The very first chapter books I read on my own were Uncle Arthur's Bedtime Stories. The ancient-looking volumes belonged my Grandma and her siblings when they were kids and had that delicious old book smell and yellowed pages softened from use. Though the doctrine of the Christian morality tales never really stuck with me, I didn't escape entirely from their influence.
I distinctly remember reading one particular tale. It centered around the predictable poor-but-jovial family gearing up to celebrate Christmas. They didn't have any presents, but they shared love and a faith in God, so off they went to church on Christmas Eve. The story sets up that the little boy protagonist is a nice, selfless kid, unconcerned about his lack of presents under the tree and uncomplainingly helping out with his tiny baby sister. His angelic-like state is heightened to the point of puke-worthy as he is overjoyed when his aunt and uncle give him some mundane, practical gift, and he is gracious and overjoyed, thinking it the climax of his Christmas.
The details are a little fuzzy at this point, but the families are all gathered in the church, and after the typical Jesusy stuff, the preacher turns to the kids and unveils a tree of gifts. The toys and fancy clothes astound the poor kids into a grateful oblivion, and the protagonist boy eyes a snazzy toy train. It is the only selfish want he expresses throughout the whole story. There is some random method of allowing the kids to select a gift from the tree. For some reason that also escapes me, the boy sacrifices his train to get a coat for his sister or lets some other even poorer boy get the train. I don't know; the reason doesn't even matter.
The point was, I was incredibly disappointed for the boy. Since he was bent on refusing to show actual human emotion, I felt it for him. I think he eventually gets a train (from the benevolent preacher who saw what was going on), but the crushing disappointment quite powerful. Upon my many re-readings of the collection, I always skipped that story to avoid having to feel that way all over again.
Even at my young age, I looked around at the vast array of toys surrounding me and felt horribly guilty about not giving them to orphans.
Every time I see a charity, especially around the holidays, I feel a pang of guilt for not being like the little boy with that damn train. For Christmas my seventh grade year, I acquired two crisp 100 dollar bills. We were having a fundraiser at school for victims of the tsunami, and I tried to sneak one of the bills to school to donate. My mother caught me and prohibited the altruistic action. "But Mom," I protested, "I will still have a hundred dollars left!" Really, I was thinking of the boy and the train.
Maybe it's the profound affect of the first chapter book I read independently (and foreshadowing of the importance books would always play in my life), or the power of Uncle Arthur's storytelling (doubtful), or the simple moral at the heart of it all. Either way, I want every little boy to have his train.
This basic motivation keeps me gravitating towards a career with some non-prophet organization. What better way to spend my life than assuaging that guilt developed so young? Maybe the story affected me so powerfully because helping people is what I'm meant to do. I don't really believe in fate, but I do believe in predisposition. Maybe good ole Uncle Arthur was onto something.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 12, 2011
Veterans Day
Most people associate the military with rigidity, fighter planes, propaganda posters, marches, cadences. They always want to thank them for their service, and usually think their service consists of shooting people from the tops of buildings as snipers and performing barrel rolls over Iraq as fighter pilots.
But my military associations are much different. The pleats in dark navy pants, the stiff and colorful ribbon racks, the careful starching all remind me of my dad; whenever he would finally come home, I'd rush to the door to greet him, breathing in the familiar smell of uniform and feeling the scratchy fabric on my cheek as he gathered me in a long-awaited hug.
I think of being perched on my parents' bed as my dad went through the nightly ritual of preparing his uniform. We'd talk of whatever issue was currently plaguing me; his words of advice always came as steadily and effectively as the iron that removed the wrinkles from his shirt. As he burned the frayed edges and fly-away strings from his pants, he'd cut the extraneous worry from my life.
I remember waiting in his office with my brother. We'd play with the toy bombs and guns used to train for drills. One of us would plant the bomb somewhere in the building: a filing cabinet, carelessly unlocked desk drawer, couch cushions. The other would then try to find the object while the mastermind would laugh maniacally in triumph until the good guy deactivated the bomb, just in time. To me, this is what occurs in Air Force office buildings.
I remember Dad pulling up in front of the house in his AF cop car, sirens blazing. My brother screamed in terror (he was young) while Dad "arrested" my friends and I, cuffs and everything. I remember squadron holiday parties with Easter egg hunts, where my toddler brother loudly proclaimed "that's not the Easter bunny! That's a man in a suit!" and Christmas parties where my best friend was embarrassingly obnoxious and my brother broke the stick we were using to hit a pinata that was apparently reinforced with concrete. I remember trick-or-treating on base housing, the best place for treat-or-treating, and staying out so late people would start dumping their left-over candy into our outstretched bags.
I remember the freedom of walking to the Shoppette and to school, passing under a gigantic air plane statue every morning on my way to elementary school, skipping through the security gates on my way home, and calling the grocery store the commissary.
My childhood was marked by the multiplicity of military brats; half Turkish or Korean or from Hawaii and Alaska, we united in our ever-revolving life. Half your classmates would move away before the end of the year, but then you'd have pen pals all over the world.
But most of all, I remember the long months when Dad was gone. Mom struggling to be both parents, do all the duties. I remember my carefully penned letters and the phone calls with extreme delays as Dad's voice took twice as long to travel around the world.
I remember the extreme joy as Dad stepped off that plane and returned to us. His skin was extremely tanned by the desert heat, and he was incredibly skinny from the desert chow hall, but he was finally home. And my face scratched against the stiff fabric of his uniform and I breathed in the familiar smell, and I took away an entirely different conception of what the military is.
As the National Anthem plays and people standing staring up at the American flag and the camera pans over a crowd of military men and women, I know all the memories that pass through their minds aren't the same as the images that riddle military advertisements and popular culture. It's the smaller things, the real life things.
I appreciate my dad for so many things, but being in the military was just his job. I appreciate him for not making it his identity. He doesn't like when random people walk up and thank him for his service. He joined because he had no other options out of high school; there is not a lot separating a fast food uniform and a military one. While the military life does mean a lot of sacrifice, it also means a lot of benefit. Military members get healthcare benefits, GI benefits, housing, and a plethora of other benefits many Americans do not have. It's overly romanticized why people join the military--for every wannabe hero, there's ten that are just joining to survive.
So people might think I'm bad for not getting teary-eyed on Veterans Day, having been raised by a veteran. But really, the holiday is for civilians, not veterans. I appreciate the most important veterans to me every day of the year.
But my military associations are much different. The pleats in dark navy pants, the stiff and colorful ribbon racks, the careful starching all remind me of my dad; whenever he would finally come home, I'd rush to the door to greet him, breathing in the familiar smell of uniform and feeling the scratchy fabric on my cheek as he gathered me in a long-awaited hug.
I think of being perched on my parents' bed as my dad went through the nightly ritual of preparing his uniform. We'd talk of whatever issue was currently plaguing me; his words of advice always came as steadily and effectively as the iron that removed the wrinkles from his shirt. As he burned the frayed edges and fly-away strings from his pants, he'd cut the extraneous worry from my life.
I remember waiting in his office with my brother. We'd play with the toy bombs and guns used to train for drills. One of us would plant the bomb somewhere in the building: a filing cabinet, carelessly unlocked desk drawer, couch cushions. The other would then try to find the object while the mastermind would laugh maniacally in triumph until the good guy deactivated the bomb, just in time. To me, this is what occurs in Air Force office buildings.
I remember Dad pulling up in front of the house in his AF cop car, sirens blazing. My brother screamed in terror (he was young) while Dad "arrested" my friends and I, cuffs and everything. I remember squadron holiday parties with Easter egg hunts, where my toddler brother loudly proclaimed "that's not the Easter bunny! That's a man in a suit!" and Christmas parties where my best friend was embarrassingly obnoxious and my brother broke the stick we were using to hit a pinata that was apparently reinforced with concrete. I remember trick-or-treating on base housing, the best place for treat-or-treating, and staying out so late people would start dumping their left-over candy into our outstretched bags.
I remember the freedom of walking to the Shoppette and to school, passing under a gigantic air plane statue every morning on my way to elementary school, skipping through the security gates on my way home, and calling the grocery store the commissary.
My childhood was marked by the multiplicity of military brats; half Turkish or Korean or from Hawaii and Alaska, we united in our ever-revolving life. Half your classmates would move away before the end of the year, but then you'd have pen pals all over the world.
But most of all, I remember the long months when Dad was gone. Mom struggling to be both parents, do all the duties. I remember my carefully penned letters and the phone calls with extreme delays as Dad's voice took twice as long to travel around the world.
I remember the extreme joy as Dad stepped off that plane and returned to us. His skin was extremely tanned by the desert heat, and he was incredibly skinny from the desert chow hall, but he was finally home. And my face scratched against the stiff fabric of his uniform and I breathed in the familiar smell, and I took away an entirely different conception of what the military is.
As the National Anthem plays and people standing staring up at the American flag and the camera pans over a crowd of military men and women, I know all the memories that pass through their minds aren't the same as the images that riddle military advertisements and popular culture. It's the smaller things, the real life things.
I appreciate my dad for so many things, but being in the military was just his job. I appreciate him for not making it his identity. He doesn't like when random people walk up and thank him for his service. He joined because he had no other options out of high school; there is not a lot separating a fast food uniform and a military one. While the military life does mean a lot of sacrifice, it also means a lot of benefit. Military members get healthcare benefits, GI benefits, housing, and a plethora of other benefits many Americans do not have. It's overly romanticized why people join the military--for every wannabe hero, there's ten that are just joining to survive.
So people might think I'm bad for not getting teary-eyed on Veterans Day, having been raised by a veteran. But really, the holiday is for civilians, not veterans. I appreciate the most important veterans to me every day of the year.
Oct 24, 2011
Rascal
I've been dreading writing about this, but I must. I won't feel complete closure until I do. Offer up my little piece of tribute, of eulogy. Anything that takes up such a piece of your heart, mind, and time deserves a few paragraphs penned in its honor.
People who don't have pets think it's silly when their owners grieve them with the intensity of a lost human loved one. Even some people who only display a casual relationship with their animals look down on the people who perform funerals for gold fish and dogs and gerbils.
But then there are the people who regard their furry (and scaly or slimy or whatever) friends as members of their families. The frequently crocheted quote "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened" rings true. It's a special kind of relationship. Cats love unconditionally. No one can dispute the comfort a purring cat perched happily on his or her owner's lap, eyes slightly closed and paws kneading, provides. There's no question of the unfailing love behind the green oval eyes.
Rascal sat on my lap for ten years, his love never failing and his paws never allowing a morsel of food to make it to my mouth with an attempted interception. He dined better than most people, preferring bacon above all else. Though he was largely governed by his stomach (and easily manipulated by the all-important word t-r-e-a-t), his heart is the most memorable part of his kitty personality. He was a very sweet animal, not at all bowing the general cat stereotypes of disdain for humans.There is no disputing that he loved us from the moment we extracted him during his first days of life from between Grandma's porches to the last time he exited our house.
He punctuated my child- and teen-hood with the needed experience of pet ownership. With animals comes the responsibility and companionship necessary to growing and maturing. Though I was devastated to learn of his disappearance, it seemed somehow darkly fitting that he died a mere week before I returned home for my first break from college. One of the largest pieces of my childhood now divides my life into childhood and adulthood, life with and without Rascal.
The night I returned home, the first thing I saw was his little dry food bowl sitting sitting expectantly and full. That sight coupled with his abandoned toys and scratching post littering the living room floor drove the reality of his disappearance home. But as I sat crying in the midst of his things, I wasn't mourning just my precious pet. I was mourning the loss of my life was it was before.
Rascal was the best first pet anybody could I have, and I'm incredibly for the ten years he brought joy to my life. I refuse to think about what terrible fate he most likely met and relish the many, many memories he gave me and my family. He was a remarkable cat and my best friend for half of my life. I will miss him.
And many years from now, when I have a family of my own, we will have a precious family cat too, so my kids will know the all-important love of an animal.
People who don't have pets think it's silly when their owners grieve them with the intensity of a lost human loved one. Even some people who only display a casual relationship with their animals look down on the people who perform funerals for gold fish and dogs and gerbils.
But then there are the people who regard their furry (and scaly or slimy or whatever) friends as members of their families. The frequently crocheted quote "Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened" rings true. It's a special kind of relationship. Cats love unconditionally. No one can dispute the comfort a purring cat perched happily on his or her owner's lap, eyes slightly closed and paws kneading, provides. There's no question of the unfailing love behind the green oval eyes.
Rascal sat on my lap for ten years, his love never failing and his paws never allowing a morsel of food to make it to my mouth with an attempted interception. He dined better than most people, preferring bacon above all else. Though he was largely governed by his stomach (and easily manipulated by the all-important word t-r-e-a-t), his heart is the most memorable part of his kitty personality. He was a very sweet animal, not at all bowing the general cat stereotypes of disdain for humans.There is no disputing that he loved us from the moment we extracted him during his first days of life from between Grandma's porches to the last time he exited our house.
He punctuated my child- and teen-hood with the needed experience of pet ownership. With animals comes the responsibility and companionship necessary to growing and maturing. Though I was devastated to learn of his disappearance, it seemed somehow darkly fitting that he died a mere week before I returned home for my first break from college. One of the largest pieces of my childhood now divides my life into childhood and adulthood, life with and without Rascal.
The night I returned home, the first thing I saw was his little dry food bowl sitting sitting expectantly and full. That sight coupled with his abandoned toys and scratching post littering the living room floor drove the reality of his disappearance home. But as I sat crying in the midst of his things, I wasn't mourning just my precious pet. I was mourning the loss of my life was it was before.
Rascal was the best first pet anybody could I have, and I'm incredibly for the ten years he brought joy to my life. I refuse to think about what terrible fate he most likely met and relish the many, many memories he gave me and my family. He was a remarkable cat and my best friend for half of my life. I will miss him.
And many years from now, when I have a family of my own, we will have a precious family cat too, so my kids will know the all-important love of an animal.
Oct 9, 2011
I am. I am. I am.
My friend was wondering why people continue to exist, and so I started thinking about why I bother to continue existing.
It's a question some people ask me when they find out I'm an atheist. Why would you keep living without the promise of heaven at the end? Or without a distinct system of reward and punishment? The guarantee of a soul or of seeing your dead loved ones again?
Well, it's a pretty easy answer, considering I'm still very much alive. At least, it seems that way. But when you really get down to it, I only keep living because I don't know what else to do. I'm just supposed to keep living; my body is designed to avoid death at all costs. It's second nature to try to survive.
But if you don't considering surviving the same as living, really living, then what makes me keep living? Am I even really living?
There's a Ropes song that goes "My life doesn't mean a thing to me/the only reason I haven't put myself in the ground already/is I don't like to get dirty." Maybe it's sometimes it's the smallest things, if not necessarily as cynical as the song describes, that keeps us adhered to our mortal coils. You don't have to have some grand reason to wake up each morning.
My philosophy dictates that people ascribe their own meaning to life and spend their time trying to do the best they can to adhere to the lifestyle they think is most appropriate. All this cliche, semi-hedonistic stuff is what I think makes life worth living. It's different for every person, and that's what is beautiful about it.
It's a whole list of cliche things that keeps me wanting to breathe every morning. I think I've written before about how I use to think of one thing to look forward to that day before I got out of bed every morning, just to make the walk to the shower a little better. I've gotten bad about not doing that anymore lately; it's a testament to a good life that on any given day, I could think of something positive that would probably happen. They are almost always really small things: an especially appetizing lunch item, getting a paper back I worked really hard on, a meeting of a club I enjoy, getting to see a friend.
Even though each of those things doesn't really add up to much, together they create a life that is positive more often than negative. I couldn't possibly quit living if there was one little thing I had to look forward to. "Oh, I will just go and die after this... oh but then I would miss this!" The sheer fact that I would be missing things is something I can't stand.
My somewhat ironic but reoccurring dream is that I've slept through important things: when I was younger, it was trick-or-treating. Now, it's exams and interviews. But the theme of sleeping through important events remains my biggest subconscious fear. Being dead for all of them would kind of suck, too.
When Christians ask me why I bother to keep living, I usually respond something to the effect of "there are amazing books I haven't read yet, interesting people I haven't met, beautiful sights I haven't seen, funny jokes I haven't laughed at. There are classes I haven't gotten to take yet, words I haven't written yet, and smiles I haven't smiled yet." Missing any of that would be too sad to bear. That's why I bother to wake up each morning. It might be cliche, but each life affirming breath reinforces and justifies my roaming around the earth.
As my darling Sylvia Plath wrote, "I took a breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am."
It's a question some people ask me when they find out I'm an atheist. Why would you keep living without the promise of heaven at the end? Or without a distinct system of reward and punishment? The guarantee of a soul or of seeing your dead loved ones again?
Well, it's a pretty easy answer, considering I'm still very much alive. At least, it seems that way. But when you really get down to it, I only keep living because I don't know what else to do. I'm just supposed to keep living; my body is designed to avoid death at all costs. It's second nature to try to survive.
But if you don't considering surviving the same as living, really living, then what makes me keep living? Am I even really living?
There's a Ropes song that goes "My life doesn't mean a thing to me/the only reason I haven't put myself in the ground already/is I don't like to get dirty." Maybe it's sometimes it's the smallest things, if not necessarily as cynical as the song describes, that keeps us adhered to our mortal coils. You don't have to have some grand reason to wake up each morning.
My philosophy dictates that people ascribe their own meaning to life and spend their time trying to do the best they can to adhere to the lifestyle they think is most appropriate. All this cliche, semi-hedonistic stuff is what I think makes life worth living. It's different for every person, and that's what is beautiful about it.
It's a whole list of cliche things that keeps me wanting to breathe every morning. I think I've written before about how I use to think of one thing to look forward to that day before I got out of bed every morning, just to make the walk to the shower a little better. I've gotten bad about not doing that anymore lately; it's a testament to a good life that on any given day, I could think of something positive that would probably happen. They are almost always really small things: an especially appetizing lunch item, getting a paper back I worked really hard on, a meeting of a club I enjoy, getting to see a friend.
Even though each of those things doesn't really add up to much, together they create a life that is positive more often than negative. I couldn't possibly quit living if there was one little thing I had to look forward to. "Oh, I will just go and die after this... oh but then I would miss this!" The sheer fact that I would be missing things is something I can't stand.
My somewhat ironic but reoccurring dream is that I've slept through important things: when I was younger, it was trick-or-treating. Now, it's exams and interviews. But the theme of sleeping through important events remains my biggest subconscious fear. Being dead for all of them would kind of suck, too.
When Christians ask me why I bother to keep living, I usually respond something to the effect of "there are amazing books I haven't read yet, interesting people I haven't met, beautiful sights I haven't seen, funny jokes I haven't laughed at. There are classes I haven't gotten to take yet, words I haven't written yet, and smiles I haven't smiled yet." Missing any of that would be too sad to bear. That's why I bother to wake up each morning. It might be cliche, but each life affirming breath reinforces and justifies my roaming around the earth.
As my darling Sylvia Plath wrote, "I took a breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am."
Oct 3, 2011
Family Dinner
I hate when the mix of dinner crowd forces me in the middle of a group full of loud personalities, taking up the conversation with their empty, echoing words. They fill up the chairs with their bodies and the conversation with their bellowing, and those of us small in both voice and stature are left to sit quietly by, spooning rice into our mouths and wishing we were anywhere else.
It's not that I don't have input. It's just my words seem to emerge from my mouth, a few octaves lower than I intend, and escape into the battlefield that is the colliding sound waves above the dinner table. Mine are small, feeble warriors and quickly surrender to the pulsing sounds reverberating around the plastic cups of Mountain Dew and Diet Pepsi. Frustrated, I just sit there, replacing the words on the tip of my tongue with the bland food that people seem to think defines my personality.
I am so close to the people next to me that we can hardly eat without our elbows hitting; we are so close I think they might be able to hear my thoughts, tearing each new loudmouth comment apart for its ignorance and depravity, but it's really just envy because people are looking at them when they speak and responding, and that's all I really want. But I know my neighbors can't hear what is happening in my brain because they don't even hear what I choose to vocalize.
I know it isn't true. I know that some personalities are always going to win out, claiming the entire market, making it seem as if they have the only personality worth having. The only way to be. Social, exhaustively happy. I know that I'm as valid as them, as interesting as them, as important. But somehow that certainty just isn't enough to make that hour bearable; I just wait.
I wait until I can pour all the bottled up thoughts onto a page, onto a screen. Sustained by an eternally captive audience, I can release what nobody else cares to take from me. Perhaps I don't have a voice in a crowd so I have the words necessary to move my pen across the page. Maybe I'm meant to be reclusive, and I'm just fighting my nature to no avail. Maybe my dinnertime companions are unwittingly providing me with a livelihood, a reason to live.
Cautiously optimistic, I must accept my fate. Channel Salinger. Write because it's so hard to talk, and maybe one day, they will be sad they never listened, and finally read.
It's not that I don't have input. It's just my words seem to emerge from my mouth, a few octaves lower than I intend, and escape into the battlefield that is the colliding sound waves above the dinner table. Mine are small, feeble warriors and quickly surrender to the pulsing sounds reverberating around the plastic cups of Mountain Dew and Diet Pepsi. Frustrated, I just sit there, replacing the words on the tip of my tongue with the bland food that people seem to think defines my personality.
I am so close to the people next to me that we can hardly eat without our elbows hitting; we are so close I think they might be able to hear my thoughts, tearing each new loudmouth comment apart for its ignorance and depravity, but it's really just envy because people are looking at them when they speak and responding, and that's all I really want. But I know my neighbors can't hear what is happening in my brain because they don't even hear what I choose to vocalize.
I know it isn't true. I know that some personalities are always going to win out, claiming the entire market, making it seem as if they have the only personality worth having. The only way to be. Social, exhaustively happy. I know that I'm as valid as them, as interesting as them, as important. But somehow that certainty just isn't enough to make that hour bearable; I just wait.
I wait until I can pour all the bottled up thoughts onto a page, onto a screen. Sustained by an eternally captive audience, I can release what nobody else cares to take from me. Perhaps I don't have a voice in a crowd so I have the words necessary to move my pen across the page. Maybe I'm meant to be reclusive, and I'm just fighting my nature to no avail. Maybe my dinnertime companions are unwittingly providing me with a livelihood, a reason to live.
Cautiously optimistic, I must accept my fate. Channel Salinger. Write because it's so hard to talk, and maybe one day, they will be sad they never listened, and finally read.
Sep 16, 2011
Justice for All
For the past week or so, I feel like all I've been doing is arguing. It's exhausting, really. But I would definitely be more exhausted if I didn't argue because I wouldn't be able to sleep soundly at night knowing I didn't defend what I believe to be right.
But the thing that angers me more than any of the bigots, religious zealots, and just plain ignorant people are those who claim the argument doesn't matter.
Of course it matters. Just because you aren't immediately affected by something doesn't mean it isn't worth worrying about. We are debating our state's Constitution; constitutions are documents by the people, of the people, for the people. We are the people, and it is our duty and obligation as citizens to have opinions and voice them about our government.
Further, if you cannot find it in yourself to care about somebody else, especially people who are being discriminated against, then you are exceedingly selfish. If you cannot care about people's rights being ripped away, about the pain and suffering of others, about grave injustices in the society you take part in, then there is no saving you. You are worse than those fighting on the immoral side because at least the opposition is taking a stand for what they believe. At least they have emotions.
Do not try to patronize me for passion. What is the point of living if you don't care about anything? Apathy is not cool; detachment is a mental illness, not a fad. Do not lay passively unless you agree with every single thing in your world. There is always something to be bettered, somebody that needs help.
I will argue until I can't argue anymore. I don't care if I'm defeated, if the amendment makes its disgusting way into our law. I will still fight it because I will still be right. Those who claim it doesn't matter are the truly wrong ones.
But the thing that angers me more than any of the bigots, religious zealots, and just plain ignorant people are those who claim the argument doesn't matter.
Of course it matters. Just because you aren't immediately affected by something doesn't mean it isn't worth worrying about. We are debating our state's Constitution; constitutions are documents by the people, of the people, for the people. We are the people, and it is our duty and obligation as citizens to have opinions and voice them about our government.
Further, if you cannot find it in yourself to care about somebody else, especially people who are being discriminated against, then you are exceedingly selfish. If you cannot care about people's rights being ripped away, about the pain and suffering of others, about grave injustices in the society you take part in, then there is no saving you. You are worse than those fighting on the immoral side because at least the opposition is taking a stand for what they believe. At least they have emotions.
Do not try to patronize me for passion. What is the point of living if you don't care about anything? Apathy is not cool; detachment is a mental illness, not a fad. Do not lay passively unless you agree with every single thing in your world. There is always something to be bettered, somebody that needs help.
I will argue until I can't argue anymore. I don't care if I'm defeated, if the amendment makes its disgusting way into our law. I will still fight it because I will still be right. Those who claim it doesn't matter are the truly wrong ones.
Sep 2, 2011
Heelprint
I love my college; I really do. I haven't regretted coming here for a single second. I still haven't tired of the ubiquitous blue, the unrelenting (and sometimes downright rude) school spirit, the vibrant community.
All the little concerns that keep college freshmen lying awake at night before they move to their universities disappear within days of arriving. The bathroom arrangement is fine; it's not hard to get along with your roommate; friends will come fairly easily if you smile and say hi; classes are difficult but not impossible; the food is pretty good; the campus layout will unfold itself to you in a few days.
But that is not to say college life is not without concerns. They're just new concerns. What was important in high school is replaced by something bigger, more pressing. There's always a pit in my stomach when I pass a flyer advertising some amazing opportunity and I keep walking. I know I can't do everything; that would be impossible and suicidal. But I have to wonder each and every time if I'm passing up my one great opportunity; maybe that was where I was going to meet my future employer, future passions, even future husband.
But that is ridiculous. I don't believe in fate. We make the happiness we seek. I have actively reached out to organizations I know I will love, and in turn will have an automatic connection with others involved. When I do my homework, I worry I'm not reaching insightful enough conclusions, like I need to force something that simply isn't there. Reach a higher plane. I'm always afraid I'm not stretching enough. Not challenging myself enough, not growing enough.
It's a weird feeling. Everything just seems higher stakes. When once a GPA got me into college, it now gets me a job. Before, most friendships (at least at a high level of intimacy) were only for the duration, now they have the potential for lifelong relationships. I have to make connections, make roots, make a mark. A "Heelprint."
But I know, just as I was freaking out the night before I moved here, that one day I will look back on this moment and tell myself that everything eventually was okay.
All the little concerns that keep college freshmen lying awake at night before they move to their universities disappear within days of arriving. The bathroom arrangement is fine; it's not hard to get along with your roommate; friends will come fairly easily if you smile and say hi; classes are difficult but not impossible; the food is pretty good; the campus layout will unfold itself to you in a few days.
But that is not to say college life is not without concerns. They're just new concerns. What was important in high school is replaced by something bigger, more pressing. There's always a pit in my stomach when I pass a flyer advertising some amazing opportunity and I keep walking. I know I can't do everything; that would be impossible and suicidal. But I have to wonder each and every time if I'm passing up my one great opportunity; maybe that was where I was going to meet my future employer, future passions, even future husband.
But that is ridiculous. I don't believe in fate. We make the happiness we seek. I have actively reached out to organizations I know I will love, and in turn will have an automatic connection with others involved. When I do my homework, I worry I'm not reaching insightful enough conclusions, like I need to force something that simply isn't there. Reach a higher plane. I'm always afraid I'm not stretching enough. Not challenging myself enough, not growing enough.
It's a weird feeling. Everything just seems higher stakes. When once a GPA got me into college, it now gets me a job. Before, most friendships (at least at a high level of intimacy) were only for the duration, now they have the potential for lifelong relationships. I have to make connections, make roots, make a mark. A "Heelprint."
But I know, just as I was freaking out the night before I moved here, that one day I will look back on this moment and tell myself that everything eventually was okay.
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