@ the perimeter of the United Nations; on Manhattan's East Side, inside 777 UN plaza ---- i sat ---- poised with pen and a reporter's notebook.  The initial days of the  55th UN Commission on the Status of Women had gotten my attention [ ].

The speakers and apparatus such a gathering inspires and requires  --- sojourners and delegates from Africa, Latin America, Eurasia, Brooklyn ---  fill rooms and hallways; standing-room-only is not fashionable; it is a pre-requisite
of  awareness,
where protocol's transference
becomes actionable
if one wishes to be comfortable as the listening begins.

Elevator shafts rise and fall.  Mine, carried two, very dark Nigerians.  Laughing melodiously; one, attentively, admiringly, lovingly over each bit and byte of conversation  ---  I think of a physician who once had a hand in my healing. A Nigerian too.

Peering over one of their shoulders I see bold, black letters:  Human-Traffiking: Our daughters.  Our girls. Our womenfolk.  What's your price?  How much are you prepared to pay?

Let's do a drop. Virgin Mobile --- place the pow, pop,  of their voices; from the most distant domesticates to the corridors of fairly elected governments.  Plenty to chat about here :

Listen.  Can you hear? 

Anita Borg Institute for Women and Technology's Deanna Kosaraju
spoke of her father

bottom line :
@ employers who paid her father handsomely
 even though
he wore a pocket protector
women were nearly invisible.

When will my 21st Century imagination find itself among frequencies of a global readiness to drop the pretense of change.   Nairobi, Bangalore, London, Tokyo, Hong Kong, Rome, Moscow, Brussels, Amsterdam, Tel Aviv, Santiago, New York, San Francisco, Seattle, Philadelphia, Cape Town, Holyoke, Poughkeepsie?  I shall continue to add GPS Coordinates to my wish list for a new reality.  

Drilling Down :

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