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| Honk for Freedom.I was driving down Broadway last week to drop my car off at the same Mom and Pop place I’ve always taken my car when I noticed one man and one woman standing on the corner of Broadway and 6th street holding signs that read: “Honk for Peace! Unjust war!”. The woman was of small stature, her face barely visible under her sign. The man, clad in his Sunday best, held his sign and maintained a blank stare.
I did not honk.
Taylor Mali says, “It’s not enough anymore to question authority. You have to speak with it.”
I think perhaps it’s not enough anymore to honk for peace. You have to fight for it. You have to speak to legislators. You have to breathe down the necks of crooked politicians. You have to actually give a shit.
I was talking with my grandparents once about my generation and how different it is from my grandparents’ generation. My grandfather remarked that our generation was going to save the world. That we were the most politically forward generation yet. I had to correct him. “We are the bumper sticker generation” I said. “We wear our hearts on our sleeves, but we keep our hands in our pockets.”
We are not the flower children of our day. We are not the progressive, pot smoking, free loving, freedom fighting hippies that our parents were. Unfortunately, although we have the ability to rally at the capitol steps, we lack the motivation and the know-how to make change. Makani Themba writes in her book about making grassroots change. I have been reading this book, not because it is required reading for one of my classes, but because I give a damn. Policy is my calling, not because I want to be a Wonk, but because I give a damn. Margaret Mead: Don't think that a small group of people cannot make change. Indeed they are the only ones that do. (Don't quote me directly. That is from memory.) I think that I want a Masters in Policy. I think that when I enroll, I will peel every last one of my bumper stickers off. I will stop promoting Gandhi quotes opposing the death penalties, and I will write my own.
So, no, I won't honk for freedom. I won't honk for peace. I won't honk for our soldiers in Iraq. What I will do is fight tirelessly for the issues for which they are honking.
And I bet my voice will be much louder than those horns.
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| This weekend was one of those rarities.
Have you ever had something so colossally awesome and something so spectacularly shitty happen on the same day? Draw in, dear friends. I'll tell you how this is possible.
Andy and I decided to go for a bit of a hike on Saturday. The weather was gorgeous, and there was not one cloud in the sky. Plus, he needed to take some pictures for his photography class. Seemingly, the stars were aligned and we set out on our trek.
Hiking up to the rock quarry, we decided to do a little off-trail. Climbing up steep inclines and laughing together at the oddities that one finds in a Little Rock wooded area, we came to a strange manifestation of cement blocks descending into a steep (but beckoning) staircase. Perhaps it was my subconscious desire to go explore the concrete abyss, but I dropped my sunglasses down into the lowest pit of this unlikely shelter.
So, I tell Andy, "Oh, I'll get them! It'll be fun!" and traipse my happy butt down into the cement staircase. I did not mention that there were rail road ties crossing over the top of the "ceiling" over the pit. (I know, what were any of these materials doing here?). Always the conscientious girl, I duck under the first rail road tie. And.....WHAM! There is a searing pain coming from my head and my nose. Yes, there was a second railroad tie, and it implanted itself into my face. The next few minutes are all a blur of Andy wiping blood off my face and oohing and ahing over the giant goose egg already forming on my face, tears streaming down all the while.
So, we get back to the apartment. Andy plants ice on my face and forcefully warns me to hold it there for twenty minutes. He tells me he had two concussions in his football career and that I have nothing to worry about. I open up my laptop to check email, facebook, etc. All the silly little wastes of time. Then I get the email.
"Your new Vice President is India Carter". There was a vote last week for offices for the BSWSO (Bachelor of Social Work Student Organization). The Vice President automatically becomes President after one semester of being VP. (For those of you out of the loop, I have another year left after this year because of that year I took to, um, "find myself".) So, although I'm terrified of what being President next year will actually bring, I'm totally psyched about what this means for me and my future. A whole new world opened up for me with this. I get to do lots of volunteering and coordinating. I get to meet people and love people in a way I never would have before. I could not be more grateful to have this opportunity. All I want to do is go hug and kiss every person that voted for me.
So, you know, I'll take a piece of metal in the face if it means I get something I really, really wanted every time.
(P.S. Endings are not my strong suit. I lose the gusto. Perhaps that's why I only do this once every blue moon.)
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| I have to keep reminding myself what I'm doing here.
I keep telling myself, "Put your head down. Keep on truckin'. Eventually this path leads somewhere."
The thing is, lately that path keeps feeling longer and longer. The light at the end seems further and further away. Like, all these textbook answers, theories, case studies. When do I get to lay my hands on someone's heart and feel the shift? When do I get to shelter children and dry tears and bring redemption to the crestfallen?
I love the idea of policy and macro level changes. I love the idea of writing a social welfare policy that changes the lives of children and families across the country. I like the idea of standing before Congress, pleading for the well being of all the people who have found their voices silent.
But to be honest, the only thing I can think right now is that I want to move to Bucharest, Romania and find the children that live in the railways and start a shelter that takes in street children. I want to wash their faces and teach them how to play piano and let them know that someone cares. Why can't I find something that tugs at me on THIS side of the ocean?
This is so frustrating. And Exhilarating at the same time. I guess this is what the real crevices, nooks, and crannies of life feel like. But what's so empowering is that I own this life. These victories, these failures, these decisions and shortcomings and lost pathways, they are mine. I get to write this one. | | |
| To be honest with you, I still don't know what it will mean to be a Social Worker. By this point, I've given up trying to know exactly what's around every turn. There are times I think, I could stop this semester and completely go a different way. Maybe I could be a dermatologist? But no, I think my skin's too thick. I could be an English teacher, but I'd have my kids reading all Salinger (Also a big fan here, Erin!), Bronte, Faulkner, and Hemingway.
So instead, with my head down and eyes almost closed, I'm going into this with no fear. It's kind of like putting your head out the window in a speeding car. Your eyes can barely open, but the movement is so thrilling, you can do nothing but throw your head back and let your hair slap around your face. (Oh, what freedom we have!)
I had a good friend throw my perspective back into the positive light again. I guess I just always assume that I'm so good at masquerading as someone who's perfectly okay all the time. Sometimes, people call you out on it. Sometimes they give you that objectivity that you've been yearning for. Sometimes you have to back up, close your mouth, release your explanations, and listen.
So to you, my dear friend, I probably don't do a very good job of letting you know this, but you are a special spirit. And while sometimes it's hard for me to remember what God feels like, I think you have a piece of God in you. Thank you for sharing it with me.
So, my goal now is to change my mentality. I want to get back to a place where I feel this mentality of abundance again. No more feelings of scarcity. (i.e. not enough time, not enough money, not enough to give) I want to return to that feeling of, No matter how little I have, there is always enough to go around. To give to others. To give to myself. To let everyone know that that real kind of love still exists. The kind that does not expect in return. The kind that is unrequested, but always welcome. The kind that selflessly shares its abundance. The kind my friend gave me.
Thank you, Shawn. | | |
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My mommy is a brilliant artist.
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