There are no borders. To anyone who thinks terrorism exists elsewhere or originates outside the lines of the United States of America – read this. And know this is not the first time, nor will it be the last. Hatred surrounds us. And it’s right in our backyard.
We all point fingers. We never want things to be our fault. If there’s a problem, there must be someone to blame. And it’s best if it’s not me, or you, or someone I know…but THEM. Someone out there, someone different from me. But it doesn’t really matter who it is or where it comes from. Hate is hate. And intolerance is wrong.
These men were upset, angry for something, wanting vengeance. They picked someone to blame. Without reason or real proof. They picked someone to hate on veiled reasoning and flawed logic. They claimed patriotic retribution and religious instigation. Defending the rights of one group by killing another. But how does blowing up a temple, school, and community center full of non-combatants right any wrong? How do you fight violence with violence and expect to be heard? The din will be too much and no one will listen to your point when your guns are blazing.
Freedom for anyone cannot be gained by taking freedom from anyone.
Filling people with terror only makes the battle harder, stronger, longer. Nothing is gained. More is lost. It doesn’t matter who we are, where we come from, what religion we practice, or the strength of our economy – we must listen and be heard. We must respect. Only then will freedom ring loud enough for us all.
5.21.2009
2.24.2009
I shall live
I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a
brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dryrot.
I would rather be a superb meteor,
every atom of me in magnificent glow,
than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The proper function of man is to live,
not to exist.
I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.
~Jack London
2.17.2009
Sharing the Center of the World
A single word. A smile. A touch.
Sometimes I wonder at the world. It’s size. The innumerability of it all. So many people. So many lands. Languages. Cultures. Joys and sorrows.
How is it that we are all here and sharing the same world. And yet will never meet, touch, smile or interact? How can this world be mine and yours at the same time? Both of us living at the center of it but never knowing the other is there too.
We’re in it together. We are. Even if we often don’t think we are. Even when we think we are alone. Lost amid the crowded streets and jostling subways and endless miles of paved highways and dirt roads. If we take one moment to stop. To smile. To speak. Perhaps we would connect and know. Know that we share the center of this world in our sorrows and joys. In our differences and our commonalities. Even if we never meet. We are here. Together...
I sat sandwiched between two strangers. Jostled by the racing train. The sounds of metal screeching against metal filling my ears. My eyes roamed the car from advertisement to advertisement. Never knowing where to fall. You’re not supposed to catch another’s eyes in the city. It’s an unwritten rule. Or maybe it’s actually written. I don’t know. But I know it. You don’t look. You don’t smile. You don’t say hi to a passerby on the street. The only exception is to help a lost tourist or a little old lady cross the street. Maybe not even that.
So I sat.
But I’ve never been good at following the rules. And my eyes wander the car. Seeing the faces tired from work. The friends giggling after school. The tourists certain they are headed for somewhere they don’t want to be and not sure how to get off. I see the woman across from me. Sandwiched too. Her bag and purse secure on her lap. Staring straight ahead. At the dark tunnel flashing by or zoned out at some distance time and place. This is what I am supposed to be doing too.
But I look.
And I see her eyes close. Tired from a long day? A brief moment of rest from nothing to see? Her eyes close. And then they shudder. Her mouth quivers. Her face contorts. I see the struggle. One I know well. A struggle to regain control. To stop the tears fighting at the lining of her eyes. Her hands come up. Covering her face. Squeezing her cheeks and nose and eyes. A deep breath. Another. Calm comes from chaos. Her eyes open. Rimmed with red. Glistening from unshed tears.
Our eyes meet.
She looks away. I look away. A rule broken. A private moment intruded upon. A stolen glance. Her calm remains. Did I imagine it? Another look. Then another. My eyes flit from her to the window and back again. The glisten grows. The redness spreads. From her eyes to her cheeks to her hands. Her struggle continues on as she fights to stay in control. I want to reach out. To comfort. To consol. To ask if I can help. But you don’t do that.
So I sit.
The train is screeching to a halt. My stop. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to leave without saying something. But what good is a comment on my way out? I make a promise – I will reach out if she exits with me. I’m not sure if I want to see her move or stay. She moves.
Her pace is slow on the platform. I am next to her. I don’t dare reach out. But I find my voice doing it for me. Four little words. One little question. The tears burst forth. The calm shatters. We pause together between the trains and the tourists, buried under ground. A few moments. A quiet explanation. A genuine gratitude.
We exit together. Two strangers. Two friends. Her life isn’t better. Her sadness isn’t gone. Her heart isn’t heavier. Two strangers in the same world touched for a moment. Sharing the sorrow and the joy. One word. One smile. One touch can make a difference.
Sometimes I wonder at the world. It’s size. The innumerability of it all. So many people. So many lands. Languages. Cultures. Joys and sorrows.
How is it that we are all here and sharing the same world. And yet will never meet, touch, smile or interact? How can this world be mine and yours at the same time? Both of us living at the center of it but never knowing the other is there too.
We’re in it together. We are. Even if we often don’t think we are. Even when we think we are alone. Lost amid the crowded streets and jostling subways and endless miles of paved highways and dirt roads. If we take one moment to stop. To smile. To speak. Perhaps we would connect and know. Know that we share the center of this world in our sorrows and joys. In our differences and our commonalities. Even if we never meet. We are here. Together...
I sat sandwiched between two strangers. Jostled by the racing train. The sounds of metal screeching against metal filling my ears. My eyes roamed the car from advertisement to advertisement. Never knowing where to fall. You’re not supposed to catch another’s eyes in the city. It’s an unwritten rule. Or maybe it’s actually written. I don’t know. But I know it. You don’t look. You don’t smile. You don’t say hi to a passerby on the street. The only exception is to help a lost tourist or a little old lady cross the street. Maybe not even that.
So I sat.
But I’ve never been good at following the rules. And my eyes wander the car. Seeing the faces tired from work. The friends giggling after school. The tourists certain they are headed for somewhere they don’t want to be and not sure how to get off. I see the woman across from me. Sandwiched too. Her bag and purse secure on her lap. Staring straight ahead. At the dark tunnel flashing by or zoned out at some distance time and place. This is what I am supposed to be doing too.
But I look.
And I see her eyes close. Tired from a long day? A brief moment of rest from nothing to see? Her eyes close. And then they shudder. Her mouth quivers. Her face contorts. I see the struggle. One I know well. A struggle to regain control. To stop the tears fighting at the lining of her eyes. Her hands come up. Covering her face. Squeezing her cheeks and nose and eyes. A deep breath. Another. Calm comes from chaos. Her eyes open. Rimmed with red. Glistening from unshed tears.
Our eyes meet.
She looks away. I look away. A rule broken. A private moment intruded upon. A stolen glance. Her calm remains. Did I imagine it? Another look. Then another. My eyes flit from her to the window and back again. The glisten grows. The redness spreads. From her eyes to her cheeks to her hands. Her struggle continues on as she fights to stay in control. I want to reach out. To comfort. To consol. To ask if I can help. But you don’t do that.
So I sit.
The train is screeching to a halt. My stop. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to leave without saying something. But what good is a comment on my way out? I make a promise – I will reach out if she exits with me. I’m not sure if I want to see her move or stay. She moves.
Her pace is slow on the platform. I am next to her. I don’t dare reach out. But I find my voice doing it for me. Four little words. One little question. The tears burst forth. The calm shatters. We pause together between the trains and the tourists, buried under ground. A few moments. A quiet explanation. A genuine gratitude.
We exit together. Two strangers. Two friends. Her life isn’t better. Her sadness isn’t gone. Her heart isn’t heavier. Two strangers in the same world touched for a moment. Sharing the sorrow and the joy. One word. One smile. One touch can make a difference.
2.12.2009
To do before I die
I saw a list once. A list of things to do before I die.
I take pride in trying new things. Taking new risks. Fun and adventures and facing my fears.
I have done many of these things. And many left to do before I die.
But one thing stood out. One thing I thought I might never do. One thing I knew I COULD do but didn’t think I WOULD do. One thing that really shouldn’t be that hard.
Write a piece of original poetry and read it aloud to an audience.
I remember the first time I spoke in front of my church – the faces of the congregation looking up at me. I remember the first time I gave a speech at school – several hundred of my peers listening in. I remember the first time I competed in an oratorical competition – judges critiquing my word and style. I remember the first time I led a lesson in Spanish – children grinning from ear to ear. I remember the first time I facilitated a training session – staff members taking notes and raising hands.
I remember the first time I wrote a poem.
An ode to the stars and night sky. A message to me of dreams and hopes and wishes.
I don’t remember feeling butterflies in my stomach. Or nervousness in my heart. Or anxiousness or doubt or shaking hands or rapid breath. Not in any of those moments of speaking. Not in any of those moments of standing before audiences and sharing myself.
Only once. Not when I was speaking. But when I wrote. When I wrote a piece of poetry about my hopes and dreams and fears. When I let my insides come out and flow into ink – permanent and impressing. Indentations in paper that burn into my skin and heaving chest.
My poems were printed once. In a hand-bound book just for me. My poems were submitted once. In a district competition I didn’t win. My poems were published once. In a scholarly collection I thought no one would see. My poems were shared once. On a blog I pretended was my own personal diary.
My poems were me.
I pride myself on doing new things. On taking new risks. On facing my fears.
Wings fluttered in my abdomen. Anxiety seized my heart. Nervousness shook my hands and clenched my fists and sped my breathing.
My poems were spoken once. To an audience I did not see, but they saw me.
I take pride in trying new things. Taking new risks. Fun and adventures and facing my fears.
I have done many of these things. And many left to do before I die.
But one thing stood out. One thing I thought I might never do. One thing I knew I COULD do but didn’t think I WOULD do. One thing that really shouldn’t be that hard.
Write a piece of original poetry and read it aloud to an audience.
I remember the first time I spoke in front of my church – the faces of the congregation looking up at me. I remember the first time I gave a speech at school – several hundred of my peers listening in. I remember the first time I competed in an oratorical competition – judges critiquing my word and style. I remember the first time I led a lesson in Spanish – children grinning from ear to ear. I remember the first time I facilitated a training session – staff members taking notes and raising hands.
I remember the first time I wrote a poem.
An ode to the stars and night sky. A message to me of dreams and hopes and wishes.
I don’t remember feeling butterflies in my stomach. Or nervousness in my heart. Or anxiousness or doubt or shaking hands or rapid breath. Not in any of those moments of speaking. Not in any of those moments of standing before audiences and sharing myself.
Only once. Not when I was speaking. But when I wrote. When I wrote a piece of poetry about my hopes and dreams and fears. When I let my insides come out and flow into ink – permanent and impressing. Indentations in paper that burn into my skin and heaving chest.
My poems were printed once. In a hand-bound book just for me. My poems were submitted once. In a district competition I didn’t win. My poems were published once. In a scholarly collection I thought no one would see. My poems were shared once. On a blog I pretended was my own personal diary.
My poems were me.
I pride myself on doing new things. On taking new risks. On facing my fears.
Wings fluttered in my abdomen. Anxiety seized my heart. Nervousness shook my hands and clenched my fists and sped my breathing.
My poems were spoken once. To an audience I did not see, but they saw me.
2.06.2009
Looking In, Looking Back, Looking Forward
You Look at me and see the girl
Who lives inside the golden world
But don’t believe
That’s all there is to see
You’ll never know the real me
Hmm
She smiles through a thousand tears
And harbors adolescent fears
She dreams of all
That she can never be
She wades in insecurity, yeah
And hides herself inside of me
Don’t say, “She takes it all for granted”
I’m well aware of all I have
Don’t think that I am disenchanted
Please understand
It seems as though I’ve always been
Somebody outside looking in
Well, here I am for all of them to bleed
But they can’t take my heart from me
And they can’t bring me to my knees
They’ll never know the real me
Mariah Carey, Looking In
My favorite song. I sang this everyday. To myself. In my head. Out loud. Listening to it over and over. Wondering how Mariah Carey put words to my every inner hurt and need.
Somebody outside looking in.
A window stained with tears I’d shed.
A smiling face. A golden world. Success and happiness. No reason to worry.
That’s what was on the outside. That’s what people saw.
Inside was the fear. Inside was the loneliness. Inside were the tears. No one could see them. No one could see me.
In fifth grade, I did a class project. Ceramic face images of ourselves. I made two. The top one was me – blonde hair, green eyes, my papa’s big smile.
The one beneath, smaller, sadder, crying.
I drew a picture. One side was sunshine and flowers. The other side was storm clouds and rain. My sister saw it and cried. She hugged me fiercely to her. I told her I was okay. I could handle it.
I knew how I felt. I knew who I was. I knew why I struggled and why I was sad. I knew no one got me and I was okay. I knew I was stronger. Stronger than what, or who, I don’t know. The loneliness? The fear? The anger or sadness? But I knew I would win. I knew that I really was alright.
And I was.
I’m well aware of all I have.
They can’t take my heart from me.
Please understand.
I don’t have a favorite song today. Maybe nothing can match what this song once was. When I look at these words, when I think what it meant to me. It almost makes me sad. Almost, because the sadness that made me love this song is overshadowed by the fact that whatever the writer of this song thought or meant, it meant to me that I wasn’t alone. Someone understood. Someone knew what I felt. Someone else could put it into words. The world around me spun, but someone, somewhere got me and wrote this song.
To write like that is a gift. A gift we probably won’t ever know we have. To know that something we say. Something we write. Something we do. Has such a profound and powerful influence on someone else. That is an awesome possibility.
I am thankful to say today that Mariah’s song no longer holds the same meaning for me. I no longer hide behind a veil of happiness or cry unshed tears. I am thankful today that people know me for who I am. I no longer feel the burden of shielding myself from others’ eyes. I am thankful today that this song was there for me when I needed it. And I am thankful today that it may be there for you when you think you are the only one standing on the other side of the window looking in. You are not alone. And you can be stronger.
Who lives inside the golden world
But don’t believe
That’s all there is to see
You’ll never know the real me
Hmm
She smiles through a thousand tears
And harbors adolescent fears
She dreams of all
That she can never be
She wades in insecurity, yeah
And hides herself inside of me
Don’t say, “She takes it all for granted”
I’m well aware of all I have
Don’t think that I am disenchanted
Please understand
It seems as though I’ve always been
Somebody outside looking in
Well, here I am for all of them to bleed
But they can’t take my heart from me
And they can’t bring me to my knees
They’ll never know the real me
Mariah Carey, Looking In
My favorite song. I sang this everyday. To myself. In my head. Out loud. Listening to it over and over. Wondering how Mariah Carey put words to my every inner hurt and need.
Somebody outside looking in.
A window stained with tears I’d shed.
A smiling face. A golden world. Success and happiness. No reason to worry.
That’s what was on the outside. That’s what people saw.
Inside was the fear. Inside was the loneliness. Inside were the tears. No one could see them. No one could see me.
In fifth grade, I did a class project. Ceramic face images of ourselves. I made two. The top one was me – blonde hair, green eyes, my papa’s big smile.
The one beneath, smaller, sadder, crying.
I drew a picture. One side was sunshine and flowers. The other side was storm clouds and rain. My sister saw it and cried. She hugged me fiercely to her. I told her I was okay. I could handle it.
I knew how I felt. I knew who I was. I knew why I struggled and why I was sad. I knew no one got me and I was okay. I knew I was stronger. Stronger than what, or who, I don’t know. The loneliness? The fear? The anger or sadness? But I knew I would win. I knew that I really was alright.
And I was.
I’m well aware of all I have.
They can’t take my heart from me.
Please understand.
I don’t have a favorite song today. Maybe nothing can match what this song once was. When I look at these words, when I think what it meant to me. It almost makes me sad. Almost, because the sadness that made me love this song is overshadowed by the fact that whatever the writer of this song thought or meant, it meant to me that I wasn’t alone. Someone understood. Someone knew what I felt. Someone else could put it into words. The world around me spun, but someone, somewhere got me and wrote this song.
To write like that is a gift. A gift we probably won’t ever know we have. To know that something we say. Something we write. Something we do. Has such a profound and powerful influence on someone else. That is an awesome possibility.
I am thankful to say today that Mariah’s song no longer holds the same meaning for me. I no longer hide behind a veil of happiness or cry unshed tears. I am thankful today that people know me for who I am. I no longer feel the burden of shielding myself from others’ eyes. I am thankful today that this song was there for me when I needed it. And I am thankful today that it may be there for you when you think you are the only one standing on the other side of the window looking in. You are not alone. And you can be stronger.
1.26.2009
1.24.2009
One moment of celebration before continuing on
Everything in me is a jumbled mix of emotions. I cried in that crowd of 2 million people. I saw others cry with me. I wish I had asked them why they cried.
I cried for history. I cried for change. I cried not just for the peaceful, democratic transfer of power. But for witnessing a step toward equality.
As much as I deal in reality and logical thinking. I am one of the most idealistic people I know. I see, or at least think, the best of people always. And I hope for the best in mankind and our future. But as much as I believed that the day would come when race might be put aside, I’m not sure if I really believed. I wanted to believe. And on Tuesday, I saw it.
At least I saw for a moment. I saw a black man sworn in as President of the United States. True, I took a moment to wish and wonder after the day when it could be a woman, but all things in their time.
On Tuesday, I believed in change. Not the CHANGE that Barack Obama is trying to usher in, though I believe in that as well. No, the change I believed in was the ability of mankind to overcome fear and doubts and hatred. I may not have been alive when segregation was the rule of the day, but I’ve heard and I’ve seen racism with my own eyes. And I know I will see it again.
Perhaps that is what has me so mixed up. I want to enjoy the moment on Tuesday when racism seemed to be a non-issue. But I know that it is not over. The fight has not been won. Too many people did not vote for him because of the color of his skin. If it was his politics, I could understand. But not his skin. Or his religion. Or his father’s country of origin. Even the mixed racial marriage of his parents. Do these things matter? I do not believe so, but too many people still do.
I want to BELIEVE. But we still have a long road ahead. Barack Obama is just a man. A man who inspired millions. A man who we hope too much of, I think. A man who should not be put on a pedestal and worshiped. The President is one person. They have great power, but they have great limitations as well. One black man achieving success does not right all the wrongs, nor erase all the past, present, and future acts of hate. I want to believe. And I have great hope.
Tuesday was another step in achieving Reverend Martin Luther King Juniors Dream, but it should not be seen as the last. There is a great road ahead. I was proud to be standing in that crowd of 2 million on Tuesday, January 20, 2009. I was proud to show support for this moment in history. I will always be proud. But I will only take a moment to celebrate before continuing the difficult journey ahead.
I cried for history. I cried for change. I cried not just for the peaceful, democratic transfer of power. But for witnessing a step toward equality.
As much as I deal in reality and logical thinking. I am one of the most idealistic people I know. I see, or at least think, the best of people always. And I hope for the best in mankind and our future. But as much as I believed that the day would come when race might be put aside, I’m not sure if I really believed. I wanted to believe. And on Tuesday, I saw it.
At least I saw for a moment. I saw a black man sworn in as President of the United States. True, I took a moment to wish and wonder after the day when it could be a woman, but all things in their time.
On Tuesday, I believed in change. Not the CHANGE that Barack Obama is trying to usher in, though I believe in that as well. No, the change I believed in was the ability of mankind to overcome fear and doubts and hatred. I may not have been alive when segregation was the rule of the day, but I’ve heard and I’ve seen racism with my own eyes. And I know I will see it again.
Perhaps that is what has me so mixed up. I want to enjoy the moment on Tuesday when racism seemed to be a non-issue. But I know that it is not over. The fight has not been won. Too many people did not vote for him because of the color of his skin. If it was his politics, I could understand. But not his skin. Or his religion. Or his father’s country of origin. Even the mixed racial marriage of his parents. Do these things matter? I do not believe so, but too many people still do.
I want to BELIEVE. But we still have a long road ahead. Barack Obama is just a man. A man who inspired millions. A man who we hope too much of, I think. A man who should not be put on a pedestal and worshiped. The President is one person. They have great power, but they have great limitations as well. One black man achieving success does not right all the wrongs, nor erase all the past, present, and future acts of hate. I want to believe. And I have great hope.
Tuesday was another step in achieving Reverend Martin Luther King Juniors Dream, but it should not be seen as the last. There is a great road ahead. I was proud to be standing in that crowd of 2 million on Tuesday, January 20, 2009. I was proud to show support for this moment in history. I will always be proud. But I will only take a moment to celebrate before continuing the difficult journey ahead.
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