The Lightmaker's Manifesto

How to Work for Change without Losing Your Joy

Karen Walrond

• Publisher: Broadleaf Books
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781506469942
• eBook ISBN: 9781506469959
• Topic: Personal Development
• Subtopic: Personal Success

"Karen Walrond shines her light so we can find our own." —Brené Brown

Many of us have strong convictions. We want to advocate for causes we care about--but which ones? We want to work for change--but will the emotional toll lead to burn out?

Leadership coach, lawyer, photographer, and activist Karen Walrond knows that when you care deeply about the world, light can seem hard to find. But when your activism grows out of your joy--and vice versa--you begin to see light everywhere.

In The Lightmaker's Manifesto, Walrond helps us name the skills, values, and actions that bring us joy; identify the causes that spark our empathy and concern; and then put it all together to change the world. Creative and practical exercises, including journaling, daily intention-setting, and mindful self-compassion, are complemented by lively conversations with activists and thought leaders such as Valarie Kaur, Brené Brown, Tarana Burke, and Zuri Adele. With stories from around the world and wisdom from those leading movements for change, Walrond beckons readers toward lives of integrity, advocacy, conviction, and joy.

By unearthing our passions and gifts, we learn how to joyfully advocate for justice, peace, and liberation. We learn how to become makers of light.

Part I

Clearing

We knew, without a doubt, that lighting a fire was the most important thing to do. We needed to bring the group together and provide a sense of home in the appalling circumstances in which we found ourselves. But how?

—Daniel Hume, Fire Making: The Forgotten Art of Conjuring Flame with Spark, Tinder, and Skill

One of the greatest things you have in life is that no one has the authority to tell you what you want to be. You’re the one who’ll decide what you want to be.

—Jaime Escalante

1

On Life-Changers and Lightmakers

We arrived in Nairobi late in the evening and made a beeline for our hotel to get some rest. I was exhausted and disheveled: I’m no stranger to international flights, but a continuous twenty-four-hour stretch of travel is no joke. Still, I knew this trip would be worth it.

I was visiting Kenya with a group of journalists and bloggers at the invitation of the ONE Campaign. Founded by Bono, the front man of the internationally renowned rock band U2, ONE is a nonpartisan advocacy organization dedicated to the fight against extreme poverty and preventable disease, particularly in Africa. The purpose of our trip was to share firsthand accounts of what we witnessed, in the hopes that with our stories of the progress being made in Kenya, we would inspire the readers of our words (and in my case, the viewers of my photographs) to join in the fight against poverty. As you might imagine, I was thrilled to be on this expedition: while I had visited Africa before, this was my first trip to this region, fulfilling a lifelong dream of finally seeing the bustling city of Nairobi with my own eyes.

That dream would have to wait for a few days. At dawn the next morning, our jetlagged group made its way back to Jomo Kenyatta International Airport to take an early domestic flight to Kisumu, Kenya’s third largest city, on the shores of Lake Victoria. Although I didn’t know it at the time, Kisumu, and its surrounding Nyanza province, was ground zero when it comes to infectious diseases: HIV, tuberculosis, and malaria, among others, were common in the region, and the highest prevalence of those diseases in Kenya was in this area. Nyanza province also happens to be one of the poorest places in the country.

Our mission was to witness the work that the Kenya Medical Research Institute (KEMRI), the scientific research arm of Kenya’s Ministry of Health, was doing in collaboration with the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). Our flight landed and we boarded a bus for the quick drive to the site, where we split up into groups of two to shadow HIV home healthcare workers. These dedicated folks were KEMRI’s representatives who traveled throughout the countryside, testing families for HIV and counseling them on how to reduce the spread of the disease. Because many of the families in the region live in relatively remote rural areas, it was difficult (not to mention discouraging) for them to travel the long distances on foot to get to the clinics to determine their status. So instead, KEMRI and the CDC came to them.

My travel companion for the day was Amy, a young journalist from San Francisco, and we were quickly paired with two Kenyan healthcare counselors who were consummate professionals: Sam, a jovial and passionate young man with twinkling eyes and a great smile, and Grace, his more reserved, no-nonsense counterpart. After they briefed us on what we were about to experience, we set off.

It was a sunny day, and the red ochre path was bright under the vivid blue sky. I fell in step with Sam, who was carrying a large, sealed plastic crate filled with testing equipment on one shoulder. We talked about how he became interested in home healthcare testing.

“Do you like your job?” I asked.

He grinned, and his eyes seemed to sparkle even more. “Oh yes, definitely.”

“Yeah?” I asked, “What’s the best part?”

“Managing other counselors.”

I was taken aback. I hadn’t understood that there was a hierarchy within the home healthcare program, nor did I realize that Sam was Grace’s boss. “Really? How many do you manage?”

“Eight. I love it. I love helping them give a great service to our clients. I hope one day that I can run a program like this in other parts of Kenya.”

We continued along the path through the tall grasses before at last arriving at a clearing with a small house made of rust-colored mud walls and an intricately thatched roof. “This is the family,” Sam said, introducing us to a father, a mother, and their two small children. They invited us inside their home.

Once we got situated, Sam made more formal introductions of Amy and me. He explained to us that the family knew we would be visiting their home that day and had given their consent to our writing and publishing what we witnessed. He also assured us that the family already knew their status, having been tested about a month earlier, and that they were willing to undergo the test again so we could see exactly how the procedure was done. Grace would conduct the testing and counseling session in Swahili, and Sam would act as our translator.

Then Grace got to work. She covered a little table with a sterile cloth and set up her equipment. The test consisted of a pin prick on the index finger, where a small amount of blood was collected and placed on two test strips (for double-checking purposes). The test only took about fifteen minutes and was similar to a pregnancy test: if one line appeared on the strip, the test was negative, and if two lines appeared, the test was positive. In situations such as this one, where the mother tested positive, the workers conducted further tests on the children, with the consent of their parents.

Once the family knew their status, they were counseled on ways to protect themselves. In the case of this family, Grace described the precautions the couple needed to take to ensure that the mother didn’t infect the father, who had tested negative. The parents were given condoms and, with wooden models, shown how to use them. Finally, the members of the family who had tested positive were given referrals to a clinic where they could receive free medications from the Ministry of Health.

The results of this initiative were impressive. In the previous twelve months, this home healthcare program had recruited and trained 150 counselors who go door-to-door to provide this type of counseling, testing, and household education. Further, the United States Agency for International Development provided care packages for each family in the program: a jerry can for collecting water in a nearby river, a cloth to strain the collected water and drops to purify it, and mosquito nets to help prevent malaria. (Malaria poses a huge and deadly risk to those who test HIV-positive, given their suppressed immune systems.) In that year alone, 130,000 people had been counseled and tested, and there was an 85 percent acceptance rate for the services. In addition, 50 percent of those testing positive sought care and treatment.

During the preceding month, after the family we were visiting had officially learned of their status, they had taken Sam and Grace’s counsel to heart and had already begun to receive treatment. This quick, easy test had enabled the family to take the necessary steps to ensure that all members could live full, productive lives.

After Grace finished her work, the father wanted to take us on a tour of their property. He showed us his verdant kitchen garden, lush with corn and other produce to feed his family. He led us on a ten-minute hike to show us the river where his family collected the water they used for drinking and washing. As we walked, I caught up with Grace and complimented her on her professionalism.

“You’re really great, Grace,” I said.

“Thanks,” she replied quietly, seriously.

“Do you enjoy your job?” I asked.

At this, her face broke into a wide smile—the first I’d seen since we met. “I really do,” she said enthusiastically. “I mean, why wouldn’t I? I’m a life-changer!”

---

♦♦♦

Watching Sam and Grace work at that little homestead in rural Nyanza, I couldn’t help but be impressed by their commitment to social good. In the course of their efforts, Grace and Sam clearly witness difficult things. They see close up the aching realities of poverty and illness and death. Their work is tiring, and given that they do it all on foot, very slow. Still, there is no denying the joy with which they serve their community. Sam’s twinkling eyes, Grace’s sudden, unfettered smile: these are testaments to this joy, which, frankly, confused me. How was it possible that the labor of alleviating suffering or working for justice could inspire contentment, or even joy? Can life-changers keep facing all that is wrong with the world—over and over and over again—without burning out? Could advocacy fuel joy—and vice versa?

Most images of activism that we see in the media don’t exactly inspire feelings of joy: a lone man putting his life on the line by blocking the path of a column of military tanks in Tiananmen Square, say. Or gaunt ascetics enduring lengthy and excruciating hunger strikes. Protestors being brutalized by police dogs, fire hoses, and tear gas. The people in these situations, while undeniably powerful and courageous, aren’t exactly joyful-looking. These images illustrate the bravery and resoluteness of the human spirit, but they can also intimidate anyone looking for their own path to changing the world for the better. “If that’s what it takes to change the world,” we think, “I’m not sure I’m the right person. I have a job/family/partner who depends on me. I care, but I can’t put my life on the line.”

Trust me: I resonate deeply with this thinking. In my not-so-distant past, I had come up with a pretty extensive list of reasons why an activist life wasn’t for me. For starters, my own description of the word activism came fairly close to the Merriam-Webster dictionary definition: “a doctrine or practice that emphasizes direct vigorous action especially in support of or opposition to one side of a controversial issue.”

Vigorous action: I’m sorry, but that sounds really uncomfortable. I mean, I’d participated in the odd family-friendly women’s march or Pride parade in my day, but I had never really been a part of “vigorous action”: something where my physical safety or freedom was truly and imminently threatened. That kind of behavior was for other folks.

And even if vigorous action was my jam, the truth is I was just too busy. With all the time it took going to work, taking care of family members, doing odd jobs around the house, taking the car to the mechanic, attending weekly church services, going to the gym . . . when, exactly, was I supposed to be an activist? It was about all I could do to remember to toss things in the recycling bin. The idea of letter-writing or marching on top of my regular day-to-day life was just too exhausting to contemplate—and I don’t care how joyful anyone made it sound. Surely activism was the purview of young, single people, with no responsibilities and tons of energy. Let the youth handle it.

Third, what if I said the wrong thing? I mean, especially in areas of activism like human rights or racial equity or LGBTQ+ justice, it can take a while to understand all the underlying issues affecting each community. Despite all my best intentions, it seemed that the risk of saying the wrong thing—and accidentally offending the very people for whom I was ostensibly advocating—was really high. And let’s be honest: in our world of social media and other highly visible forms of personal expression, that mistake may come with some painfully public consequences and lessons learned. Surely the only way to protect my joy was to stay out of activism altogether.

Besides, the decision to pursue activism or advocacy, whether as vocation or avocation, is a daunting one. The ills of the world are so numerous that it can be hard to choose what issue to tackle. There’s climate change. Women’s rights issues. LGBTQ+ discrimination. Child labor crimes. Female genital mutilation. Domestic violence. Child abuse. Endangered species. Universally accessible health care. Rights for people with disabilities. Fighting for democracy. Fighting against religious persecution.

And that’s just off the top of my head.

So believe me, I get it: I’ve wrestled with every one of these thoughts. As will become apparent in the coming pages, it took me an astonishing amount of time to consider myself an activist. But over time, I would find myself volunteering at a small event, or attending a tiny fundraiser, or going to a protest. Little by little, I’ve learned that despite all the conceivable downsides, doing this work is strongly weighted toward the upsides. Activism can creep up on you. Then suddenly, if you’re lucky, you find advocacy has become a fulfilling part of your life.

And it turns out I’d been an activist for longer than I’d realized.

---

♦♦♦

For most of my adulthood, I had lived a safe, comfortable life, making my career in solid, technical fields. First, I was a structural engineer for a construction company that built refineries; later, I was a lawyer in the software and energy industries. It was a good living, but to balance the eight to ten hours each day that I was using my analytical brain, I took up photography. I had never intended photography to be anything more than a hobby—a chance to exercise some creativity. I’d spent my entire life believing I wasn’t creative, but I figured that photography, with its ISO numbers and f-stops, would be sufficiently analytical for my logical brain to grasp. (It wasn’t until much later on that it occurred to me that the Latin root of the word photography literally means to “draw with light.” If there was ever a more artistic-sounding definition, I don’t know what it is.)

So as I approached the end of law school, on a whim I convinced a fashion photographer friend of mine, Josef, to take me camera shopping and show me the ropes. Bless him, he did, and my first big purchase was an ancient, secondhand single-lens-reflex Nikon film camera and an even older 50mm lens. Josef took me around town for one day, encouraging me to shoot rolls and rolls of film while he pointed out a few features of my new-to-me machine. Then I was completely on my own—and my love for photography was officially ignited. I began shooting constantly, taking my camera with me on business trips, ensuring that I booked a few hours to myself to explore each destination through my lens.

Time passed, and when I eventually stopped practicing law altogether, I knew that whatever work that followed would have to involve photography. By then I had been shooting for almost twenty years, and had even coauthored a book on how to make expressive, narrative photographs. But I still didn’t have any idea how my photography might fuel my work.

As a lawyer, I had done a lot of work in diversity, equity, and inclusion, for which I’d developed a passion. (Admittedly, this passion was probably inevitable for an Afro-Caribbean immigrant from Trinidad and Tobago, who had navigated the considerably white world of the corporate energy industry for years.) I decided to combine this deep interest in inclusion and belonging with my love of photography and wrote and shot my first book, The Beauty of Different: Observations of a Confident Misfit. The book was a compilation of stories and interviews of people from all walks of life who had taken their gifts (and sometimes their perceived flaws) and used them to thrive.

The book did well, as books go, but more meaningful for me than sales was the process of actually creating the text and images. Conducting the interviews, photographing the subjects, and sharing their stories awoke in me a deep desire—a personal mission, in fact—to do whatever I could to counter discrimination and bigotry of all forms. Sharing photographs and stories of people ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Part I: Clearing
• Part II: Tinder
• Part III: Spark
• Part IV: Fire and Light
• Epilogue: Lessons from the Bonfire
• The Lightmaker’s Manifesto
• The Lightmaker’s Manual
• Acknowledgments
• Notes