, Antonio speaks Chinese, Khmer, French, German, Spanish, Italian, and Thai. He holds diplomas from universities in the US, Germany, and England. He has studied and competed in martial arts and boxing for over twenty-five years, and has studied at the Shaolin Temple, in Mainland China and a Muay Thai (boxing) temple, in Thailand. He has just finished a contract in Cambodia, where he was writing adventure books, staring in Kung Fu films, and boxing professionally. He is now in Korea, studying martial arts and preparing to enter a PHD program.

He is fluent in Mandarin Chinese, Khmer, German, Spanish, Italian, Korean, and of course, Brooklyn English! He traveled extensively in his youth, being educated in Europe, Asia, and Latin America. Antonio studied at Tennessee State University; University of Mainz, Germany; Trinity College, England; Heriot Watt University, Scotland; Universidad Latina, Costa Rica, and The Taipei Language Institute, Taiwan. He spent nearly seven years in the US Merchant Marines and US Army NG. He is also an Advanced Toastmaster (Silver) in Toastmasters, Intl.

Antonio's writing has appeared in: Bangkok Post, Hong Kong Saturday Morning Standard, Farang, West East fashion, Escape Artist, Travelers Impressions, Travel UK, Kung Fu Magazine, Black belt Magazine, The World and I, and Off Beat Travel. He has written a number of adventure travel books, which are available on www.amazon.com.
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Antonio's stories make me want to travel with him.
author: Steve McCrea
This particular CD is EXACTLY what I wish a book in middle school could be. This CD would get reluctant readers in 7th grade to dream about traveling. I can't say enough about the adventure and spirit of curiosity that flows in this fluid style of reading and writing. I look forward to sharing these audio stories with my classes of students. I'm a reading teacher, and it's time for audio books with...Antonio!
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The Hero of Your Life Story

2008-07-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

Kung Fu Panda and The Brooklyn Monk

2008-07-09T19:56:00.000-07:00

By Antonio Garceffo

“Your training is a lonely war.”

When you train, you battle yourself. You wrestle your internal demons forcing your mind and body to bend. We all know the story of the sculpture who was asked how he carved such a perfect warrior from stone. He answered, “The warrior as already there, I just removed the excess stone.”
This week a very strange source reminded me that we already possess greatness and that our training is a way of releasing it.
“Truth comes from the mouths of babes.”
Any parent or school teacher can tell you how embarrassing it is to have a ten year-old make a simple observation which you overlooked because you are too intelligent and too old.
I am inventing my own old saying, “Truth comes in the form of a Disney cartoon.”
I saw “Kung Fu Panda” on its opening day in Manila, Philippines. I went back and saw it again the next day. The third day I was invited to my friend Nino's divorce party, but the fourth day I was back at the cinema to hear Jack Black speak the truth.
I am back in Taiwan now, partly because of this movie, returning to my roots. Taiwan is where I began my Martial Arts Odyssey through Asia, seven years ago. The movie made me realize that, although I am a thousand times better martial artist (or maybe just a better fighter) than I was seven years ago, and have acquired knowledge and experience with martial arts in ten different Asian countries, I realized that somewhere along the way, I lost sight of my original goal. Originally, I had set out to use Kung Fu to unlock secrets about myself. My intent was internal. Instead my hours and hours spent in the gym, hitting the weights and hitting the bags turned my life into an external search. That would explain all the stamps in my passport.
An internal search could be done within the confines of a single room. It is called meditation. And while I don't see myself meditating, returning to Taiwan will hopefully help me to regain the wonder and excitement I had at the beginning, and help me to remember why I started down this path in the first place.

And best of all, “Kung Fu Panda” stars Jack Black, one of the funniest and most talent men in Hollywood. Both of his kids movies, “School of Rock” and “Kung Fu Panda” can be thoroughly enjoyed by adults, while teaching us lessons that we, in our sophistication, have forgotten.
Not to spoil the surprise for anyone who is still planning to see the movie, but in a nutshell, Jack Black, playing the Kung Fu Panda, is recognized as the legendary “Dragon Warrior,” a great Kung Fu hero who will defeat Tai Long, the evil master. The problem is that the overweight Panda has never had a single Kung Fu lesson in his life. The legend says that once the Dragon Warrior is identified he should be given the dragon scroll, which will give him the secret to unlimited Kung Fu power.
Then Kung Fu Panda is finally awarded the Kung Fu scroll, he sees that it is blank. Dejected, he leaves the temple, convinced that he is not the Dragon Warrior, and that he will never achieve greatness. Back at home, the Panda's father is a famous noodle vendor, who wants his son to take over the family business. The father made a fortune off if his special dish called, “Secret Ingredient Soup.” Believing that his son is finally home to stay, and ready to take over the family business, his father shares the secret ingredient with him.
“The secret is nothing.” Says the father. “To make something special, you just have to believe it is special.”
The Panda opens the scroll and realizes that he can see his own reflection in the gold braid of the paper.
The message: “The secret ingredient is YOU.”
This movie was brilliant. Jack Black is fat and a little lazy, but his heart is in the right place. Most people would never think he could be a superhero or even moderately successful, but the secret of the Dragon Scroll teaches him that he is a hero. He is special, and he can be anything he wants to be.
The master also believes in the Panda but realizes he can't train him the same way he trains the other masters. This was another excellent lesson. We are all different. We will find our own way to shine, our own way to be special. Buddhism teaches that there are many paths that lead to enlightenment. The commonality between them is that you have to work hard, stay focused, and have a good heart. Said another way, if you are a good person, you have the potential to be great. It is up to you.
When Tai Long, the most powerful master, steals the Dragon Scroll, he sees his reflection, but misses the message. He believes the scroll is a fraud. He missed the message because he believed his training made him great. The Panda got the lesson because he learned that he was born great.
We are all born great. Achieving greatness is just a matter of if we see it or not.
Remember that in the Chinese brand of Buddhism, we are all born with the potential to achieve enlightenment. The Panda kept asking the Master, “How can you turn me into the Dragon Warrior?” The answer is, the master can't turn you into anything. You are already born The Dragon Warrior. The master can only lead you to discovering that fact and believing it.
The Alanis Morrissette song, “Thank You” says, “How bout remembering your divinity?” You are born with it. It is up to you to discover it.
The theme song of “Kung Fu Panda” also set me to thinking about the direction my life was going. Disney released three versions of the song. In the US it is sung by Cee-Leo Green. N Korea it will be sung by Stephen Colbert's arch nemesis, K-Pop Start Rain. In the rest of Asia, Korea always has to be different, the song is sung by Filipino boy-star, Sam Concepcion. The movie promises to be one of the most poplar Disney movies ever released in Asia because of the fact that an Asian was chosen to sing the theme song. In the Philippines, Sam-fever has gripped the nation, catapulting the young lad to super-stardom overnight.
The new theme song is based on the old Carl Douglas song, “Kung Fu Fighting,” which to date, with the exception of the UFC theme song, seems to be the only martial arts related song to make it to the top forty. It appears to me that some enterprising young singer could carve out a niche for himself with the martial arts song genre the way Jimmy Buffet did with song about beaches, boats, and hangovers.
The new lyrics are directly base on the film and also convey an inspiring set of messages.
“If you are a natural, why is it so hard to see? Maybe it's just because, you keep on looking at me.”
If you are looking for answers within yourself, then you need to look at yourself, not others. Don't look for the approval of others. Seek your own opinion, believe it and live by it.
“Sometimes you gotta go, go on and be your own hero.”
This was the clincher. You can be your own hero. You can achieve whatever success you want. Dream, reach out, find your hero and then find the goodness in yourself.
On a personal note, I am glad that Jack Black taught us that you can be a Kung Fu master even if you are fat. I have hard time keeping the weight off my middle, and no matter how much I eat, it seems to stay there. From a guy lives on a training diet of fried chicken, Kit Kat bars, and Coke, I salute Kung Fu Panda, who taught us that we can all be Kung Fu masters. In fact, we already are.
Antonio Garceffo is a martial arts and adventure author living in Asia. His book, The Monk from Brooklyn, is available at amazon.com. See his vieos on youtub. His website is speakingadventure.com
Contact Antonio: antonio@speakingadventure.com

The Talisman of Money

2006-07-09T00:41:00.000-07:00

In the Broadway musical, “Fiddler on the Roof,” Tevia, the poor milkman is talking to God, complaining about his poverty.

He say, “Lord I know it I no sin to be poor, but it I no great honor either. In the Bible it says that wealth is a curse. If this so, then let me be stricken with this curse, and may I never recover.”

And then he does a song and dance routine, called “If I Were a Rich Man,”. But I can’t sing or dance. So I will just talk.

Money is a sensitive issue, maybe even more taboo than sex. We all have money. We all need money. And most people wish for money. And yet, you are never supposed to talk about money. So, how are we as children, to learn how to deal with money as adults?

My Uncle Enzio was a real wheeler-dealer. A self made millionaire, he came to America with nothing and built a fortune. Now, the third generation of his off spring don’t have to work. A funny contradiction about men who pulled them selves up by their bootstraps is that they believe they are doing it for their children. But if Enzio had lived to see how lazy his grandchildren were he wouldn’t approve.

And if I told him it was his fault, he would be crushed.

According to the book, The Millionaire Next Door, In America less than 20% of rich people have inherited wealth. That means the other eighty percent got their money the old fashioned way, they earned it. And they weren’t doctors or lawyers. The vast majority of millionaires were tradesmen, blue collar guys who owned their own business. That means contractors, builders, car mechanics and plumbers.

And if you don’t believe me, call a plumber to do a repair at your house at 2 AM on a Sunday morning, and tell me he doesn’t earn your daily wage for an hours work.

These men work hard, so they can pay for their children to attend ivory league universities and become professionals,

“so they wont have to suffer like I did.” They all say.

Yes, they spare their children the suffering. But something else, by encouraging those kids to go into professions they are guaranteeing those kids would never be millionaires.

On TV we are told that rich people live lavish lifestyles. But when I was managing investments for very wealthy individuals, I discovered that this was a lie.

Living a lavish style doesn’t pay a salary. The fact is that only a small percentage of millionaires live loudly. My Uncle Enzio was more typical of how real millionaires live. He always drove old cars. And wore clothes from the Salvation Army. He bought day old bread, and ate out once a year, on his anniversary. He died in the same house he bought when he was married.

Uncle Enzio wouldn’t spend a dime if someone wasn’t holding a gun to his head. And even then, it was only to avoid the funeral expense.

I loved my Uncle Enzio. He was a sweet, funny guy who used to tell the best stories. When he came to America he didn’t have his fare for the passage. He made a deal with the captain that he would work his way over. Once they were out at sea, the captain told Uncle Enzio to wash the dishes.

Enzio threw all the dishes over the side and said, “now they are clean.”

He started walking back to his room.

The captain said, “Where are you going?”
“To take a nap.”
“You can’t do that!” The captain shouted.

“Why? What are you going to do? Fire me? Then I can sleep all the way to New York.”

Once he got to America it took Enzio twenty years to earn his first million. When he lost it, a few years later, my father expected him to be heart broken. But Enzio took it in stride.

He said “The reason most people don’t have a million dollars is because they don’t know how to earn it. But now that I did it once, I know how.”

Eventually, he was back on top. When he lost his million the second time, it only took him months to earn it back. And I guess once you have done that two or three times you learn how to keep it, because Enzio never lost a dime a gain.

On some strange level, I think Enzio didn’t love money. He never did anything with his money except reinvest it. So, it wasn’t the money that drove him. Most people think, “if I had millions of dollars, I would buy this or that…”.

Well, if you bought this or that, you wouldn’t keep your money very long.

One secret Enzio never taught me, but which I realized, as an adult was the reason Enzio became so wealthy was simply because he didn’t love money. That detachment was the key. It allowed him to make cold calculated decisions without his emotions or his fear of failure and loss distorting his judgement.

Enzio was a real character. He loved business so much, I think, he would have done it for free. On the day of his death, he didn’t go to work at his factory. He was laying on a hospital bed, with tubes coming out of him. He was hooked to a ventilator and a heart monitor. The doctor had already told us he only had hours to live. As the family filed by Enzio’s bed to pay their last respects, one of Enzio’s old trading partners, Pino, knelt down next to him, and in a very solemn and respectful tone of voice, befitting the occasion, said,

“Enzio, I got a new a supplier for olives coming out of Sardinia. I can get you a ton for a thousand dollars.”

Enzio had been drifting in and out of consciousness all day. But suddenly he snapped fully awake “Pino, I am dying, what am I going to do with a ton of olives?”

“OK, OK,” said Pino, as if he had been beaten. “Two tons of a thousand dollars.”

Enzio smiled. “Sold !” He yelled.

We meet money through all the phases of our lives. And it means different things to each of us and at every stage.

As an adult, I went with a friend to one of those Indian casinos. While he played slot machines, I took a walk around, enjoying the freak-show of degenerate gamblers. I mean I can admit that I sometimes go to night court or support groups for people addicted to shopping on the internet, just for the entertainment value, and to feel better about myself. But gamblers are the best. They are the most miserable people in their addiction. At least alcoholics sometimes sing and grab you in a head lock blubbering “I love you man. I love you.” And then they pee on themselves which could also make me look better.

I have body image issues, but seeing these people gambling away their life savings made me feel like I could order a triple heaping of ice-cream. What is love-handles compared to leg breakers showing up in the middle of the night to collect on a gambling debt?

In the same casino I saw a woman with two buckets of five-dollar coins, playing two slot machines at the same time. She would put in the coins, do both levers, and before they had hardly stopped spinning, she was putting in the next set of coins. The machines would periodically pay off, but she wouldn’t even pause to count her winnings. There was a funnel channeling the coins into a bucket on the floor. I admired her dexterity. It must not have been easy to work two machines like that. She had arms like Arnold Schwarzeneger. She looked like one of my immigrant uncles working in a factory before the days of labor unions.

“You make sure they give bathroom breaks!” I shouted to her.

She would probably be in a gamblers union if Jimmy Hoffa wasn’t pushing up daisies somewhere below third base in Yankee stadium.

“After the revolution, the wealth of the owners will belong to the workers.” I shouted, but she ignored my attempt at solidarity. Seeing her sweating over there, working hard, I had to ask.

“Why are you doing that?”
“Because I enjoy it.” She told me.
“Yes, it looks like a real hoot, to me.”

Several hours and free drink later, my friend was ready to leave. He told me about all the rounds he won, but he ended the night, down thirty dollars.

“How did you do?” He asked.

“Fine, I broke even.” I said.

“But this is your first time gambling, how did you do it?”
“I found a really easy game over there. You put in a dollar, and it gives you four quarters.”
“You spent six hours playing the change machine!” He shouted. “You’re a moron.”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one who’s out thirty bucks.” I pointed out.

I spent fifteen months in Taiwan studying Buddhism, Kung Fu, and Chinese language. My best friend, and spiritual advisor on matters of Buddhism was a former monk, named Lao Che We, who had left the temple, to become an insurance salesman.

Che We was very interested in making money, and he always asked me for financial advice. But he lived one of the most austere existences of anyone I had ever met. In fact, instead of moving to the capital, in Taipei, to seek his fortune, he chose to remain at home with his aging parents, so he could support them.

He told me that he wished he could buy them a house. Beyond helping his parents, he never once said that he wanted anything material.

With Che We, everyday was a lesson in Buddhism.

We saw the movie “The Others,” with Nichole Kidman. A family dies, but they remain, as ghosts, in their home, forced to co-exist with the new owners, who are living. Afterwards Che We said to me. “They were dead, but do you know why they did not go to heaven?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they loved their house too much. So they must stay there. It is not good when you love too many things. Then they keep you from going to Heaven, and you become ghost.”

“Own nothing, that nothing may own you.” I said, quoting the TV show, Kung Fu with David Carradine, where I had learned my first Buddhist lessons.

Che We hadn’t seen the show, so it took him a minute to decipher the cryptic English. After a thoughtful pause, he said, “Yes, if own things then become like prison.”

So what is money? How much is it worth?

Eventually, I went to the Shaolin Temple in Mainland China, which was founded by Da Mo, also called Bddidharma, the Indian monk who brought both Kung Fu and Buddhism to China. After I folded two hundred dollars inside of a prayer book, and handed it to a monk, he opened the gate for me. The kind monk took me in, and let me stay with him. He took me to the Shaolin kitchen, and made sure I had enough to eat. He spent his days teaching me Kung Fu, and in the evenings, he gave me lessons in Buddhism.

One day, he asked me if I was happy at the temple. I said I was, and that this was the completion of my boyhood dream.

“Would you like to stay for a full year?” He asked me.
“Yes, of course.” I shouted, jumping at the chance.
“Good, then you just need to give me five thousand US dollars.”

The Chinese students were paying $360 a year.

Apparently, their philosophies were Asian, but their payment methods were Western.

When I refused, he suddenly became very busy, and pawned me off on another monk who agreed to give me food, shelter and training for two hundred a month.

My best friend and training brother in the temple was Miao Ping. Every morning we had prayers, followed by hours and hours of kung fu training. Several times a week Miao Hai and I had to go work at the Temple. Miao Hai would strike the gong and help the visitors to pray and light inscents. For the several hours that we were in there, he would have me stand in horse stance or some other martial arts stance, for my training. Periodically, he would kick me, or hit me, or hang on my arms to make sure my stance was strong. The Chinese tourists thought I was an attraction, and they would pose next to me and have a photo made. I felt like the guards at Buckingham palace because the were all trying to make me laugh or break position.

One day while the tourists were hitting me with a stick I saw Miao Hai steal 20 RMB, about $2.50 out of the offering bowl. I was going to say something. But I followed the Prime Directive from Star Trek. I was there as an observer and should not interfere with the local culture. Eventually I decided that there was something wrong with a system that would drive a young man to sell his integrity for two dollars and fifty cents. When it was time for me to leave, my monk stole about a hundred dollars from my account. I wasn’t as forgiving when I was the victim of theft.

If he wasn’t a kung fu monk, capable of killing me with a single finger, I would have kicked his butt all over the parking lot.

I learned a lot of lessons in Shaolin. When I saw how money had corrupted the monks, I was sad. But as good as it is to learn form other people’s mistakes, real growth and change only come from personal experience.

When I first arrived at Shaolin, I had to take off my civilian clothes and put on a uniform, which didn’t have a pocket for me to keep my wallet. I felt completely emasculated by the absence of a wallet. There was nothing to buy in the temple. And yet, I felt I needed money in order to feel whole. Next, I had been planning to draw money from my Taiwanese ATM account. But it turned out that the Chinese banking system didn’t recognize a Taiwanese account. Which made a lot of sense, in hindsight. But, it was too late. I was china with no money. So Che We went to the bank, in Taiwan, and wire-transferred money from my Taiwanese account into my Sifu’s (Kung Fu Monk) the transfer took eight weeks.

When I went into town, things were so cheap, but I couldn’t afford anything. I was severely malnourished and dehydrated. I could have bought water or food in town. But I had no money.

I felt powerless, physically ill, and I couldn’t sleep. I had no sugar or coffee for the entire time I was waiting for my money. I was aggressive angry depressed.

What I realized in those weeks was that I didn’t want expensive clothes or fancy cars. I just wanted reasonable food and shelter.

But, what I also realized was that even if someone had given me water, meat, coffee, and sugar, I would still have been disturbed by my lack of money. The monks were poor. And some of them stole money. But even when they had no money, they didn’t experience the clinical powerlessness that eventually drove me to my bed for over a week of deep depression.

The monks wanted money to buy things. But for us in the west, money is much more than things it can buy us. It is the source of our power and position. It is our status, and it defines how we feel about ourselves and others.

Money is a talisman It is a mere piece of paper which we have ascribed an incalculable value. On a lifeboat, adrift as sea, a single glass of water could not be purchased for any amount of cash. Money is the four leaf clover, the lucky rabbits foot, the prayer flag that we carry into combat to make us victorious over our enemies.

The three people I told you about all saw money differently, and they all taught me something. My Uncle Enzio lived to make money, but not to possess it. Lao Che We dedicated his life taking care of his family, which required money. Bu beyond that he had no real relationship with the stuff. The monks at Shaolin lived to steal money. But they didn’t begin to grasp the power we ascribe to it.

The lesson we learned from them is money is not evil. But the love of money and the belief in money can destroy you.

Photos: The Price of Morality

2006-06-26T14:06:00.000-07:00

The Price of Morality

2006-06-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

About this story:

Asked to write a speech on a controversial subject, I composed this piece, entitled “The Price of Morality.” The story reflected my own guilt at having seen human suffering but done nothing to mitigate it. At the same time, the story addressed the concept of a universal morality, and how our own morality and values systems are unique to us, and should not be imposed on foreign cultures. The speech at once addressed, without mentioning, US involvement in Iraq, North Korea, and Iran, and the US failure to act in Darfur, Cambodia, or any number of thousands of other places where we possess the power to save the lives of millions of people. The story addresses my own demons. Although I am well versed in many of the cultures of Asia, I often find it difficult not to pass judgement on the absurdities of primitive life. I come from an extremely aggressive, Italian, New York background, which I find it hard to disassociate myself from.

We often shoot the messenger. As a writer and speaker, I am, always the messenger, and since I write from a first person perspective, I am also the message. Consequently, I absorb all of the negative reader comments which my stories evoke.

Finally, the story is a plea, that I not be judged, because at the end of the story, most people will find that they would have done no better than me.

The price of Morality

Morality is a concept, an illusion, which is only shared by the upper class.

How many of you, by show of hands, would ever commit a murder?

None?

Could we define murder? If you actively kill someone, is this murder?

So, none of you would actively kill someone, such as a baby. But could we also define murder as, you have the power to save a life, but you take no action? Using this new definition, if a baby were choking to death, right in front of you, would you pick it up and clear its airway? If you didn’t, would that be considered murder?

By show of hands, how many of you would ever sell your daughter?

Wow! This is a moral group.

So, would it be fair if we judged harshly a family who sold their daughter? If so, I have a story for you.

During my first six months in Cambodia, I was living in a Khmer guesthouse, where I had been adopted as one of the family. The father collected my rent and provided me with physical security. The mother cleaned my room. The grandmother did my laundry. The son was my translator. One cousin was my Khmer language teacher. A slew of uncles and male cousins took turns acting as my driver. I kept the whole family employed, and they were incredibly kind to me. Their young, unmarried daughter, Srey Mat always served my breakfast with a smile, as we exchanged pleasantries. She was studying at the university and I often asked about her studies.

The family invited me to all of their private celebrations, children’s birthdays, weddings, and graduations. With a tremendous, extended family all living in close proximity, there was a reason to celebrate, almost every day. The parties were fun, and I counted myself lucky to have been invited into this inner-circle that very few foreigners will ever penetrate.

On the flip side, however, the parties became an annoyance and a drag. The peace treaty, ending the civil war, was less than ten years old, and the country could barely be called developing. As a result most Khmers, even young people, still listened to traditional music and did traditional Apsara dancing, which I found boring. I worked hard in Cambodia, and on my nights off, I wanted to blow off steam by going to the disco and shaking and grinding with my friends. Apsara was the last thing I wanted, pivoting slowly around a fixed point in the room, with the whole family, twisting my wrists in intricate circles.

After a few weeks, I began making any excuse to avoid family functions. By the time Srey Mat invited me to her graduation party, two things were driving me toward moving out completely. The first was the parties. The family felt very hurt any time I turned down the invitation. The other, was that I was beginning to feel pressure to marry Srey Mat. The parties often felt like a way of introducing the happy couple, who barely knew each other, to the whole family and the community.

I explained to Srey Mat, regretfully, that I was off on a journalism assignment, in Thailand, the next morning.

Srey Mat got very annoyed. She rolled her eyes, and said in an annoyed voice, “I will go talk to my uncle.”

I was in my room, making last minute travel arrangements, when Srey Mat knocked at my door. “OK, we will have the party tonight, instead of tomorrow.” She announce, as if some great problem had been settled.

Seeing no other way out of the party, I made arrangements to sleep at a friend’s house, my last night in Cambodia. I was hoping to be packed and out of the guesthouse by the time the party started. But unfortunately, my last minute meetings and preparations lasted long past dinner time. I wasn’t two seconds into my packing when Srey Mat came to my room.
“Toni, dancing.” She ordered.
“Yes, thank you. I will be there as soon as I can.”
She got really annoyed, and stormed out. A few minutes later she came back.
“Toni, dancing. You must come now.”
“No, I must pack now.” I corrected. “And you must stop giving me orders now. I will come when I finish.”
She came to my room about ten more times, and I finally yelled. “I KNOW, TONI! DANCING! I will come when I finish.”
I had considered popping in for a few minutes. But by this point, I new I was lying. Srey Mat was a nice girl, but in Cambodia the first date is the wedding. And I had no desire to get married.
I stopped into the office to have Srey Mat store my extra gear for me?
“Could you just hold this stuff for me?” I asked.
“Why?”
“Because I am going to Thailand, and I don’t need to take everything with me.”
“And you will never come back?” she asked, like a hurt child.
“No, I meant hold this for me till I get back.”
“But when are you coming back?”
“Maybe next Thursday.”
“NEXT THURSDAY!” she shouted. Unable to read her inflexion, I wasn’t sure if she was surprised or angry, or if she just didn’t believe me. “Maybe, or the week after. I don’t know.”

Srey Mat was about to make some kind of protest, but I ran back to my room.

In case anyone is wondering, NO! I didn’t sleep with her. In fact, as I said, we had never even been on a date. The extent of our relationship was that she worked in the guesthouse.

I had my bags over my shoulders, and was heading to the door, when she came again.
“You come party now?”
“Of course, let me just put these in the car.” I lied.
I loaded my bags on a motto, and took off.

The assignment ran long, and I wound up staying two weeks in Thailand. I couldn’t bring myself to leave the air-conditioned comfort of shopping malls, cafes without grenade screens, hot water in the shower, no one robbing you when you walk down the street, and no landmine victims begging money. Cambodia doesn’t have shopping malls or cinemas. All of the restaurants in Cambodia are outdoors. And you sit on plastic lawn furniture. I was tired of the whole Cambodia scene. I also was glad to be away from corrupt public officials. While I was in Thailand, I had decided to quit my job at the Cambodian Ministry of the Interior, before someone killed me.

While I was gone I had asked a Khmer friend, to find an apartment for me, and I moved in the night of my return. The next day I went to the guesthouse, when Srey Mat was not working, and collected my belongings. I tried to get back into the swing of boxing and teaching and trying to write about Cambodia, but two weeks in Thailand had spoiled me. I hated everything about Cambodia, and it was all I could do to get out of bed in the morning.

By moving out of the guesthouse, I had lost all of my paid friends, particularly Nat, my driver, Sameth, my translator, and Sawath, my journalism assistant. A few days later, I was thrilled to see Nat come walking in the door of my gym. Unfortunately, he was all business. He had only come to deliver a note from Srey Mat.

“Many people really miss you.” He said, his eyes watering.
“I miss you guys too.” I said. And it was true. But on the other hand, was it me they missed or was it the money I gave them? It wasn’t like any of them ever stopped by for coffee.

“You know,” he began casually. “If you want to marry Srey Mat, I think her family would let her go cheap.”
“I’m not going to marry Srey Mat.” I said. It was like he thought my only objection to marrying her was the price.
“Her family really likes you.” He insisted. “They would probably let you marry her for about two thousand dollars.”
What a bargain! They would sell me their daughter for the rest of her natural life for only two Grand. My respect for the culture was waning.
“How much if I just want her for a couple of hours?” I asked, under my breath.
Luckily Nat didn’t hear me. After he made me promise ten times to come visit the guesthouse he was gone.

The note began: Toni, why did you break my heart like that? You said that you would come back to the guest house. And you didn’t. Why don’t you ever come see me?

Srey Mat had called me several times, since I had been back in Phnom Penh. Twice I had made some lame excuse not to go see her. The third time she called, I agreed to go to a party at the guest house. But then I blew it off.

Her note went on to say, you told everyone else that you love. Why haven’t you told me?

I never told anyone I loved her. I did tell Samedth, Sawathh and Nat that I LIKED her. And the local Khmer gossip columns had written that I had a Khmer girl who I wanted to marry. But they never gave her a name.

I went to the guesthouse that night and Srey Mat looked angry.
“What do you want here?”
“You sent me a letter saying I should come.” I began.
“Of course I did. What did you think? That I would do nothing?”
“Truthfully I haven’t thought about you at all since I left here.” I admitted.
“You said you were coming back? Was that another one of your lies?”
“I did come back.” I protested. “You can ask your sister. I came here and took my things.”
She gave me an “I’ll see about that.” Look.
“What do you mean another one of my lies? When have I ever lied to you?”

In the time I knew Srey Mat it was rare that I said more than three personal sentences to her on a given day. I didn’t think I had ever lied to her.

“You said that you would come here for the party and you didn’t come.”
“I’m sorry, I should have called.”
“Everyone was waiting for you.”
She was right. I was wrong to say I would come and then not go. But “everyone was waiting for me?” What right did everyone have to wait for me? Now, I was angry.
“What do you mean everyone was waiting for me?”
“Many people miss you at the guesthouse.”
“And I miss them. But I have a life. And that keeps me busy.”
“I heard you quit your job at the government. You have plenty of time.”

I cursed this small town where everyone knew everything. “It’s none of your business where or when I work. And yes, I am still busy writing books and magazine articles.”
“All you are doing now is teaching?” She asked, as if she hadn’t heard what I had said.
“I am still writing books and magazine articles.” I repeated.

I had told her probably a hundred times that writing was my real profession and that I was just teaching to make ends meet. But none of the Khmers understood that. Toni is a teacher, a movie star, and boxer, was all they had room for.

“You told people that you liked me.” She said.
“Who did I tell?” Notice I wasn’t disagreeing. I just wanted to see what she would say.
“You told Samedth, Sawathh, and Nat.”
Dough!!! Busted. The girl had done her homework.
“Sorry. I do like you. But I don’t want to marry you.” I answered.
“Why not?”
“Because in my culture it is normal for us to go on some dates before getting married. I can’t even ask you out to dinner in this culture.”
“You want to eat dinner?” She asked, signalling the waitress, as if once I had eaten I would marry her.
“NO! I mean you and I can’t even go out together. So how could we marry?”
“We are allowed to go out together.” She said.

On the one hand this new information raised my hopes. But I was so fed up with the situation, that I didn’t even want to look at her anymore.

“Your family would let us go out?” I asked, out of morbid curiosity.
“Yes, once we announced our engagement we can go out together.”
“UUUGH! I don’t want to get married!”
“You want to get engaged but not married? That is strange. We could never do that.”
“No, I don’t want to get engaged or married”
“Then how would we go out?”
“That is my point.” I felt like I was playing a stuck record.
“But this is our culture.” She protested. “Why can’t you just do what our culture says?”
“Because you have a screwed up culture!” I shouted. There, I had said it. No one ever says that when they are writing about a foreign country. But this whole situation was just wrong. “Your culture tells you to marry someone you don’t know, simply because you think he is rich, and can take you to the USA. I have tried to tell you guys a million times I am not rich. I live hand to mouth.”
“You want to take me to USA with you? You cannot, not unless we get engaged.”
“I am not getting engaged with you. I am not marrying you. And I am not taking you back to America.”
“You created a lot of problems by telling people you loved me.”
“LIKED you.” I corrected.
“If they know you love me, but you don’t marry me, I will loose face, and no one else will want to marry me.”

As much was I done with this situation, I did feel a slight tinge of guilt. If what she said was true, and I was becoming a stumbling block to her marrying some fat old guy, who was a good marriage candidate because he had a lot of sheep, then I really needed to set things right. “Well, what can I do?” I asked.
“You could marry me.”
“Is there a second option?”
“You could come with me to the province, and apologize to my mother.” “No, I can’t go with you to the province. Then they would expect us to marry.”
“No, they wouldn’t. But you have to meet my whole family and apologize.”
It was a trap. And we both knew it. How in the world could you marry someone who you had trapped?
“How about this. Since Sawathh, Samedth, and Nat are the only people who know, I will tell them, and I will apologize.”

She kept pushing for the province. I looked at my watch.

“I have to go.” I said.

There didn’t seem to be any acceptable way out of this. We were sitting out on the wooden porch, alone, overlooking the moonlit lake. It was the longest we had ever talked, and the first time we had ever been left alone. The irony was that I felt that we were getting to know each other for the first time, and that maybe something could have happened between us. For a thousandth of a second, the evil Antonio, from episode 23 jumped into my head and whispered. “I bet you can’t get her into bed.”
“I bet I can!” I yelled.
“Can what?” asked Srey Mat.
“Can, can, can go now.”

I kissed her deeply and caressed the sumptuous curves of her body, before I left.

No, actually I very awkwardly turned my back on her, and made my way through the living room, where her entire family was waiting, expectantly. The look of disappointment and anger on their faces said it all.

The fattest, laziest, drunkest of her cousins turned to the aged woman sitting next to him, and said, in rural Khmer, “Damn! Maw, now we’ll have to keep working at our jobs, what with no American-son-in-law to sponge off of, and all.”

Down a dark corridor I was very much afraid that her cousins would be waiting for me with a baseball bat. I honestly think they had been planning something, but I got out before Srey Mat could alert them.

The craziest thing about the Srey Mat break up was that it was the second break up I had had that week, with someone who I wasn’t dating.

I wished I could be a foreign correspondent back in Brooklyn.

I walked away from the Srey Mat situation angry and confused. I blamed the Khmers and accused them of having no integrity to sell their daughters in that way. On the flip side, I knew the history. Many of my Khmer friends had suffered during the Khmer genocide, and they learned that even husbands and wives would fight over food if the situation became desperate enough. Babies and children under five stood the least probability of surviving, so their food was often diverted to older siblings, who might have a chance. In some instances, parents actually stole food from their children. An associate of mine once broke into tears, essentially admitting that he had sold out his parents, who were summarily executed.

A new definition I invented for morality, after living in Cambodia, was “Morality, true morality, is that set of values that you would maintain even at the point of death.”

If selling your daughter to a rich foreigner were the only way to guarantee that she would never know hunger, and that she would never have to chose which of her children should live or die, would you do it?

The next moral awaking struck me when I was in Siem Reap doing some adventure stories for a tourism company. While we were exploring a sacred Hindu cave, we heard that there was a monk in a nearby village who had been granted the divine power of healing. Thinking it would make a good story, I got back in my air-conditioned landcruiser, complete with my driver, my bodyguard and my guide. As the jungle gave way to a clearing, we found ourselves in a small town that didn’t seem to have been recorded on any map.

The streets were crammed full of merchants and what appeared to be families of pilgrims, had walked from long distances. It turned out that, this thriving village of several thousand people had only grown up in the last few weeks. As word spread that there was a monk who could cure people, families came from all over the country, with their ill and dying relatives in tow. Many of the patients had been transported on primitive oxcarts, with family members taking turns, pushing. Their IV bottles were supported on bamboo poles.

Those waiting to see the monk and experience his healing touch lay in a makeshift hospital in an open field. We were told they counted over one thousand of the sickest and most desperate of the poorest and least educated classes. Each sick person had been accompanied by his or her family. So, estimates were that nearly 6,000 people were living in and around the open field, with no toilets, no sanitary services, and no clean drinking water.

An ancient man, his head swollen to three times normal size, suffered only inches in front of me. Overwhelmed, I was unable to even take photos. The people I interviewed all told me the same story. They had no money for and no access to quality healthcare. Meanwhile, I didn’t see Prime Minister Thaksin’s family among those patiently dying, while they waited for a miracle. The problem wasn’t that quality healthcare was impossible to find in Cambodia, but it was limited to the big hospital in Phnom Penh, frequented by the rich pesa-novante. The poor were relegated to faith cures, witch doctors and counterfeit medicines which robbed them of their meager funds, and often killed them faster than if the disease had gone untreated.

Also conspicuously absent were the foreign powers, the NGOs, and most notably, America, who pumped billions of dollars of aid into the country, never asking for accountability. Generals and Politicians, with official salaries of $50 per month, drove SUVs and lived in expansive villas, while the poor suffered.

Thavrin, my guide, suddenly blanched. He had obviously seen something so horrible that he was stricken dumb, motioning that I should look behind me. When I turned around, I found a distraught young mother, tears streaming down her dust covered face. In her arms, she held a baby, horribly mishapen, twisted into a gruesome monster child, horribly small and underweight. The child was obviously in constant pain, and screamed, bone chilling, high-pitch cry, both day and night.

Once again, my camera remained in its case. I was angry at this woman for exposing em to this. My mind raced at the speed of light and a thousand alternate realities manifested themselves in my imagination. This was my child, and I was powerless to help. This was my niece or nephew. But I knew it wasn’t them, because they were happy, healthy children in an upper middle class neighborhood in America.

If that were your baby, and an operation, which costs $100,000 you would save its life, show of hands how many of you would beg, borrow or steal the money to save your child?

Overwhelmed, I turned away. The crowd was closing in on me. Prompted by my white face, they were reaching their pathetic claws toward me in desperation. Even after centuries of disappointment they continued to believe that the West would take away their problems.

Thavrin and I pushed our way to through the crowd. We escaped in the Landcruiser, driving silently for the next several hours, back to my apartment in the capitol. The image of that terrified woman and her dying baby was permanently burned on my brain.

Retelling this story, months later in Washington DC, I told my audience how the first time this story appeared in print, I received a concerned letter from a reader who asked, “And what did you do about the baby?

I asked my audience.
Would you pay $10,000 to save the life of your own baby?

Would you do it for your first cousin who you are close to?
Would you do it for your eighth cousin twice removed?
Would you do it for this random baby in Cambodia who I just told you about?
I have her address. We could send the money on Western Union.

If your answer is no, then, by your own definition, you are all murders.

Thinking back on Sre Mat’s family trying to sell her for $2,000, I could have judged them, but I ahd never experience the Cambodian level of hopelessness. And so, I don’t know how I would react.

Who was I to judge anyone? I had seen that baby, and I walked away, having done nothing. And so, by our definition, I was guilty of murder.

Photos: (Lead) Just Let it Go

2006-06-21T10:57:00.000-07:00

Photos: Just Let it Go (Contest Speach)

2006-06-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

Audio: Just Let it Go (Contest Speach)

2006-06-21T10:32:00.000-07:00

Contest speech for the Regional Championships of World Public Speaking Contest

2006-06-21T10:19:00.000-07:00

Just Let it Go
By Antonio Graceffo

I was six years old, walking with my grandma and my sister through Central Park. Grandma had just bought us both an ice cream. When we passed the restroom, grandma asked. “You gotta go?”

I said, “I don’t have to go.”

“You sure you no gotta go?”

Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow toastmasters, Mr. Contest Chair, what my grandma didn’t know was that, I had a plan.

Grandma said, “I’m going in the bathroom with your sister. You hold both the ice creams.”

As grandma disappeared into the bathroom she said “No eat a you sister ice cream.”

I said, “I won’t.”

While I was eating my sister’s ice cream, I became fascinated by a clown, who was twisting long balloons into the delicate shapes of animals that seemed to float on the air. From a white balloon, he fashioned a Snoopy, which he held out to me as a gift.

Suddenly, I had a problem. I wanted the Snoopy, but I wasn’t about to let go of my ice cream.

Before I could decide what to do, my sister came out of the bathroom. She took the Snoopy and the ice cream.

While I was staring at my open hand, my grandma said “Sometimes you have to let go of one thing to gain another.”

What my grandma was trying to teach me was that sometimes in life, we become so fixated on those things that we think we want that we can lose sight of those things that are truly important to us.

The best strategy, find those things that are important to you, and embrace them. Just let go of everything else.

This was a concept that my family had carried with them from the old country. Back in Sicily, My Uncle Carmine was a successful olive oil merchant. But the love of his life was his daughter Angelina, which means, little angel.

One day, the schoolteacher told Uncle Carmine that Angelina was the brightest student in the school. She could go on to be a doctor, a lawyer… But there was one problem. In Sicily at that time, girls could not advance beyond the third grade.

Uncle Carmine knew that if the family remained in Sicily his little angel would have no future. Fortunately, he heard about a place called L’America, where immigrant children, girls and boys, could go on to be anything they wanted, even governor of California. So, Uncle Carmine sold his house, his business, he sold everything, everything to buy the passage to America.

When they arrived in New York, they had no money. They lived in a terrible apartment in the Bronx and Uncle Carmine worked at a horrible factory job, with all of the other immigrants.

People said “Carmine you have lost so much.”

Carmine said. “NO! Sometimes you have to let go of one thing to gain another.”

At night, Carmine went out selling olive oil. With time, his business grew and grew. Eventually he became rich.

People said, “Carmine, you are a success.”

Carmine said, “NO! Not yet.”

On the day Angelina graduated college, Carmine said “Now! I am a success.”

My Uncle was as hard and weather-beaten as the bedrock of the Sicilian Island that he came from, and yet, when his daughter walked across the stage and took her diploma, he wept.

He said “Cuesta e l’America, This is America.”

This concept, of letting go of one thing to gain another had a profound influence on my life. Being from an immigrant family, it was important that we do well in this country. Both my grandmother and my mother had the dying wish that all of the children in the family graduate from university. I have five siblings. We all graduated. Twelve first cousins, all graduated. My grandmother and my mother had one more wish, that one of us would become an author.

For people from a poor island, with low levels of education and literacy this seemed an impossible dream.

But, my grandma helped me along, exposing me to great stories about Sir Laurence of Arabia, Wilfred Thesiger, Sir Richard Francis Burton, Ernest Hemingway, and Jack London, men who went to the exotic places of the Earth and wrote great books about their experiences.

I shared their dream. But when I was old enough to go, there was one problem. I had a well-paying job in New York that I was afraid to leave. But I took stock of my life and decided that the dream I shared with my family meant more to me than any job. I just let go of that job, traveled to Asia, and embraced my new life as an adventure writer.

I spent four years climbing mountains, crossing deserts, canoeing down rivers, hunting with hill tribes, and studying Thai boxing.

What that decision brought me in personal growth and experience is priceless.

I published four books, available on amazon.com.

And what is most important is that I know that my grandmother and my mother would be pleased with my decision. And I feel as though I have repaid a debt to those who sacrificed so that I might succeed.

I gained all of that simply because I just let go.

Ladies and gentlemen, I urge you, in your life, find those things that are important to you and embrace them. Let go of everything else.

Mr. contest chair.

Photos: Something to Say by Antonio Graceffo

2006-06-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

Something to Say

2006-06-11T11:19:00.000-07:00

More Effective Public Speaking

When I studied with the monks in Asia, I found that they often used stories to teach. One of the stories they told me was about a young novice monk who was assigned to an older monk. He was too follow the older monk and learn from him while he was making his final decision on whether or not to follow his path in the priesthood.

They were walking in the mountains of north central China when they stopped to watch a little stone cutter chipping away at the mountain with his pick. The young monk made a face..

“Why do you look that way?” Asked the older monk.

“Master I would never want to be a stone cutter.” Said the younger monk.

“Why not?”

“He is so poor and powerless. He must work all day for only a bowl of rice.”

Just then, the prince rode by in his golden chariot, and the two monks had to jump off of the road to allow him to pass

“What do you think of the prince?” Asked the older monk.

“He is rich and powerful.” Answered the younger monk.

“Which would you rather be, the stonecutter or the prince?”

“That is an easy question, master. I would like to be the prince.”

Later that day, the prince was ridding in his chariot, when the driver was temporarily blinded by the setting sun. The chariot went off of the cliff, and the prince was dashed on the rocks. His body was broken, and he lay, with the sun beating down on him for a whole day, till the soldiers could rescue him. He became very ill, and nearly died.

The master asked the young monk “Who would you rather be, the prince or the sun?”

“I would prefer to be the sun master.” Answered the little monk.

A storm was blowing in, and the land became dark, as a cloud blocked the sun.

“Which would you rather be, the cloud or the sun?” Asked the older monk.

“I would rather be the cloud.” Answered the younger monk.

The wind blew and blew. The cloud soared across the heavens, until it hit the mountain and became trapped.

“Which would you rather be, the cloud or the mountain?” Asked the older monk.

“I would rather be the mountain.” Said the young monk. “He is the most powerful of all.”

As they walked around the corner, they saw the little stonecutter, chipping away at the mountain.

What can we learn from this story?

Things are not as they seem.

The grass is not always greener.

Don’t judge a book by its cover?

We are all equal.

There are any number of lessons that you could learn from this story. In order to be effective speakers we need to learn to be expert storytellers, and incorporate story telling in our speeches. We must internalize as many stories as we can, so that any topic we want to speak on, we will have a story that goes with it. I use the word “internalize” rather than “memorize” because each time you tell the story, you may use different wording. And that is fine. You jut need to have the basic elements in place.

The importance of the story is that the story is used as a vehicle to convey a meaning. People approach speech-making backwards. They often start with the premise, “I want to give a speech.” Then they ask themselves, “What can I give a speech about?”

This is backwards. A speech is communication. Communication means you have something to say. You have some feeling or opinion that you wish to communicate to another person. Speech-making is one way of conveying an idea, which you already have.

I have published several books and about 300 magazine articles. As a result, I often receive reader mail, which says, “It is my dream to publish a book. Could you please give me some advice on how to do that?”

You want to be supportive. So, I don’t tell them what I truly believe. But the fact is these people are so far off, they are completely clueless. They are starting with the concept “I want to publish a book.” They are not starting with the concept; “I have something to say.” They aren’t asking, “I have something to say. And I will say it in a book. So now, how can I get the book out to the people?” Instead, they are thinking, “I want to walk into the bookstore and see my books on the shelves.” This should be the final step of the process. Instead, this is where they are starting.

It is the same way with speech-making. But we can take the concept to our everyday life. In your interactions with your spouse, your boyfriend, or girlfriend, your friends, your co-workers, your boss, or even with people you hate, do you just spout out a bunch of stories that you have internalized?

No, of course not. You have ideas, opinions, and feelings that you wish to convey, and you sometimes use stories as tools, to help get your meaning across.

Humor is another tool, which you can use to make your communication more effective.

Growing up Italian, I knew that I was different. For one thing, most of my Christmas presents fell off the back of a truck. I always had a cousin or an uncle in the unions, and sometimes a box would fall off a truck and land under my Christmas tree.

My cousin Dino’s wedding photos were purchased from an FBI surveillance unit. This was good, because we weren’t allowed to photograph any of our relatives who were in the witness protection program. But you always knew which ones they were, when you looked at the nametags on the dinner table. Right between the Gaudiozo family and the Ferminetties, was Janet and Todd Williams, who didn’t speak a word of English.

Everyone gave cash, instead of gifts, and it was a little tacky seeing Dino in the kitchen, paying the caterer from the loot bag. But it was better than seeing him dance with broken legs.

It turned out some of the hundred dollar bills were counterfeit, which was a problem because the caterer only paid twenty cents on the dollar for fake money.

Our attention span goes in cycles. When we are listening to a speaker, there are times when we are listening and times when we are a million miles away. When the speaker makes a joke, the people who are listening start laughing. The laughter draws the other people back in.

When the person next to you starts laughing, it’s like he was invited to a party and you weren’t. Suddenly, you tune back in, because you want to laugh too.

When you are speaking you must picture that you are standing on the beach. And your audience is a group of people, each floating on his own little raft. Occasionally, the rafts begin to drift away. So, you must do something to pull them back in.

Laughter pulls people back in. Another device that you can use is called vocal variety. This means changing the pitch, volume, speed, or inflection of your voice. The most boring speaker is the monotone, where the voice remains exactly the same, droning on and on, until the listener suddenly realizes he or she hasn’t heard a single word the speaker has said.

The unseen announcers on TV commercials are experts of vocal variety. Watch a TV commercial for a grocery store. The content is absolutely disinteresting. They are showing pictures of caned vegetables and other sale items, telling you that you will save twenty cents. But, you don’t tune completely out, because when the announcer says, “Cans of peas just eighty-nine cents.” He is constantly changing the pitch, tone, and speed of his delivery. If you use any type of digital recording device, you will see that the professional announcer’s sentence will look like an EKG on your screen.

Radio announcers, of course, are experts at using their voice to hold a listener’s interest.

In my speeches, I often find some excuse to yell, at least once every five to seven minutes. This wakes up the room, makes people laugh, and brings everyone back, mentally, to hear my speech. I also use a lot of foreign accents and a few words of various languages when I am telling stories. Again, this is a way of breaking up the monotony and avoiding the mundane.

When you read storybooks to children, you probably do voices for the different characters. This pig sounds different from that pig. The old goat sounds different from the young goat. Using characters with different voices makes the story more entertaining and more compelling.

Your brain process pictures hundreds of times faster than it processes words. I am not a big proponent of using visual aids in public speaking, for a variety of reasons, which I discussed in other writings. But, if you can paint a mental picture for your audience, it will be easier for them to understand, and you will have to use less words to tell the same story.”

“Why won’t you go across the bridge?” Asked the old Billygoat.
“Because I am too scared.” Answered the little Billygoat.
“The wolf will eat us.” Added the middle Billygoat.

If you created separate voices for all three goats, when you first introduced them, then you would only have to do the dialogue, without all of the “he said, she said.” You would need fewer words, and the story would be a story, instead of a report.

Report: I had just finished eating the paste. My teacher walked in and asked if I had eaten the paste. She was very angry. I was very embarrassed. I told her that I hadn’t. Instead, I told her my brother ate the paste. But she said that she didn’t believe me because my brother hadn’t come to school that day.

Story: I had just finished eating the paste, when the teacher walked in and asked, “Antonio, did you eat the paste?”

“I didn’t eat the paste. My brother did.”

“But your brother didn’t come to school today.”

Notice, the story, vs. the report, uses fewer words. If you use a different voice for the teacher, and a child’s voice for yourself, then the story becomes comical, and easily understood. You don’t have to tell the audience that the teacher was angry or that you were embarrassed. You can convey those emotions with your voice.

A lesson I had to learn in both my writing and my public speaking is “Show, don’t tell.”

Use gestures, such as wiping paste off of your mouth or hiding the bottle behind your back. Change your stance as you change characters. Slouch down when you are the child, and stand up tall when you are the teacher. Use a frightened or embarrassed facial expression for the child, and an angry or accusatory look for the teacher.

Now you have a compelling story, which the audience will listen to. But remember, the story is not the end. The story is the vehicle. Use this story to illustrate whatever point you need.

One way to learn effective story telling is by listening to the old time radio plays. These were great stories from the 1920s-1950s. Families excitedly tuned in, week after week, to hear the adventures of “Little Orphan Annie,” “The Lone Ranger,” “Dagwood and Blondie,” “Fibber MacGee and Molly,” or “The Great Gildersleeve.” In the days before TV, people sat, glued to their radios, listening to stories. There were no pictures, and yet through the combined skills of the writers, actors, and producers, people were able to visualize the adventure.

Many of these radio serials are now available on DVD, and can be ordered on line.

Where can you go for stories?

In my writing and speaking I talk a lot about the monks, and I talk a lot about my family. But, you don’t have to live with monks to have good stories. Your family is one of the best places to go for stories. We can all relate, because we all have some kind of family. Every family is different, and different can be very funny.

The stories I tell about the Italian people or about my family might be offensive if someone else tells them.

But I am allowed, because I am poking fun at myself, and that is OK. Be careful not to poke fun at other people.

Benjamin Franklin said, “When you make a joke, you lose a friend.” So, make sure you are the butt of your own jokes.

My cousin Dino was less judicious. He said, “Don’t mess with my family, or your children will become orphans.”

Self-deprecating jokes are good because they bring you down a notch. When you are the speaker, the boss, the teacher, or the parent, you are on a higher level than your listener. There is a danger that you may be perceived as talking down to the listener. By making a joke, you bring yourself down to their level. And now, we have a horizontal, as opposed to a vertical, exchange of information. People are much more receptive to information coming from an equal, as opposed to coming from an authoritative figure.

Telling a funny story about yourself or your family is an excellent way of building instant rapport with your audience. It is ok to laugh at your own jokes. This will further disarm the audience. If you are the authority, they may be afraid to laugh at you. But, if you are also laughing, then, the audience is laughing with you, rather than at you.

People will tell you that the number one objective of speaking is to inform. But I honestly believe that the most important objective of speaking or writing is to entertain. If you can entertain people, then you can teach them. If they listen to the story, and they enjoy the story, they don’t even know they learned something. Just like with your kids, if you put chocolate syrup on their broccoli to get them to eat vegetable.

When I am watching my brother’s kids, I put chocolate syrup on everything. They think I am the coolest uncle. My brother always asks, “How did you get the kids to eat broccoli?” I don’t want him to know my secret, so I just say. “I have my ways.”

Selling is all about packaging. Selling vegetables to kids, or new opinions and ideas to adults is a hard sell. So we have to find an attractive wrapping that will make them want to buy. Stories can be an attractive wrapper.

Often it is important to just let the audience find their own meaning in a story. Again, no one wants to be told how to think. So, rather than say, “the lesson you should have got from that story is X.” Instead, you let them decide what they have learned. And if they come away with something, anything, you have succeeded in teaching them something new.

Sometimes, through the use of stories you can reach people who you would never have reached.

My Uncle Carmine came to America with nothing. Twenty years later, he was a multimillionaire and decided that it was time to move his family out of their small apartment in the Bronx and into a big house in the suburbs. He called the contractor, and in his thick Italian accent, said “I want you to build a great house for my family. In front of the house I want a giant fountain that looks exactly like St. Patrick’s Cathedral. And in the fountain I don’t want water. I want expensive red wine. If I drink a the wine, good. If I am no drink is ok. I am rich.

And, I want all the furniture is covered with plastic because we don’t want it too look old.

Downs stairs. in the basement, I want a beautiful apartment. Make it beautiful, because the family is going to live in the basement and rent out the upstairs. But here is the most important thing. In the entry hallway I want you to build me one halo statue.. I will come back in three weeks to check on you.

Uncle Carmine came back three weeks later. And, in front of the house, he found the huge fountain full of red win. Inside, the furniture was still covered in plastic. Downstairs, there was a nice apartment, ready to move in. He was very happy with the work the contractor had done, until he cam to the entry foyer. Instead of his halo statue he was found a statues of the Virgin Mary.

“No! No, no.” Shouted uncle Carmine. “I am no say the Madonna. I am say a halo statue. Now you build me a halo statue. I am come back in a two weeks to check on you.”

Two weeks later, when Uncle Carmine came back, he found that the statue of the Madonna was gone. In its place was a tremendous statues of an angel.

“No! No, no, I am no say un angele. I am say a halo statue.”

Finally, the contractor just had to admit. “I have no idea what you want. I don’t know what a halo statue is.”

Uncle Carmine was screaming now. “You don’t know the halo statue? Every rich important man has a halo statue. It is the thing. It sit on the table, and when it ring I pick it up and I say ‘Hello, is that you?"

In his mind, uncle Carmine had been asking for a telephone all along. “Hello, is that you?”

But in communication it is not what we mean or even what we say that matters. What matters is what the listener understands.

So many of the problems between people or even between nations stem from a lack of communication. How many times has someone failed to comply with your instructions, using the excuse, “ I didn't know.” And you countered with. “How could you not have known? I told you twenty times.”

You did tell them twenty times, but you told them in a way that made sense to you, but not to them.

When I was living in Taiwan my motorcycle was making funny noises. so I stopped off at the repair shop and asked the guy, “I am in a hurry to get somewhere. Would it be ok if I leave my motorcycle here, and I will come back tomorrow at eleven?”

He said “Yes.”

The next day, I stopped in at eleven, and there was my motorcycle, exactly where I had left it. Nothing had been repaired. I was furious and began yelling.

“I asked you if I could leave my motorcycle here!” I shouted.
“It’s here.”
“But I said I would be back at eleven”
“You are here.”

The situation was my fault. I didn’t tell him I wanted it repaired or that I wanted it repaired by eleven. He understood he was giving me permission to leave my motorcycle overnight and to return at eleven. In the end, his wife made tea for me, I played with his kids and he repaired my motorcycle.

In the global America of today, we have to be sensitive to the culture and customs of other countries. You may be doing business with foreign countries or you may be working with people who, like me, are hyphenated Americans. When I first left the old neighborhood and lived in Tennessee, I know that a lot of what I said had different meaning for my friends. By the same token, I didn’t always understand what they meant when they were talking.

A friend of mine married a nice Korean girl. Now, this particular friend likes hunting. He derived some kind of pleasure form going in the woods and killing things. This is something I never understood. Back in the Brooklyn,. The only reason woe would kill anything is because it owes us money.

He went hunting and he killed a twelve-point buck., which I am told is a kind of deer. I guess Santa wont be coming this year. He brought the deer home and asked his wife, "Do you know how to prepare the antlers?" She said that she did.
The next day, he came home from work excited to see the antlers mounted on the wall. Instead, she handed him a big jar full of white powder. She had ground up the antlers to make medicine.

My friend said "What's is this?"
She said it is good for your man-ness.

He was furious. But at the end of the day, he hadn't asked her to mount the antlers. He only asked her if she could prepare them. And, she had. Even more, wasn’t trying to hurt him by grinding up his trophy. Just the contrary she was trying to help his man-ness. It was a miscommunication. Of course, once he told the rest of us, about the incident, not only did we know that he had lost his trophy, but apparently, he had problems with his man-ness as well.

Sometimes there can even be too much communication.

When you communicate you have to consider the listener or there could be negative consequences. Back in the old neighborhood we had a friend named Pauli Panza. Actually, Panza wasn’t his last name. It means stomach in Italian. And we called him Pauli Stomach or Pauli Eats-Too-Much, because the only thing he ever thought about was his stomach.

Once day he was walking along the shore at Brighton Beach Brooklyn, and he found a genie in a bottle. He opened the bottle and let the genie out. The genie said, "I will give you three wishes. But chose wisely.

Pauli Panza was a good Italian boy who always followed his mother’s advice. She told him never make a big decision on an empty stomach. So before getting down to the serious wishes he said. “Could you make me a meatball sandwich?”

The genie said. “Poof you're a meatball sandwich.”

Sometimes the tone or inflection of our voice will change the meaning take for example this sentence. Is this true or false.

Henry the Eighth walked and talked a half-hour after his head was cut off.

True or false?

The worst answer I ever got on this one was when ii was doing this one in Tennessee and girl said, "I don't know a lot about history so I don’t know if that is true or false.

You don’t have to know history. Just use logic. Henry the Eighth walked and talked a half-hour after his head was cut off.

The answer is, it is a true statement now we put a coma and a pause in the right place.

Henry the Eighth walked and talked, a half-hour after, his head was cut off.

With comas and pauses, the word after has the same meaning as later, or Henry the Eighth walked and talked. A half-hour later, his head was cut off.

So, how do we avoid miscommunication.

1. Always use exact quantities, numbers and times.

When you ask someone for a lot or a little of something. They have no idea what you mean. Those word are judgements which have a different value for each person. but fi you say, give me one pound, two kilos, ten gallons, then it is clear.

Exact times are extremely important. I told my secretary. Tomorrow we have a seminar at nine. But it takes two hours to set u;. So I want you in early. She showed up at eight forty-five “I’m early.” She said. And she was earlier than usual. Again, this is my fault. I didn’t tell her to come in at seven. I told her to come in early.

This leads us to my second point.

2. Don’t leave the other person to figure out what you want. Just come right out and tell people exactly what you need.

How many times have you been in this situation? “Honey, why are you angry?” I'm not angry.

This is frustrating. Clearly if someone asks this question, you are angry. If you don’t tell them what you want they can’t give it to you. Another variation of this theme which is equally as ineffective is
“Well, if you don’t know why I am angry I am not going to tell you. “

3. Metaphors and similes are excellent ways of painting mental pictures and helping people to understand exactly what you are saying. But they only work if the listener understands them. So, once again, as in all communication, consider the audience before using a simile or a metaphor.

A salesman from Alabama came in my office to sell em a copy machine. When I asked him if the copier was fast, he said. “It’s quicker then a hound-dog on a crawdad.”

This confused em, because usually in New York, we measured by pages per minute. Also, we have neither hound-dogs nor craw-dads.

“That fast?” I asked. “Wow! That might even be a little too fast.”

Letting my frustration get the better of me I told him. “I hate those types of comparisons with the white-hot intensity of a thousand burning suns.”

“You sure do talk perty.” He said.

Metaphors only work if the listener understands them.

4. Repeating is not explaining. If the listener doesn’t understand, RESTATE. Don’t just REPEAT. Say it another way. Paraphrase, using other words. Try another set of words with the same meaning. Try again and again, until your meaning is clear.

Is my meaning clear?

A lot of Americans believe they can speak every language in the world. They think if they just speak English louder and slower, people will understand them. Once, in France, I saw a huge American shouting at a terrified waiter “S-T-E-A-K B-U-R-G-E-R, READ MY LIPS! I want a steak burger.”

If his goal was to scare the waiter, it worked. But he was no closer to getting a steak burger than he was when he started. The waiter didn’t speak English. And even if he did, he didn’t know what a steak or a burger was.

5. A short concise email or text message, on a cell phone, is the best way to communicate detailed information. Calling someone and telling them an address or meeting location is problematic. For one thing, the person may not have a pencil handy, or may lose the note once it is written. Second of all, names, letters, and numbers are difficult to understand over the phone. Sending them in written form eliminates misunderstandings.

Keep your email short, only two or three lines at most. It need not even be a complete sentence. Write something significant in the subject line, or else your email may get deleted, unread.

Here is an example.

Subject” Friday’s meeting

Looking forward to meeting you, on Friday, 7 April, at 3:45, at my parole office, 1625 Maiden Lane.

Now the person knows exactly where and when to meet me. And probably, they know whether or not it would be advisable to loan me money.

In verbal or written communication, it is always a good idea to recap, highlighting the main points. Enumerate them, and use little no additional explanation.

1. Use exact times, dates, and quantities
2. Tell people exactly what you want and need.
3. Use metaphors and similes which the listener can understand
4. Repeating is not explaining
5. Use short concise emails and text messages to communicate detailed information

And remember the most effective communication is done in the form of stories. Find stories in your own family. Find stories that mean something to you and then wrap them around the message you want to get across.

My Uncle Carmine was a brilliant man. He knew how to make money. But finally, he had to admit that he had some problems with interpersonal communications. After he attended one of my attended one of my communications workshops, he came up to me and said.

“You know, you are just a kid. So, usually I think you don’t know anything. But you really seem to know about communication.”

From anyone else this wouldn’t have been a compliment. But, from Uncle Carmine, this was high praise indeed.

“Thank you.” I said.

“After I take your class, I think maybe I made a mistake with that contractor who built my house.”

We were making progress.

“What do you think you could have done to prevent that problem?” I asked.

“Build the house is detailed information.” Began Uncle Carmine. “And in your class, you said, detailed information should go in an email.”

For homework, my Uncle Carmine agreed to write the email that he should have sent to the contractor. The next day, he was so proud, when he handed me the hardcopy of his masterpiece. It read:

Subject: Build my house

Text: Please, Mr. Contractor, Build me one halo statue.”

Author in World Championships of Public Speaking

2006-06-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

Author and Speaker Antonio Graceffo would like to come on your show and talk about his upcoming participation in the regional Championships of Public Speaking. This may sound like an obscure competition, but the average salary of a professional speaker is $220,000 per year!

Antonio is hoping that the competition will launch his career and help promote his book sales.

Find out more about Antonio at his webiste

http://speakingadventure.com/index.html

Below, please find a press release article about The World Championship of Public Speaking, including an interview with Antonio.

PRESS Release: Author Competes in World Championships of Public Speaking

By Dante Scott

The World Championships of Public Speaking, the pinnacle of the Toastmasters International Speech Contest, may not seem like a big deal, but when you consider that the average income of a full-time professional speaker is $220,000 the competition takes on new meaning.
Presently, the East Coast of the USA is preparing for the Regional Championships, which will be held on June 16 and 17, in New Jersey. The region extends from Northern Virginia, all the way to Nova Scotia, Canada. The winner of this event will continue to the World Championships, held in August, in Washington DC. With the exception of the period during World War Two, the championships have been held every year, since 1938.

Toastmasters International is a non-profit organization, dedicated to improving the public speaking and leadership abilities of its members. For a dues payment of less than $60 per year, members can work their way through a series of forty speeches, most ranging from 5-7 minutes, as they complete educational manuals, which teach both basic and advanced techniques of public speaking. Along the way, members earn designations, ranging from Competent Toastmaster, to Advanced Toastmaster Gold.

The competition begins at the local level, where a toastmaster must compete to become the champion of his local club. Next, the club winners compete at division level. Division winners go on to district competition. District winners go on to regionals.

In the competition, contestants will give a 5-7 minute, before a live audience and a panel of judges. Although the competitors may speak on any topic, most competitors chose to present an inspirational message. The time limits are strictly observed. Competitors are allowed 30 seconds of leeway, but if they speak for seven minutes and thirty one seconds, they are disqualified from the competition.

“You would think speaking for seven minutes would be easy.” Says regional contestant, Antonio Graceffo. Originally from Brooklyn, New York, Antonio is representing a club in Northern Virginia, where he has been working as a professional motivational speaker and sales trainer. “When I do paid-speaking, I am expected to fill a forty-five minute time slot. If I go over, the client gets more for his money. But in this competition, I have seven minutes to win the audience over, make them like me, suck them in, move them emotionally, and pass some meaningful information on to them. It is a huge task.”

Antonio, a published author, only began working as a professional speaker five months ago, when he returned from four years of adventure writing in Southeast Asia. “After a book signing, where I was speaking before a large crowd for two hours, a man came up to me and asked if I did highly paid motivational speaking at companies. I said, I do now. And my career was born. Although I have some clients, and make some money, I am counting on this competition to jump start my career.” For many competitors, the World Championships is a hobby, but for Antonio, it is business, and he trains accordingly. Antonio has spoken in public over eighty times since January. He has presented his contest speech, in front of a live audience twenty times already, and still has three weeks to go.

“Every element needs to be right, the timing, pacing, inflection, hand movements, facial expressions, and especially your timing. It is a lot to remember. And of course, you have to sound like it wasn’t memorized.”

Asking Antonio what keeps him going in competition, he had this to say. “I know a professional speaker who earns $12,000 per booking, and he speaks three days per week. There is no other job that pays that kind of money. I am two speeches away from being world champions. Any sacrifice I have to make is worth it.”

Contact Antonio: Antonio@speakingadventure.com
Listen to sample speeches on his website speakingadventure.com

Photos: The World Through a Bagel

2006-06-04T09:55:00.000-07:00

The World Through a Bagel

2006-06-03T15:23:00.000-07:00

When New Yorkers meet people who say they are from other places, we jut assume they are kidding. Not only could we not imagine wanting to be from some place other than New York, we barely know that other places exit. And this is pretty amazing when you figure that 60% of us are first generation Americans. I mean our parents had to have come from somewhere but once we became New Yorkers the rest of the world ceased to exist.

When we meet people form Oklahoma or Connecticut or someplace, we don’t even know what to say. “So, do you know how to drive a tractor?”

We have a poster in New York which is titled the United States to a New Yorker. It has a map with New York in huge letters, LA in relatively large letters, Las Vegas and Florida are barely visible and the rest is blank. Growing up in Brooklyn, anything north of 115th Street was called Canada. And, if you had the misfortune of sailing west of Jersey we believed you would fall of the edges off the Earth.

In the old Batman comics New York was called Gotham City. The joke is on us, however, because in ancient Greek mythology Gotham was a city where the people believed they were sophisticated but in actuality, they were idiots.

New Yorkers are ethnocentric, they look in on themselves and never look outside. The New York skyline was built so that in those rare situations where New Yorkers had to leave, maybe for a business trip to LA, we could see the skyline on the way back. It is strange but the best views of New York are the ones when you get from outside, looking in. Said another way, when a new Yorker goes out, instead of looking forward he turns back and looks home.

In New York, our favorite breakfast food is the bagel. And we believe we invented them. But my Israeli friends would probably argue that point. The bagel to me is the perfect model of an ethnocentric society. Looked t form the side, a bagel appears to be strong and solid. But looked at from another angle, you realize it is hollow inside. If you lived inside of a bagel, you wold be safe from the outside world. And every opinion you had about yourself or about the world would just be reinforced because no new ideas could pierce the protective bagel.

But bagels aren’t to blame. In fact, if you hold two bagels up to your eyes, you can get a new perspective on the world. And even if you fail to see the world differently, the world will certainly look at you differently.

My parents are from Italy but the first time I went abroad was when I attend university in Germany. In my four years in Europe I began to realize every culture is ethno centric. For one thing, if you bought a map of the world in a foreign country, that country is always at the center. It is is not hard to believe that the French would put them selves at the center of the world. In fact, now that Euro-Disney is doing well, they tell their children, “There is a copy in Florida.” But actually we all do it. And if you buy a map in a foreign country they also use their own place names for the other countries of the world.

On a German map of the world, the Baltic Sea is called the East Sea. And the area we call the Middle East is called the Near East.

I was eating a Nestle bar that my family sent to me in a care package and one of my classmates said. Nestle is a German company. No it’s not. I have eaten nestle my whole life. It is American. We looked it up, Nestle is Swiss. In Germany they claim Daimler built his Mercedes Benz before Henry Ford made the model T and the French claim to be first in flight. The Italians claim to have invented everything because Leonard Davinci drew pictures of it.

During my final year in Germany a Phd. researcher returned to Germany with startling news. After years of research she had proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, that bagels were invented in Poland.

I spent the last four years working in Southeast Asia as an adventure travel writer. I studied the history culture and language of each of the countries where I worked, and determined that the Asian are just as ethnocentric as we are. The Taiwanese were extreme. They had a map on the wall with Taiwan at the center, it had China, Japan and the US. Everything else was blank. The world according to a Taiwanese. And it wasn’t just that they didn’t know about Europe they didn’t know about anything outside of Taiwan.

I knew that I would be working in Myanmar at some point so I wanted to find out how to say it in Chinese. But none of my Chinese teaches knew that English name. No problem I said. I will describe it. Myanmar is a former British colony, which borders on Thailand. They have had civil war for fifty years. They had an election and Aung San Su Kye won, but they placed her under house arrest.

“Oh, you mean Belgium.”

“No.”

“Tahiti?”

“No.”

“New York?”

“I didn’t say they invented bagels did I?”

But of all of the countries I have ever been in China was by far the most zenocentric.

In Taiwan, the name for the Chinese language was Guo Yu, or national language. In China, the name for the Chinese language was, Putong Hwa, or common speech. The name for the country of China was, Chung Gwo, which means the center country or middle country. They believe that they were the center of everything.

In a way, they are right. China is surrounded by a Great Wall. Which means, from space, China looks like a bagel. In school, we were taught that the wall was built to keep foreign ways out. But after living there, I believed it was built to keep Chinese ways in.

In A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens wrote: (And I paraphrase)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, the future was expected to be so much like the present, that the present was referred to in the superlative.

When I was living in a monastery in China, my friend, Miao Ping, always used the superlative when talking about China. We have the best universities. We have the best police, the biggest economy, the best hospitals. How do you measure that I asked.

Our doctors know how to cure AIDS he told me
Then why don’t you tell the WHO because they think it is incurable.
We did, but no one believes us.

I let most of that slide. During the SARS epidemic I got extremely sick and was admitted to Chinese hospital where I was appalled at the filth and at the outdated equipment and reusable syringes. The hospital gurneys had bicycle wheels on them. And the doctor administered treatment before he did a diagnosis. I lay I bed all night with an IV. The guy in bed next to em was vomiting blood only inches from my head. They didn’t give us food or water in the hospital and the beds were so close together I knew I had to get out or I would get really sick.

When the doctor said he was going to change my IV needle I waited till he left the room and I ran out of the hospital. I bumped into Miao Ping in the lobby, and we road back to the temple together.

But when he said to me China is the cleanest country I the world, I ripped into him

If you are the cleanest country in the world, why are you the only one with SARS? I asked.

Eventually, the SARS quarantine had made everyone so paranoid it was impossible for foreigners to continue to live in china. So I headed back to Hong Kong. A few months later I was back in china. This time I was crossing the Taklamakan Desert on a tricycle rickshaw. I loaded up the back of the bike with food and water. There was a generally a Uyghur village about a days ride apart and I would buy food and water at these villages.

The Uyghur are a Turkic people, descended from Arabs and Turks. The country had once been independent East Turkistan, which was annexed by China illegally, after they annexed Tibet. The Uyghur were so thoroughly cut off from the rest of the world, by their desert nomadic existence, that they believed there were two races in the world there was Uyghur and there was Chinese. Nothing else existed for them. When I would walk in they would stare at me for a long time, trying to decide who or what I was. I certainly look more like a Uyghur than I do like a Chinese. But then when I spoke to them in Chinese they would breathe a sight of relief, ok he is Chinese.” At one point I showed my American flag to a Uyghur man who kept insisting that I was Chinese. I showed him the flag but he didn’t know what it was. In fact he thought I was a fabric salesman and he took it between two fingers and felt the material. But apparently decided it wasn't tough enough so he didn’t buy it.

An interesting side note to the Chinese there were also only two people, foreigners and Chinese, but Uyghur to them were Chinese because they belonged to chain. In fact I tried to get my Chinese friends to admit that the Uyghur looked differently and spoke a different language, but they just wouldn’t hear it.

The Uyghur people ate a diet primarily of goat meat, bread, and noodles. I had been in Asia a long time, and was very bread deprived. The Uyghur had countless varieties of bread, ranging from the unleavened kind, right out of the Old Testament, to bread baked in a clay, coal-fired oven, to breads cooked in earth, covered in sand, with a roaring fire above. As a bread fan, I found it interesting that one of the Uyghur breads was made from dough dropped in boiling oil. This seems to be a universal bread. Every culture from Italy to East Tennessee to East Turkistan, seems to enjoy deep- fried bread. In Italy we call it zepole, in the Appalachian Mountains we called it funnel cake. In Spain they call it Churos.

But as a New Yorker the bread that interested me most was a large, circular bread with a hole in the middle. Yes, the Uyghur were making bagels. And since it was unlikely that they were brought there by New Yorkers, Poles, or Israelis. I had to guess that the Uyghur invented bagels. A couple of years later, I was in Thailand doing a story, and was working with a photo journalist from New York. We were two New Yorkers, having a laugh, swapping tales of our experiences in China. When I told him about the bagels, he begged me.

“Antonio, please don’t ever tell anyone that story.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He just shook his head.
“The oldest minted coins in the world were found in China, so they claim they invented money. The Peking Opera is older than Greek Theater. So, they claim they invented entertainment. If this story about the bagels gets out, they will claim they invented breakfast.”

Audio The Ambassador from Brooklyn part 1

2006-05-14T12:53:00.000-07:00

Photos Reputation and Perception

2006-05-13T08:54:00.001-07:00

Reputation and Perception

2006-05-13T08:49:00.000-07:00

My cousin Gina, went back to Brooklyn to do the books at her father’s grocery store. She collected all of his records, half of which were written on cocktail napkins and told her father. "Your net worth seems to be about a million dollars. But we don’t know how much of this is profit."
Her father, my Uncle Fenuucio said, "It’s all profit."
"How is that?" She asked
"When I came over on the boat. I didn’t have money. I didn’t have a shoes. The only thing I bring from Italy is my reputation. So, take away the reputation and everything else is profit."
My fellow Toastmasters, madam contest chair, a reputation for honesty was something that the older generation valued highly, but which I fear we have lost.
"You are rich now." Said Gina.
"No, I was already rich when I come to America. If you have a reputation you are already rich. But, it is a better to have a reputation and a million dollars."
My recommendation is, when we are faced with an ethical question, all we need to do is think back on the lessons of childhood, to point us in the right direction.
When I was a boy, I used to work in my Uncle Fenuccio’s shop every day after school. I was too short to see over the counter, so he used to have me stand on a milk crate. And I would help the customers pack their groceries.
There was a sweet old lady, named Mrs. Lombardi. She used to come in about once a week, and buy her groceries. Then she would continue on to the butcher and the fruit vendor.
One day, after she had left, Uncle Fenuccio was looking over the register tapes and he realized that I had over charged her by fifty cents.
I thought, well its just fifty cents. As a kid, I figured all adults were millionaires anyway. So, we would just straighten it out next time she came in.
But my Uncle Fenuccio said "NO! We are poor but honest people. If we lose the reputation, we are no have a nothing."
He gave me the fifty cents and he told me. "You run! You find Mrs. Lombardi, and give her back the money."
I went running up the block, and as I was running past (slow) the comic book store,
(Pause)
I saw in the window, they had the new Marvel comics, number 173, where Captain America fights the Hulk.
I had been waiting for that comic book to come out, for months. And, here it was, hanging in the window.
And it cost, (live version, and how much was it?)

fifty cents.
And in my hand, I had?
Fifty cents.
And I didn’t see Mrs. Lombardi anywhere.
(Pause)
So, I walked into the shop, and I took the comic book. I was just about to put the money in the man’s hand, when I saw Mrs. Lombardi walking by, pushing her grocery cart.
Suddenly, I was appalled at what I was doing. If she had come by ten seconds later, I would have been a thief. And, in my simple, child’s morality,
(pause)
(slow)
I already was.
I put the comic book down.
I ran outside, and I said "Signora? Io ho fatto un errore."
I couldn’t even look her in the eyes as I pushed the money into her hand.
"Bravo! Bravo." She said, pinching my cheek. "What an honest boy."
"Here, I give you the money."
"No! Non poso!" I said, refusing. And I walked, very slowly, back to the shop, looking down at my feet.
As an adult, when I was working on Wall Street, a colleague of mine sold a low quality, high-risk investment plan to a family because it had a high commission. They were planning to use the money for their daughter’s college education.
I told my colleague. "You stole a college education from that girl."
(Pause)
"You are a dishonest person."
He said, "This is work. I am only dishonest at work. But I am honest in the rest of my life."
When I left Wall Street, I went to study with the monks in Asia.
My monk, my Sifu, told me a story about a man, who dreamed he was a butterfly. When he awoke, he did not know if he was a man, who had dreamt he was a butterfly or a butterfly, dreaming he was a man.
And so I asked my monk, "Sifu, na ige shi junde de?" "Which one was true?"
The Sifu answered, "Do li ange zwo de."
"Neither. There is no reality, (pause) only perception. You are neither a butterfly nor a man. It does not matter what you believe you are, all that matters is what others believe you are."
"If others perceive you as a butterfly, then you are a butterfly. If others perceive you as a man, then you are a man."
Applying the monk’s teachings to our world, here in America, my colleague perceived himself as honest. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that if other people perceived him as dishonest, then no one would want to do business with him.
My monk was telling me the most important aspect of a man was how others perceived him. My Uncle Fenuccio had called this concept reputation.
The Sifu told me a story about a merchant who had ruined his reputation by cheating his neighbor.
He went to the Sifu, and said. "Now, no one will do business with me. How can I regain my reputation?"
The Sifu told him, "Pluck a chicken. Carry all the feathers to the top of the mountain. When you have reached the top, scatter the feathers in the wind. Then return to me."
Months later, the man returned, all covered in bruises and scars. He had nearly died climbing to the top of the mountain and back down again.
"Sifu," he said. "I have done what you asked. Now, how can I regain my reputation?"
The Sifu said, "When you treat one man dishonestly, he tells another man, who tells another, and another. Soon, the tale of your evil dead is carried on the wind, just like the feathers. If you wish to regain your reputation, go forth and gather up all of the feathers."
"But that is impossible." Protested the man.
"Yes, it is." Agreed the monk.
I wish my Sifu could have met my Uncle Fenuccio.
When I got back to the shop, my Uncle Fenuccio told me to sit down on the milk crate. He made me a chocolate seltzer.
I knew he was about to tell me something special, because he didn’t charge me for the soda, which was unusual for him.
He told me a story about an ethical decision he had had to make as a child of about my age. During the depression, Uncle Fenuccio had to go to work to help his family. He got a job at the drug store. And, for his payment, he received twenty-eight cents per week.
Every Friday, when his boss paid him, he walked straight home and gave the money to his mother.
Uncle Fenuccio was a hard worker, and his boss liked him. So, one Friday, the boss decided to give him a raise. On payday, he put fifty cents in Fenuccio’s hand. On that day, Fenuccio walked home very slowly. He was wrestling with an ethical question.
He was thinking, "My mother doesn’t know I got the raise. I could give her the twenty-eight cents as usual, and keep the rest."
It took him hours to walk home, as he agonized over what to do.
When he walked in the door, before his mother even said hello, his mother said, "Give me the fifty cents."
The neighbor had told her about the raise.
My recommendation to us, as adults, when you have an ethical decision to make, just think to yourself, would my Uncle Fenuccio, would my mother, would my grandmother approve of what I am doing?
Aukun jeran.

Photos Around the World and Back to Your Beginnings

2006-05-12T21:09:00.000-07:00

Around the World and Back to Your Beginnings

2006-05-12T21:06:00.000-07:00

Around the World and Back to Your Beginnings
By Antonio Graceffo

I was wearing an oversized white cowboy hat, boots, three sizes too big, two pistols, and nothing else.
The woman I was with
refused to take me to the fair till I put some clothes on.
I stomped my foot and shouted, "But grandma, I don’t want to put any clothes on."
It was the feast day of Santo Antonio, my patron saint,
which for me was like a second birthday, that I looked forward to all year.
My grandma took me by the hand,
after I had dressed, of course,
and walked me, what seemed a long, long way, to Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering Church.
From three blocks out, the smell of salcice, sausage and peppers, already hung in the air, making us ravenous for the traditional food that played such a large role in our lives. The pleasant music of Italian crooners mixed with the ring and buzz of games of skill, as young men from the neighborhood tried to win over-sized stuffed animals for their girlfriends.
"Yo! Gina, I won you a teddy bear. Can I come over?"
Pink cotton candy melted on my tongue, as I stood, in a crowd of other excited children, our noses pressed up against the fence, as we waited impatiently for our turn to ride the carousel.
The carousel went round and round. Amid the flashes of red, white, and green, each of us secretly selected that horse, that perfect horse that we would mount, when the time came.
For me, the choice was easy. There was a tremendous white stallion, which looked identical to the Lone Ranger’s horse, Silver.
The Lone Ranger was a major hero for me. I lived with my grandmother, because my mother had died when I was a baby. I always felt small and weak. But the Lone Ranger was big and strong. I had no control over who I was or where I went. But the Lone ranger was independent, and could ride his horse anywhere he wanted to go.
When the attendant raised the red velvet rope, it was like opening the starting gate at Bellmont raceway. A throng of laughing, screaming children sprinted to the carousel, praying that they would get the horse they wanted. Unbelievably, no one had taken my horse, and when I got close enough, I vaulted onto his back.
Actually I scramble up.
In fact, the attendant had to help me.
But whatever the case, I had made it.
In my child’s mind, the only thing that separated me from the Lone Ranger was my clothes, and my lack of a horse. I believed that ridding that horse, wearing my hat, pistols, and boots. Would change me into the Lone Ranger.
"Hi Yo, Silver!!!" I screamed.
There was a mirror at the side of the carousel, and as we came around, I expected to see myself transformed into the Lone Ranger. But instead, what I saw was the same small, weak boy I had been when I started.
By the third time we had gone around, I threw my hat on the ground.
When the ride finished, my grandmother picked me up off of the horse.
Seeing my disappointment, she said.
"No matter where you go, or what you do, no matter how far you ride that horse, you will always be you. You are wonderful, and I love you just the way you are."
Then she smiled and she said. "But if it makes you happy to dream you’re The Lone Ranger, then do it, and don’t ever stop dreaming, for the rest of your life." She put the hat back on my head, and I fell asleep in her arms on the subway, on the way home.
Ladies and gentlemen, what my grandma was trying to tell me on that day, and what it has taken me a life time to learn, is that no matter where you go or what you do, you will always be the same. You can change your appearance. You can change your location. You can even change your behavior, but you will still be you. Those aspects of who you are, those traits that make up your core, you cannot change.
I studied with the monks in Asia, and what they taught me was that you are fine the way you are, and you should never change.

The monks taught me about circles. They believed that we are all just players on The Wheel of Life.
If we look to nature, do we see right angles? Do we see square trees?
No! The Sun is round. The moon is round. The Earth is round.
I was five thousand miles away from home, and suddenly realized that these monks were teaching me lessons that supported what we in the west already believed. In school, we all learned about the Life cycle. First you are a baby, then an adult, you have children, you grow old, you die, your children bear children and the cycle starts over again.
Animals die, they become food for plants, other animals eat the plants, they die, and become food for plants.
Even those great philosophers, back in Brooklyn, who hung out in front of Vinnie’s clam bar all day, pitching pennies believed in circles. When my cousin Joey got because he didn’t payoff his bookie, they said. "What goes around comes around."
The merry go round is a circle. And no matter how many times you go around a circle, you will wind up right back where you started again. Nothing has changed. And you are still the same person. But that is OK.
My grandmother and I went down in the subway, and I fell asleep in her arms.
When I woke up, I was thirty-four years old.
I was a successful investment banker working on Wall Street. Money played a principal role in my life. Most of my day was spent sending out letters to people, asking them to buy my products, calling people on the phone, and asking them to buy my products. Mired in paper and consumed by visions of wealth, I had forgotten who I was, although, I did have a picture of the Lone ranger on the wall in my office.
The feast of Santo Antonio had just passed, and rather than celebrating, I had worked a twelve-hour day. On a quiet Tuesday morning, the concussion of two planes crashing into the side of the World Trade Center woke me from my slumber. Ironically I woke from my life and stepped into an horrific dream. When the buildings in Manhattan were evacuated, I joined the press of terrified humanity, wandering aimlessly, through the silent and crowded streets. The air was full of a white powder, which I believed was anthrax or some other chemical or biological agent.
Thinking I had been sentenced to death, I made my way to Saint Patrice’s Cathedral. The pews were full, and the doors were jammed with people praying silently, tears streaming down their faces.

I would later learn that the dust that clogged my nostrils, burned my lungs, and gummed up my eyes, was the charred remains of 3,000 innocent people, who lived like me, concerned only with the rise and fall of the Stock Market. For many, the single legacy they would leave behind was the money they had earned.
Faced with death, money means nothing. We are all mortal, which by definition means, we are all faced with death every minute of every day. And so, money has no meaning any moment of any day.
Some of the brokers who died on September eleventh were probably worth millions of dollars. That money meant nothing on that day.
I vowed never to live like that again.
I vowed to change my life, to become a different person. And so, I flew to Asia, to follow another path. My first stop was Taiwan, where I lived my Kung Fu team. They took me in and gave me a place to sleep. They fed me. They gave me clothing. They trained me. They taught me kung fu and culture, and especially, they taught me about their religion. In Taiwan, my teammates weren’t monks, but kung fu practitioners are generally very deep into their practice of Buddhism.
We wore our training uniforms all day, intermittently exercising, eating and sleeping, on a rigid schedule. There was no place to put a wallet in my uniform, so for the first time in my life, I found myself walking around without money or ID cards.
Additionally I had no credit cards, no gym membership card, and of course, no business cards.
I had lost all of my symbols of power.
In western terms, I had lost my identity.
I possessed none of those things that we in the west believe, make us who we are.
Without my Gold Card, how would people know how to treat me?
In the beginning, before I learned to speak Chinese, I was completely dependent on them for everything. Even when I had to use the toilet, I didn’t know how to ask, so I danced, hopping around from foot to foot, like a little child, hoping they would figure it out.
They did, and they took me to a toilet, which was just a smelly hole in the ground, with two footprints next to it. I wasn’t sure how to use it, so I wanted to ask them. But I didn’t know how,
which was probably a good thing, because it would have been even more degrading.
But that degradation, that humiliation, took me down thousands of notches, from where I thought I was back in New York, to where I was now, which was living a as a penniless, anonymous, child dependent on others for everything.
In the west, when we feel indebted to someone, we can make ourselves feel better by paying them. But there was nothing I could give them. When I tried to give them money, they refused to accept it.
And this confused me, because back in New York, I didn’t know anyone who refused money.
And, in the beginning, because of the language barrier, I couldn’t even say thank you.
Later, after I could speak the language, I talked to them about it. I asked them, "why do you always refuse when I try to give you money?"
They called me by my Chinese name, An Dong Ni, they said, "An Dong Ni, money is a prison. The things we own wind up owning us."
Over a period of months, as my understanding of the language, the culture and the religion grew, they explained further. The Buddhists believe that each time we die, we are reincarnated at a higher or lower level, depending upon our good and bad deeds in our last life. Their goal is to reach the highest level, but they believe that the things we own will weigh us down.
If you took all of your money and possession, wrapped your arms around them and jumped in a swimming pool, you would sink to the bottom and die. The only way to save yourself would be to let go of those things, then you would be free.
My friends told me that money and possessions form golden chains, which prevent your soul from soaring to the next level. The only way to get free is to cut those chains.
I determined to cut all of the chains with my old life. The first chain I cut was when I left my country, next, I cut my money, my job, my language, and my culture. I lived like my Chinese brothers and I learned to love them.
The one chain I still maintained was my religion. I was still Catholic. And, as much as I loved studying with my friends, and even going to prayers with them, in my heart, I just didn’t feel that I could ever give up my religion.
My best friend in Taiwan was named Lou Gwo Su. He was a former monk, and the son of a Tai Chi master, which meant that his family was very religious. Lou Gwo Su became my defacto adviser on matters of Buddhism, and in general, on how to be a nice person.
Believe it or not, being a New Yorker, an Italian, a professional fighter, and a former investment banker, I was the slightest bit aggressive.
Can you imagine it?
My aggressive nature didn’t always go over well in Taiwan, so I needed Lou Gwo Su, like Jimminie Cricket, playing my conscience and teaching me to be a good person.
I told him, "Gwo Su, you are the best person I know, serene, peaceful, kind, generous, I want to be like you. Should I become Buddhist?"
Gwo Su shook his head. "Have you learned nothing from us?"
He continued. "We weren’t teaching you to become one of us. We were teaching you a lesson in tolerance."
"Tolerance," he said, "Is learning to accept people who are different."
"If you can learn to accept and love people who are different, if you can learn to see their differences as beautiful, then you have achieved tolerance."
"But, if I ask you to become like me, this is not tolerance. Tolerance is accepting people the way they are."
I realized that although I had been going through the motions for the previous two years, I had failed to learned the central lesson. That they allowed me to live as an American among Chinese, without asking me to change, this was a truly great thing.
"How could I have been so stupid?" I asked.
"You Americans are so full of yourselves that it is impossible for you to learn anything new." He said, flatly. " If you have a glass, full of water, you cannot put Coca Cola into it, unless you first empty it. You must empty your glass that it may be filled."
Lou Gwo Su went on to say, "Only by loosing everything are we free to gain anything."
At that point, I felt even dumber, because it occurred to me that I had had this lesson taught to me long before I ever went to Asia. As a small boy, my grandmother used to read Kipling to me. And in his poem, entitled "If" he is giving advice to his son. And Kipling says.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose,
and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
The lesson was there. It had been there my whole life, but somehow I had ignored it. FDR once said, "There is no news,
only the history we haven’t heard yet."
Lou Gwo Su told me. You are who you are. The Buddhists believe that each time we are reborn, we are reborn at a certain level based on past deeds of good and bad. They believe we are born at just the right level to learn the lessons that we need to learn, in order to progress, spiritually. So, sometimes a cruel king may be reborn as a beggar. So that he may learn humility. They believe that if you are born as a man, a woman, a horse, disabled, rich, or poor, it is because these are the lessons that you need to learn. They also believe that your race, your religion, and sometimes even your profession, the core aspects of who you are, are all carefully chosen, and you cannot change them.
The way you are born is the way you should be. You can change your actions. You can change your behavior. But you cannot change your core. And, you shouldn’t try.
My next stop was Mainland China, where I lived with the monks in The Shaolin Temple, the birth place of Chinese martial arts. None of us worked or went to school. We spent all of our time learning Kung Fu "WAAAAH!" And learning more lessons in Buddhism.
Chinese Kung Fu is a unique martial art, very different form Karate, Tae Kwan Do, or Western Boxing, in that Kung Fu is all about circles. Blocks, strikes, and movements all occur in circles. The Kung Fu monks took their lessons from nature. They divided their art into styles, based on the animals. So, Kung Fu includes a tiger style, Praying mantis, snake, and other animals.
During exercise or meditation, it is important that the air moves through your body in circles.
The monks said that we have internal energy, called Chi, which flows through our bodies, in circles. Traditional Chinese medicine, massage, acupuncture, and herbology all agree that when the circle is broken or blocked, the body becomes ill and even dies.
When I left Shaolin, I took up residence in Hong Kong, where I wrote a book, called the Monk from Brooklyn, which was a daily account of my experience in the temple.
The more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know. For all I had seen in my several years in Asia, I knew that I could study endlessly and continue to learn and grow. And so, I decided that I never wanted to have a regular job again. I wanted to dedicate my life to adventure, to learning and studying, and through my writing and my public speaking, I wanted to pass those lessons on to other people.
But to do that, I would need money. And the only way I could think of to get money was to sell my books and my magazine articles.
Next thing I knew, I had set up an office in Starbucks, in Hong Kong. I had my computer and my cell phone, a Mocha Frapuccino and my Lone Ranger screen saver. I spent all day sending email, asking people to buy my books and magazine articles. And calling people on the phone, asking them to buy my books and magazine articles.
One day, in the midst of a heavy negotiation with a publisher, I just burst out laughing. I had traveled half way around the world, and I wound up back where I started. I was a salesman again, doing exactly what I had done on Wall Street.
But the monks had taught em that that was OK. I am a salesman, and that is who I am.
I hadn’t seen my family for over four years, when I decided to come home. I was on a book tour, standing up on stage, talking about my books. When I finished, a man came to me and said, "Do you do paid motivational speaking at companies?"
I said, "I do now."
Next thing I know, I am in the basement of my brother’s house, in a makeshift office we put together. I am on the phone all day, calling people and sending email, asking companies to book me as a motivational speaker.
My Uncle Carmine told me once, "When you turn forty, suddenly your parents get smart."
You understand all of the lessons they tried to teach you as children. In my case, after you have lived with monks, my grandma got smart.
If I had just listened to my grandma all those years ago, at the feast of Santo Antonio, I could have saved myself a lot of miles and a lot of heartache.
She had told me, "No matter where you go, or what you do, no matter how far you ride that horse, you will always be you. You are wonderful, and I love you just the way you are."
Then she smiled and she said. "But if it makes you happy to dream you are The Lone Ranger, then do it."
I guess my grandma would be happy, because sometimes, if the work gets too monotonous, I step away from my desk, put on the cowboy hat, the boots, the two pistols, and nothing else.
My grandma had also told me "Don’t ever stop dreaming, for the rest of your life."
Those words reminded me of a story the monks had told me.
Once, there was a great king, who was being crushed by the responsibilities of his position. He collapsed under the strain and he dreamed that he was a butterfly. A carefree butterfly, unfettered by earthly concerns or Earthly ties, he flew. Playing on the wind, he danced a ballet of freedom and expression.
When he awoke, he didn’t know if he was a man who had dreamed he was a butterfly, or a butterfly, who dreamed who dreamed he was a man.
Sometimes, I believe I will wake up and discover that I am a little boy, sleeping on the subway dreaming that he is a man.
And the monks would tell me, it is all the same. It is just another form of the same person.
Ladies and gentlemen, the one lesson, that I wish to give you, the one thing I hope you will take away from my speech is this: You are who you are, and that is OK. If you are a man, a woman, rich, poor, fat or skinny, old or young, you are fine the way you are. If you are Black, White, Asian, Latino, Hindu, Sihk, Jewish, Christian, Buddhist, or other,
It is our differences that make us special.
If you make a conscious choice to change jobs, start a business, earn more money, lose weight, finish a degree, or achieve any goal or dream, then do it.
If it will make you happy, then do it.
But don’t ever let anyone bully you into feeling bad about who you are.
You are the way you are supposed to be. And you are beautiful.
Aukun Jeran