Laurette Hanna

Honors 345 A

Frances McCue

8 March 2017

The Problems That Lie Beneath

I have been shaped by two places on the opposite ends of the world: A small town in the

Bay Area named Pleasanton, and the tiny country of Lebanon in the Middle East. Each of these

places is very different, each of these places provides its own unique experience, and each of

these places has guided me towards the path I am now on.

First, Pleasanton. Just saying the word makes me feel so insincere. I can feel the original

settlers pushing their agenda on me: this town will be pleasant. Now, these are not necessarily

nefarious plans, but I cant help but draw parallels to Pleasantville: an eerily quaint town where

everyone had to be good natured and happy at all times. Still, it would be unfair of me to claim it

was all bad. I was lucky to spend the second half of my childhood in the foothills of suburban

California. After a few too many drive-by shootings at the high school I would have gone to, my

parents decided it was time for a change of pace, so the summer after my graduation from

elementary school my brother, mom, dad, and I all packed our things and headed for the safer

town of Pleasanton. It was pretty perfect for my brother and I during our middle school years.

The town was, and still is, incredibly safe. It allowed my friends and I to run around and explore,

hit the town until it grew dark, all without the fear of being kidnapped, mugged, or shot. Its a

bubble, but eventually the bubble gets old, and you realize that under the perfect faade lies an

inability to confront the problems that are forced below the surface.

------------
 Pleasanton: Seventh Grade: November

Downtown Pleasanton is the centerpiece of this suburban paradise. It has cafes and

boutiques running along two streets - First and Main - for a few blocks before bleeding into a

more residential area. Trees line the sidewalk with lights strung through the branches. Vines

artfully climb the old colonial buildings. Two small parks stretch the span of First Street, housing

a gazebo in which many summer Friday night concerts are held. A large green metal sign hangs

from an arch broadcasting the message Welcome to Pleasanton for all to see. It is the definition

of quaint.

When I was in middle school, going downtown on your own Fridays after school was a

rite of passage. Your ability to take the ten -minute walk from Pleasanton Middle School to the

dairy downtown was the deciding factor in your coolness and marked the transition from preteen

to teen. It showed everyone else how responsible and independent you were, and how grown

up you had become. I wasnt able to join this elite crowd until I was in the seventh grade. By

that point I had been begging my parents for months to let me go. I was thirteen and a half for

crying out loud! I was definitely mature enough to be let off on my own. Finally, when that first

Friday arrived, I proudly linked arms with my friends, and joined the parade of teenagers ready

to take the town. A proud tradition, until you hit high school. Friday night adventures downtown

were then avoided, knowing the streets would be swarmed with Middle Schoolers who would

remind you just how cringe worthy you used to be, and just how obnoxious you used to act when

you thought you ruled the town all because you gained a little sense of freedom.

Another proud downtown tradition, reserved specifically for middle schoolers, was the

trip through The Tunnel. In one of the parks, right behind the gazebo, there was a ditch that ran

like a small river. Long since dried up due to the horrendous drought, this ditch became a
playground for adventurers and the brave of heart. At one end of this treacherous ravine was the

tunnel: A drain pipe that captured the imagination of many.

I hear it leads to the backyard of Steve Maddens house. A football legend who had

made one of his homes in our humble town.

No way thats in the other direction!

I hear it drops you off in the middle of a forest!

Theres only one way to find out. Then one brave soul would stand at the entrance,

ready to lead the charge. We would then line up behind and head in. It was okay at first. We were

able to walk comfortably and see enough with the natural light that streamed in, but the farther

we went, the darker it got, the narrower it became, and the more the flashlights came out, and Ill

admit, the scarier it got. Despite the fact that this drain had been dry for years, the air was heavy.

The faint sounds of water dripping echoed through the tunnel accompanying the sound of young

footsteps. There was writing on the wall, marking conquest of warriors past. If you tried hard

enough, you could imagine you were wandering through a murky swamp.

Uuuuuuuuuh

What was that?

SHHHH! Everyone froze, my heart had begun to beat out of my chest. I was only

thirteen years old. This was not how I was going to go out.

Guys we should head back I think someones in here! I whisper.

No way, no one could live here.

 UUUUUUUUH!

RUN! At this point we were so hunched over we collapsed onto our knees and bear

crawled our way out, screaming and shushing each other all the way through. I felt one of my

friends try to climb over me, each of us as desperate to live as the other. Finally, we saw the

literal light at the end of the tunnel. We dove for freedom, soon jumping to our feet and climbing

out of the raven, no one stopping to help the other, every man for themselves. Finally reaching

the edge, I turned back to help the stragglers. Next thing I know were all on the grass, laughing

at our near-death experience, promising each other to never speak of this moment of cowardice

again.

-------------

This memory is one of the last totally conflict free memories I have in this town. This

was before my friend quietly admitted to me that she feels sad most of the time, before she

quietly admitted that she was being bullied. Before another friend told me she eats only one meal

a day. Before a panicked morning waiting to hear if my friend was still alive. Yes, Pleasanton

was a safe place to grow up, but this town tries desperately to hide its struggle with mental

illnesses as it continues to preach their favorite slogan: One of the best places to live in

California!

------------

Pleasanton Middle School: May, 2017

Im sorry that this isnt going through faster. I promise that Ill be bringing it up in our

next meeting with the counselors.

Bullshit. I can try to come to the meeting! Maybe if I present it, it will speed up the

process!
 No, its okay, our meeting is during your class time anyway and I dont want to detract

from your school work.

Excuses. Its totally fine! I spoke to my Principal Krawlekouski about this and he said he

could write up a permission slip for me to attend. More like I kept showing up at his office until

he was forced to see me, just like I am doing now.

The vice principal looked at me, eyes neutral, smile neutral, everything infuriatingly

neutral as she continued to recite excuses as to why I couldnt pitch my mental health program to

the counselors at my old middle school. Were not ready yet. There isnt enough research to

back this up. Were going through administration changes so it may be hard to implement a

brand-new program. Were not sure the parents will go for it. And my least favorite of all: If you

talk about depression our kids will get depressed.

For two years, I had been combatting these concerns and excuses. For two years, I had

been hounding my middle school to accept my mental health program, which would provide

resources on how to deal with mental illnesses and where to find help. For two, long years, I had

done hours of research, hours of presentations, hours of meetings, just to get to this point, where

I would sit in front of the counselors again, and watch as another hurdle was built right before

my eyes. I was shut down, again.

I politely stood up, shook the Vice Principals hand, said thank you, and left, keeping my

composure until I exited the office door and was back in my car. Then the anger washed over me.

Dont they understand how much good this could do? In my time in middle school and

high school I had seen two suicides, seen three of my close friends admitted to hospitals after

suicide attempts, witnessed an epidemic of eating disorders and self-harm and yet, when I tried

to put in place a program I hoped would mediate this problem. I was met with resistance. I had
followed all the steps, addressed all their concerns, gone above and beyond the call of duty to

prove this program would be beneficial and I was still being shut out. Why? How come so few

people saw how important this was. I gripped the steering wheel, trying to bring my eyes into

focus beyond the blurring tears. I need this to go throughI need it to work.

When I was in middle school, I had a friend who suffered with depression, and another

who suffered with an eating disorder. Now, in high school, I find that experiences of mental

illness are not as rare as we are made to believe. Back then, I didnt know the information I know

now. Back then I didnt know enough to handle the situation well, no one did. I want to help fix

that through education and providing another avenue of peer communication. I recited the pitch

to myself, taking a deep breath. I dont want anyone feeling as lost as I did when confronted with

a friend confession, as alone as my friends felt. I wanted to make things better, and yet I felt as

though I was stopped at every corner.

Im not going to stop. I promise myself. I know this will help, and Im going to keep

pushing no matter how many times they turn me away.

----------

As for Lebanon, the place I am most familiar with is Rmeich. It is a little village that lies

in the southernmost part of the country, about a half an hour away from the Israeli border. I have

many memories of running around the rust colored, dusty soccer field with cousins as we showed

off our soccer skills, or returning home scratched up from our trek through the mountains to find

the perfect climbing tree, or on days when it was too hot to move, relaxing by the pool eating a

seemingly endless supply of shawarma and fries. A few times, in between visiting the many

relatives that requested we stop by, we would stop at a family members house who owned one

of the many tobacco fields in the village. When my brother and I were around eight and nine, our
cousin let us run around in the field, resulting in very sticky children, an unhappy mother, and a

very awkward call from my brothers second grade teacher, as she was informed that the

highlight of my brothers summer was running through the drug fields.

It is a place of adventure and family visits and amazing food and gigantic, fantastic

weddings. I always wondered why our trips never lasted more than a few weeks while my other

Lebanese friends would stay for months. It wasnt until I was a little older that the mystery was

solved. Lebanon, in the grand scheme of things, is the most progressive of the middle eastern

countries. It houses one of the largest LGBT communities in the Middle East, as well as

thousands of refugees from all over the world, and is a place where women can live comfortably

without being married. People flock to its more forgiving laws, yet remnants of its patriarchal

history lingers, and conflict brews beneath the surface as Hezbollah slowly increases its control.

----------------

Lebanon: Somewhere in the middle of the road: June

I will never understand why people in warmer climates buy cars with leather seating. The

combination of the magnifying power of glass windows and the heat absorbing properties of

leather turn what should be a comfortable ride into a human oven resulting in 3rd degree burns on

exposed thighs and uncomfortable amounts of perspiration that no AC can resolve in a timely

manner. Unfortunately for me, I found myself trapped in this very unholy combination during a

two-hour ride to Rmeich, the little village in Lebanon where my dad grew up. Normally, in this

situation, one would try to dress as comfortably as possible to reduce the possibility of heat

stroke, and yet I was wearing long sleeves, long pants, and dripping sweat. Why would I put

myself in a situation such as this?

 Okay guys, be quiet, dont say anything and dont make eye contact. My moms voice

was hushed. She fussed with my clothing, making sure that everything was covered. The car

began to slow as we inched towards the checkpoint. My aunt rolled down the window and a man

walked out clad in military gear, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He asked a few questions, then

asked for identification. My aunt handed him the papers. He took a quick look inside the car. My

heart skipped. I kept my head down. My aunt thanked him, and as we drove cautiously forward, I

heard my mom exhale the breath she had been holding. We were now passing through Hezbollah

country, an Islamist terrorist group that had occupied most areas in the south. For this reason and

this reason only, I wore clothing that covered my skin, and even though I hated the fact that I was

made to cover up, these men were dangerous and I was not about to risk my safety for a small

political statement in the name of comfort.

-------------------

Lebanon: Eighth Grade: July

I sat impatiently by the door as I waited for my soon-to-be cousin-in-law Anna. She had

invited me to go out with her, which was very exciting as she was about two years older than me

and I felt as though it was a badge of honor to spend the night on the village with her. She came

over around 6:30 and we began walking in the direction of the church.

This should be fun. Some people from the neighboring villages will be there so well go

meet a few people, then meet up with some friends for food and beer. Many children started

drinking beer at the age of twelve due to the lack of drinking age legislation.

Sounds good! I was really excited to meet other people closer to my age, as many of

my cousins were either a lot older or a lot younger. That excitement faded as the night went on.

As we approached the church I noticed a line of boys ranging from twelve to seventeen leaning
against the fence of the church as the girls walked up and down the street. My understanding of

Arabic at the time was limited, but from the way Anna responded, I understood the general

meaning of what they were saying. We were being catcalled. We had come to walk up and down

on the street and put ourselves on display. At every whistle and jeer my cousin would

flirtatiously deny their advances with a You wish! or In your dreams! while I stayed quiet. I

was so uncomfortable, and felt a bit sick, and was too young to really grasp the situation in its

entirety.

As we walked back, some of the boys from the neighboring village followed us at a

distance. This was not in the rules. Anna grabbed my hand. Just keep going. The convenience

store is right around the corner. I nodded. We increased our pace ever so slightly. My heart was

racing. The gravel crunched beneath our feet. We turned the corner and ducked into the

convenience shop. The boys walked past the door, quickly looked at us, and kept going. Anna

looked at me and chuckled and turned to my uncle at the back of the store, greeting him. I did the

same. So, do you want anything?

---------------------

Senior Year

I think its great that youre want to go to Law School, but Danny is the first-born son! It

matters what he does as he carries the name of the family. My grandpa said matter of fact.

I sat there in shock. My grandfather is very progressive for a Lebanese man of his age.

Both him and my grandmother would not tolerate their daughters striving for less than their

brothers, and raised them to be equals. In fact, I come from a long line of strong, independent

women, and he knows that. I never thought he held beliefs like this.

My mom and dad were quick to jump to my defense.

 What does that mean? Are her accomplishments less than? My mom.

Shes the first born, if were going to talk about birth line, that should take precedence.

My dad said calmly.

Come on Dad thats an outdated idea I think we are past that. My mom looks at me, then

at my brother. Both are going to do equally great things, regardless of how they were born. My

brother nods in agreement. Its silent for a moment before my dad, ever the joker, breaks the

silence. He says one of his usual jokes, something playfully critiquing the food, my mom quips

back, and its right back to normal.

----------------------

I have been shaped by two places on the opposite ends of the world: A small town in the

Bay Area named Pleasanton, and the tiny country of Lebanon in the Middle East.

Pleasanton struggles with its faade, ignoring the underlying problems it suffers with:

mental illness. Its willing to close its eyes and pretend it isnt real in order to keep up its faade.

Eventually I was able to gather up enough people who cared deeply enough to support my

program to pass it through, and a week before I graduated I was able to give my presentation.

Sadly, with my graduation the program died, as the mental health club I partnered with

deteriorate under new supervision. In so many ways, I feel the many pitfalls I experienced and so

many others experienced as well could have been avoided with the proper education on how to

seek help and how to support the ones you care about when they are suffering. This towns

aversion to mental illness has colored my perception of it. Now that Im away I dont miss it at

all. I dont miss the block parties, or the antique fairs, or the town traditions. I dont miss the

feeling of being trapped that comes living in a town where you have known everyone your entire

life, where every mistake you have made is immortalized in the memories of those around you.
Where you see the same people in every class, every day of every year, with the same

perceptions, the same groups, and an unwillingness change their patterns and perceptions.

Mostly, I dont miss the stigmatization of those who open up and seek help.

Lebanon, on the other hand, portrays no delusion of perfection. Those who live there

acknowledge that there is a long way to go, and continue to push forward. The problems are all

out in the open, and discussed at length between the civilians. Lebanon is not perfect, and it is

not trying to be. There are so many remnants of patriarchal views that are woven into tradition.

Women still are not protected legally from sexual harassment. It was only recently that a law was

overturned requiring a man who raped a woman to marry the woman as a way to force them to

take responsibility. There is a long way to go not only on feminist fronts, but in all aspects of

government, but what I admire, and ultimately why my perception is not colored with a veil of

bitterness, is Lebanons unabashed approach to the problems.

Given the chance to look back, it becomes very clear the exact ways my experiences in

these two places has shaped me. Im very passionate and strong headed, just like those who fight

for improvement in Lebanon, just like my mother, who refused to let my relatives treat me

differently because I was a girl, and through this Ive found a passion in politics and social

justice. 8I care deeply about mental health and better education. That fire was ignited and only

made stronger each time I was turned away. As I grew older, and the innocence of childlike

adventures melted away these problems became apparent, and my resolve became stronger: the

field of Politics and Psychology is where I need to be because what better way to affect change

in these spheres than from the inside?