My favorite part of getting Chinese food is the fortune cookie. Sometimes these little slips of paper can be dead-on. Other times, they are simply funny. For whatever reason I have kept my top three all-time favorite fortunes. And they are: you cannot discover new oceans unless you leave sight of the shore; you never regret the present, you live to its fullest; you are one of the people who "goes places in life."
A brief word on why I like each of these fortunes so much. For the first one, I am adventurous. For whatever reason, it was programmed into my DNA to think beyond... well, wherever I was. I won the 7th grade geography bee because I correctly identified the Danube River, at an age where most kids my age in Illinois were not thinking beyond Chicago. I like the metaphor of the fortune, too, that you can't discover what you are truly capable of until you leave what you know behind. I never would have guessed I'd be where I am today, doing what I am doing if I had not left what I knew behind.
The second fortune really resonates with me. In countless times in my life, the best, happiest moments have come when I've been totally, completely in the present moment. This is how I ended up dancing on tables with friends to old American favorites at a brasserie called Le Cabo in Brussels, walking through Sevilla late at night to a church in an Easter ceremony, celebrating New Year's in London on a whim, working at a ranch in New Mexico for a summer, and falling in love.
It can be hard sometimes, living fully in the present. Being open and being willing to try new things can sometimes mean I jump too far, too fast, that I dive in too deeply. It is a balancing act I am getting better at. But, I know the experiences I have continue to make me who I am.
And the third fortune - well, I go places often, and I like to think that I will also "go places"!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Take Me Out to the Ball Game
Today was a glorious, hot, sunny summer day. In short, it was the perfect day for a baseball game. That is just where my girlfriends and I headed. You probably have a baseball team near and dear to your heart, right? If so I can almost guarantee it is not the Washington Nationals. In my adopted hometown of DC, most people have another hometown that is closer to their hearts, whose teams they continue to cheer for. I went to the Red Sox game, which was sold out, because of Boston fans. I think my dad and I were about the only two Nationals fans in tow. Only Washington's pro football team has managed to capture the hearts of locals.
But that brings me to my first point, which is that I really value community. Sure, I grew up within range of Chicago and St. Louis. With a grandma from southern Illinois, cheering for the Cardinals fit naturally. I remember rooting for Ozzie Smith as a kid. My child-size red Cardinals bat is still a treasured momento. But with a grandpa from the South Side of Chicago, we were White Sox fans too. I vaguely remember the original Comiskey Park. But now that I am in DC, even though the Nationals have a dismal record, I gotta cheer for them. That's where my roots are now. When I'm in Chicago or St. Louis, it's different. Call me a fairweather fan, that is fair. But when I'm living in the team's hometown, I am going to be cheering for the hometown team.
And my second point is much more simple. It's just that on a perfect summer day, going to a baseball game is one of the best ways to spend your time. Agreed?
But that brings me to my first point, which is that I really value community. Sure, I grew up within range of Chicago and St. Louis. With a grandma from southern Illinois, cheering for the Cardinals fit naturally. I remember rooting for Ozzie Smith as a kid. My child-size red Cardinals bat is still a treasured momento. But with a grandpa from the South Side of Chicago, we were White Sox fans too. I vaguely remember the original Comiskey Park. But now that I am in DC, even though the Nationals have a dismal record, I gotta cheer for them. That's where my roots are now. When I'm in Chicago or St. Louis, it's different. Call me a fairweather fan, that is fair. But when I'm living in the team's hometown, I am going to be cheering for the hometown team.
And my second point is much more simple. It's just that on a perfect summer day, going to a baseball game is one of the best ways to spend your time. Agreed?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Remember the Halloween Blizzard of '94?
If you do, I guarantee you are from the Midwest. Out in California, I am far from the Midwest this week. It is beautiful in a strange, surreal way. It is odd to me, this balmy, breezy, wondrous land of palm trees and parks, perfect temperatures, blue skies, and even bluer ocean. Growing up in Illinois the landscape was flat, flat, flat. In fact, my hometown is so flat that the hill we sled on in the winter is man made. So this mysterious land of mountains and ocean, beautiful skies, great temperatures, a laid back attitude, wine and great food to boot is unreal to me.
I wonder why my parents did not take me to this strange place before. But then I think it through more carefully. I distinctly remember trick or treating through the Halloween blizzard of 1994. My beautiful fairy princess outfit had to be abandoned as the temperatures receded and the sleet turned to snow, building up on the sidewalk as jack-o-lanterns put their earmuffs on. It got so cold I had to focus on a new, last-minute costume constructed with my winter jacket, hat and gloves as the center piece. Having to resort to my ingenuity, I decided to be a feather-duster and wear black snow pants with a white sheet wrapped around my bulky winter jacket. I would carry a feather duster with me, just to help people connect the dots, you know.
And off we went, trick or treating through the snow. My parents encouraged this behavior, going out in the frigid temperatures, modifying Halloween costumes as needed to fit the weather. They taught me this was "normal." As I grew older, it gave me a sense of pride. "Yeah, I trick or treated through the Halloween blizzard of '94," or "The last ice storm, man, we stayed in our house without heat for three days." These various weather-related situations we Midwesterners triumphed over became a badge of honor, one we held close to our hearts. We were much too modest to wear our pride on our sleeves. But it would creep up in conversation from time to time.
Now that I am in California, a place my parents never took me as a child, I see why. If they had taken me here in, say, 1993, by the time the Halloween blizzard of '94 took place I would have known there was a warm place in the USA that we could live. A place where trick or treating never involved blizzards. No, instead I was misguided and led to believe that warm places were far, far away and most often in foreign countries. I look back at our family vacations and interestingly most of them were to places further north than Illinois. Wisconsin, check. Minnesota, check. Canada, check. Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire... check, check, check. Yes, I see it now, it was all a grand conspiracy to make sure I didn't realize I was being cheated out of blizzard-free Halloweens.
The fortunate thing is, despite going to college in Minneapolis, I did manage to break through the frost, sleet and snow long enough to discover a city with a more moderate climate. Sure, summers can be sweltering but call me from the Midwest in January. Then we'll talk. I guarantee the weather in DC will be in the 40s or 50s. If there is snow, or even the threat of snow, I guarantee I'll have a snow day. And I guarantee that if you are from the Midwest, you will look down on me for taking that snow day. You will add a badge of honor to your own mental count, thinking "Yeah, I drove to work through the great snowstorm of 2009."
I wonder why my parents did not take me to this strange place before. But then I think it through more carefully. I distinctly remember trick or treating through the Halloween blizzard of 1994. My beautiful fairy princess outfit had to be abandoned as the temperatures receded and the sleet turned to snow, building up on the sidewalk as jack-o-lanterns put their earmuffs on. It got so cold I had to focus on a new, last-minute costume constructed with my winter jacket, hat and gloves as the center piece. Having to resort to my ingenuity, I decided to be a feather-duster and wear black snow pants with a white sheet wrapped around my bulky winter jacket. I would carry a feather duster with me, just to help people connect the dots, you know.
And off we went, trick or treating through the snow. My parents encouraged this behavior, going out in the frigid temperatures, modifying Halloween costumes as needed to fit the weather. They taught me this was "normal." As I grew older, it gave me a sense of pride. "Yeah, I trick or treated through the Halloween blizzard of '94," or "The last ice storm, man, we stayed in our house without heat for three days." These various weather-related situations we Midwesterners triumphed over became a badge of honor, one we held close to our hearts. We were much too modest to wear our pride on our sleeves. But it would creep up in conversation from time to time.
Now that I am in California, a place my parents never took me as a child, I see why. If they had taken me here in, say, 1993, by the time the Halloween blizzard of '94 took place I would have known there was a warm place in the USA that we could live. A place where trick or treating never involved blizzards. No, instead I was misguided and led to believe that warm places were far, far away and most often in foreign countries. I look back at our family vacations and interestingly most of them were to places further north than Illinois. Wisconsin, check. Minnesota, check. Canada, check. Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire... check, check, check. Yes, I see it now, it was all a grand conspiracy to make sure I didn't realize I was being cheated out of blizzard-free Halloweens.
The fortunate thing is, despite going to college in Minneapolis, I did manage to break through the frost, sleet and snow long enough to discover a city with a more moderate climate. Sure, summers can be sweltering but call me from the Midwest in January. Then we'll talk. I guarantee the weather in DC will be in the 40s or 50s. If there is snow, or even the threat of snow, I guarantee I'll have a snow day. And I guarantee that if you are from the Midwest, you will look down on me for taking that snow day. You will add a badge of honor to your own mental count, thinking "Yeah, I drove to work through the great snowstorm of 2009."
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Out West
One night my freshman year of college I was back in my hometown. It was spring break. My old high school boyfriend had taken me out on campus and I had insisted my best girlfriend come with. We were at a party at an apartment. Somewhere along the line my girlfriend met a fraternity brother of my old boyfriend's, who told her about his summer job on a ranch in New Mexico.
Well, for whatever reason that planted an idea in my girlfriend's head. She convinced me to apply for a job at the ranch, and she did, too. A few weeks later we had our employment papers and were booking plane tickets for a summer out West, in a state we had never been to.
A couple months later my dad drove me to the St. Louis airport for my flight. I was expecting New Mexico to be dry and arid with cacti all around. So I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived at the ranch with plenty of green, lush mountains surrounding us. That was the beginning of what ended up being an amazing summer. My best friend and I lived together in a large canvas tent and took every opportunity we could to hike, road trip, go to Santa Fe, our friend's cabin in the Taos Valley, the lake at Eagle's Nest, or whatever other adventure we could dream up. I have a feeling this is the first thread in what will be a recurring thread on this blog - our summer out west - so I'll leave it at that for now.
Well, for whatever reason that planted an idea in my girlfriend's head. She convinced me to apply for a job at the ranch, and she did, too. A few weeks later we had our employment papers and were booking plane tickets for a summer out West, in a state we had never been to.
A couple months later my dad drove me to the St. Louis airport for my flight. I was expecting New Mexico to be dry and arid with cacti all around. So I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived at the ranch with plenty of green, lush mountains surrounding us. That was the beginning of what ended up being an amazing summer. My best friend and I lived together in a large canvas tent and took every opportunity we could to hike, road trip, go to Santa Fe, our friend's cabin in the Taos Valley, the lake at Eagle's Nest, or whatever other adventure we could dream up. I have a feeling this is the first thread in what will be a recurring thread on this blog - our summer out west - so I'll leave it at that for now.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
My Dad
So I have now mentioned my mom and my sister but I don't want my dad to feel left out. I have lots of good memories of my dad. Before I go much further, you should know my dad has a beloved beagle. He's a great dog and has stuck with my dad through thick and thin.
The thing I appreciate most about my dad is his ability to be honest with me. Even when I was a child and it may have been more appropriate to gloss over some truths, my dad was straight with me. I really respect that. When I broke up with my college boyfriend my dad said "Well, that's OK. Life moves on. And beagles make good companions, too."
One thing that really is touching about my dad is his marriage with my stepmom. They are cute together. One of my favorite memories is when my dad and I travelled throughout Southwest England together. I was living in London at the time. My dad has a tendency to visit me in the various cities I live in and literally exhaust me. It's like when he leaves the Midwest he gets this burst of energy, this sense of I! Must! Do! This! Now! Broadway! The West End! DC! I am here now and must enjoy it!
So we had been on this driving trip through Southwest England together and stopped at this little B & B in a tiny town. We were the only guests that night, if I remember correctly. We wandered down to the town pub for dinner. It was nearly a mile walk. My dad had, maybe 3 pints, which far exceed his capacity to digest pints. In layman's terms, he was drunk. On the pitch-black walk back he stopped in a red English telephone both to call my stepmom and tell her he loved her. It was so cute. Afterwards, he talked to me about how fabulous life is and some of his memories of England from his semester abroad in college. I bet he doesn't even remember what he told me that night.
But, nonetheless, it was good because it was quality time with me and my dad.
The thing I appreciate most about my dad is his ability to be honest with me. Even when I was a child and it may have been more appropriate to gloss over some truths, my dad was straight with me. I really respect that. When I broke up with my college boyfriend my dad said "Well, that's OK. Life moves on. And beagles make good companions, too."
One thing that really is touching about my dad is his marriage with my stepmom. They are cute together. One of my favorite memories is when my dad and I travelled throughout Southwest England together. I was living in London at the time. My dad has a tendency to visit me in the various cities I live in and literally exhaust me. It's like when he leaves the Midwest he gets this burst of energy, this sense of I! Must! Do! This! Now! Broadway! The West End! DC! I am here now and must enjoy it!
So we had been on this driving trip through Southwest England together and stopped at this little B & B in a tiny town. We were the only guests that night, if I remember correctly. We wandered down to the town pub for dinner. It was nearly a mile walk. My dad had, maybe 3 pints, which far exceed his capacity to digest pints. In layman's terms, he was drunk. On the pitch-black walk back he stopped in a red English telephone both to call my stepmom and tell her he loved her. It was so cute. Afterwards, he talked to me about how fabulous life is and some of his memories of England from his semester abroad in college. I bet he doesn't even remember what he told me that night.
But, nonetheless, it was good because it was quality time with me and my dad.
Paris is a City...
You have not met my dear sister so you do not know how delightful she can be. She has an uncanny ability to say the perfect thing at the most opportune moment. Case in point: Scene: driving range. Mom: Will you hand me some balls? Sister: No, I'm a girl. I don't have balls.
Whoa! So I hope you got a kick out of that even though it was a bit crass. I generally refrain from that type of humor. I have another scene for you, though. We were nearing the end of a week-long trip with my mom, sister and me in Paris. My mom had last been to Paris the summer before I was born.
So, we returned over twenty years later with me, my mom, my sister, and the French I learned from the French teacher I later dated. We had a fabulous time as a family. I think we averaged a half dozen chocolate croissants each per day. This is seperate from the crepe, cheese, and wine count.
On our last night in Paris, we ate on the outdoor patio of a delightful restaurant in Montmartre. We were sharing our thoughts on the trip, what we liked, what we learned, what we appreciated about Paris. And my dear sister, her parting thoughts on Paris were... "Paris is a city where men feast on women."
And you know what? She has a point.
Whoa! So I hope you got a kick out of that even though it was a bit crass. I generally refrain from that type of humor. I have another scene for you, though. We were nearing the end of a week-long trip with my mom, sister and me in Paris. My mom had last been to Paris the summer before I was born.
So, we returned over twenty years later with me, my mom, my sister, and the French I learned from the French teacher I later dated. We had a fabulous time as a family. I think we averaged a half dozen chocolate croissants each per day. This is seperate from the crepe, cheese, and wine count.
On our last night in Paris, we ate on the outdoor patio of a delightful restaurant in Montmartre. We were sharing our thoughts on the trip, what we liked, what we learned, what we appreciated about Paris. And my dear sister, her parting thoughts on Paris were... "Paris is a city where men feast on women."
And you know what? She has a point.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Good Old Midwestern Girl
I've been thinking about the values I was taught when I was growing up. It's funny; there are the values you are raised with, then they are put to the test. What you emerge with can become the values that shape the adult version of you.
I would say I was raised with the values of integrity, honesty, practicality, kindness, caring and compassion. My parents and grandparents definitely encouraged me to be friendly, respectful, and have a sense of humor. Laugh at the lighter things in life, they would have said. Keep things in perspective. Enjoy good moments with friends and family. When you get to the dinner table, enjoy your meal, conversation, and don't rush. Leave room for dessert.
When I was at the age when your sense of good and bad is still fairly black and white, my parents divorced. It was a bad age to have divorced parents at. I was not able to seperate the good and the bad from the right and the wrong. But, over time it made me more resilient and more flexible. The black and white of right and wrong now have a lot of gray between them. And I'm perfectly OK with that, now that I am an adult. It took a while to get to that point but I am proud to say I am there.
So now I can choose the values I want to keep and those I want to disregard. I've now been on the East Coast for a while and have become indoctrinated in another lifestyle. The honesty and integrity, yeah, I am keeping those. They have done me well. And I really appreciate the honesty people in my life have had with me, despite difficult situations. Being genuine has been another great quality to have. So, I am going to keep those values but blend them with my East Coast acquired political correctness and savvy, plus a bit of Midwestern tact and respect.
The kindness, caring and compassion, of course we are going to keep those. I am going to bound them into the simple term of love. I love the word love. Someone once told me love is spirit on fire but I disagree. Love is entirely its own word.
But the practicality... what I have discovered as I have gotten older is while there is a place for being practical, that often doesn't get us to the life we want to live. After all, it is our passions that keep us going, right? You are not rolling out of bed to go to work per say, but rather because your work may one day lead to that perfect job you are so passionate about, or enable you to afford that fabulous 3-month vacation in France, right? I actually do love my job, but I am beginning to recognize the power of tapping into my passions. And that's what I want my life made up of, the things I am passionate about like friendship, love, travel, adventure, and making a difference in the communities I am a part of. I now see being practical as simply a tool I need to use at times in order to get to my passions.
So, I am going to live my adventurous life in a joyful way, tapping into my energy, love, grace and intelligence. Those are the values I have landed on!
I would say I was raised with the values of integrity, honesty, practicality, kindness, caring and compassion. My parents and grandparents definitely encouraged me to be friendly, respectful, and have a sense of humor. Laugh at the lighter things in life, they would have said. Keep things in perspective. Enjoy good moments with friends and family. When you get to the dinner table, enjoy your meal, conversation, and don't rush. Leave room for dessert.
When I was at the age when your sense of good and bad is still fairly black and white, my parents divorced. It was a bad age to have divorced parents at. I was not able to seperate the good and the bad from the right and the wrong. But, over time it made me more resilient and more flexible. The black and white of right and wrong now have a lot of gray between them. And I'm perfectly OK with that, now that I am an adult. It took a while to get to that point but I am proud to say I am there.
So now I can choose the values I want to keep and those I want to disregard. I've now been on the East Coast for a while and have become indoctrinated in another lifestyle. The honesty and integrity, yeah, I am keeping those. They have done me well. And I really appreciate the honesty people in my life have had with me, despite difficult situations. Being genuine has been another great quality to have. So, I am going to keep those values but blend them with my East Coast acquired political correctness and savvy, plus a bit of Midwestern tact and respect.
The kindness, caring and compassion, of course we are going to keep those. I am going to bound them into the simple term of love. I love the word love. Someone once told me love is spirit on fire but I disagree. Love is entirely its own word.
But the practicality... what I have discovered as I have gotten older is while there is a place for being practical, that often doesn't get us to the life we want to live. After all, it is our passions that keep us going, right? You are not rolling out of bed to go to work per say, but rather because your work may one day lead to that perfect job you are so passionate about, or enable you to afford that fabulous 3-month vacation in France, right? I actually do love my job, but I am beginning to recognize the power of tapping into my passions. And that's what I want my life made up of, the things I am passionate about like friendship, love, travel, adventure, and making a difference in the communities I am a part of. I now see being practical as simply a tool I need to use at times in order to get to my passions.
So, I am going to live my adventurous life in a joyful way, tapping into my energy, love, grace and intelligence. Those are the values I have landed on!
Sunday, July 12, 2009
One Night in Spain
One night in Sevilla I was travelling with a couple fellow Americans. I often feel like I am twenty-something going on thirty-something and this night was no exception. My friends wanted to go out but I was still tired from the previous night's dancing until 5 am. Spain is great for nightlife...
So, I got a glass of wine at a cafe and read one of my dorky political science books. After I had been there an hour, the waitress came over and insisted I leave. I didn't understand. Nothing closes early in Spain. Had I done something offensive?
But, leave I did and as I walked out the cafe door I realized why the waitress wanted me to leave. Outside was a processional, with several men carrying a large statue of Jesus carrying a cross laid upon a bed of carnations. A woodwind quartet followed behind, and hundreds of people carried candles and roses walking behind them. I realized, as it was close to Easter, this was related to the holiday.
I followed the procession through town with hundreds of others. We walked by each church in the town; all the churches had their doors open and were lit with candles. Then we came to the main cathedral in town where the procession ended and the men carried the statue into the church. It was one of those perfect moments you witness unexpectedly that words cannot describe. I didn't have a camera with me, but if I did a simple picture would mean more than my writing.
The night was mythical to me. Not knowing the culture, language, or significance of the ceremony it was simply beautiful to watch. I was thankful I had not gone out that night, for what I saw staying in taught me more. And, belated thanks to the waitress who insisted I leave the cafe!
So, I got a glass of wine at a cafe and read one of my dorky political science books. After I had been there an hour, the waitress came over and insisted I leave. I didn't understand. Nothing closes early in Spain. Had I done something offensive?
But, leave I did and as I walked out the cafe door I realized why the waitress wanted me to leave. Outside was a processional, with several men carrying a large statue of Jesus carrying a cross laid upon a bed of carnations. A woodwind quartet followed behind, and hundreds of people carried candles and roses walking behind them. I realized, as it was close to Easter, this was related to the holiday.
I followed the procession through town with hundreds of others. We walked by each church in the town; all the churches had their doors open and were lit with candles. Then we came to the main cathedral in town where the procession ended and the men carried the statue into the church. It was one of those perfect moments you witness unexpectedly that words cannot describe. I didn't have a camera with me, but if I did a simple picture would mean more than my writing.
The night was mythical to me. Not knowing the culture, language, or significance of the ceremony it was simply beautiful to watch. I was thankful I had not gone out that night, for what I saw staying in taught me more. And, belated thanks to the waitress who insisted I leave the cafe!
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
The White House
Recently I had the opportunity to visit the White House. One thing I continue to dwell on is how modest and simple our historic sights are. Through my travels I've gaped at Versailles, been impressed with Buckingham Palace, delighted in the beauty of the palace at Sevilla. I've been enthralled with Machu Picchu in Peru and seen the Royal Palaces at Abomey in Benin.
And then, we have the White House. It is really quite modest. Some of the embassies that grace Embassy Row are more grand and ornate. Yet, there it is. Many decisions that have shaped our world were made there. I enjoyed the visit and delighted in seeing the rooms of this great house are smaller than I had imagined, the decor more simple than expected, the sets of china rather modest. I can't explain why, but I appreciated the modesty of the White House.
And then, we have the White House. It is really quite modest. Some of the embassies that grace Embassy Row are more grand and ornate. Yet, there it is. Many decisions that have shaped our world were made there. I enjoyed the visit and delighted in seeing the rooms of this great house are smaller than I had imagined, the decor more simple than expected, the sets of china rather modest. I can't explain why, but I appreciated the modesty of the White House.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Chicago
When I was travelling abroad, I would often say I was from near Chicago. Though where I grew up is not exactly "near" Chicago, when you are describing where you are on the world stage it gets the point across. Tonight I am reminded of a couple of scenarios in which Chicago - and ultimately, the American ideal - cut across cultures.
The first is in Morocco. I was on a day-long bus ride from Tangier to Nador. A funny aside: on this bus ride, we had gone for about 2 hours through mountains without seeing anyone. It was me, two other American girls, and a bus load of men in traditional dress. We had not seen another car, bus or village. I desparately had to go to the bathroom. I finally asked the bus attendant, a gracious Muslim man, if we could pull over so I could use the facilities... i.e. nature. Just as I pulled down my pants, a bus load of Muslim men drove by, staring at my bare bottom!
Anyway, it was on this bus ride that I saw a little cafe called "Cafe Chicago" in a small Moroccan village in the mountains. What is it about our country that encourages a man who has probably never been to America to name his cafe after a great city in our country?
Another incident was late at night at a Czech bar in Prague. I got in a great conversation with a Czech gentleman who had spent a year in Chicago and some of the traditionally Czech neighborhoods surrounding the city. He loved it. He was so excited to hear I had been there and was from those parts. Anyway, it is a great city and I am glad that it is loved throughout the world.
The first is in Morocco. I was on a day-long bus ride from Tangier to Nador. A funny aside: on this bus ride, we had gone for about 2 hours through mountains without seeing anyone. It was me, two other American girls, and a bus load of men in traditional dress. We had not seen another car, bus or village. I desparately had to go to the bathroom. I finally asked the bus attendant, a gracious Muslim man, if we could pull over so I could use the facilities... i.e. nature. Just as I pulled down my pants, a bus load of Muslim men drove by, staring at my bare bottom!
Anyway, it was on this bus ride that I saw a little cafe called "Cafe Chicago" in a small Moroccan village in the mountains. What is it about our country that encourages a man who has probably never been to America to name his cafe after a great city in our country?
Another incident was late at night at a Czech bar in Prague. I got in a great conversation with a Czech gentleman who had spent a year in Chicago and some of the traditionally Czech neighborhoods surrounding the city. He loved it. He was so excited to hear I had been there and was from those parts. Anyway, it is a great city and I am glad that it is loved throughout the world.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Reflections on Independence Day
When I created this blog the intent was to tell stories from growing up in the Midwest, going to college, adventures from travelling abroad and the relationships that happen during the journey that is our lives. Looking back at the posts, I realize I have done the latter two but have reflected little on the current moment or growing up in the Midwest.
Today it is Independence Day, so it is a fitting day to bring my thoughts back home. It's also a great day to be in Washington. Nothing quite says America like going to the National Mall, where we inaugurate our presidents, for the 4th of July fireworks. We'll sit by the Washington Monument with a view of the Capitol, the White House, and the Lincoln Memorial. As I look at the White House juxtaposed with the Lincoln Memorial, it will occur to me that both Lincoln and our current president are from Illinois, my home state. The fireworks will appear over the Potomac River and Lincoln Memorial and they will be beautiful.
I am proud to be an American. I am equally proud of the bricks my family has laid in the continuing American story. I represent the four corners of Illinois. There is my grandfather, who grew up Catholic on the South Side of Chicago. His wife, my grandmother, grew up in the old state capitol of Illinois, Vandalia, the daughter of school teachers. On my mom's side, my grandfather grew up as a son of sharecroppers in central Illinois. My grandmother grew up the daughter of Austrian immigrants in northern Illinois, hearing German spoken in the house. Between these four families, at least one man fought in World War I, six men fought in World War II (including my grandfather), my paternal grandfather served in the Korean War, and many have served our country in countless other ways, from teaching to volunteering to working for the government, volunteering on political campaigns, voting, and more.
When I was on vacation with my grandparents recently in yet another beautiful part of our country, the beaches of North Carolina, I learned that my great-grandfather joined the Navy right after Pearl Harbor. This may not seem unusual until you consider he had a well-established job in the Vandalia School District, a wife and three young children. He felt so called to serve our country that he led his family across the country during his service to the Navy.
I was really touched to learn about this story. I am beginning the application process for the Peace Corps, in part because I want to serve our country. In this post-9/11 era I want to be a part of creating change in some of the most economically deprived corners of our world with my abundant American optimism and sense of opportunity. I have no illusions that I would be a good soldier. While I tremendously respect my family's service to the military, I know I would not be good at that. But I can be a good peacemaker and represent our country well in other ways. So... Peace Corps, here I come! On 4th of July, it just feels good to know that could be my next step.
Today it is Independence Day, so it is a fitting day to bring my thoughts back home. It's also a great day to be in Washington. Nothing quite says America like going to the National Mall, where we inaugurate our presidents, for the 4th of July fireworks. We'll sit by the Washington Monument with a view of the Capitol, the White House, and the Lincoln Memorial. As I look at the White House juxtaposed with the Lincoln Memorial, it will occur to me that both Lincoln and our current president are from Illinois, my home state. The fireworks will appear over the Potomac River and Lincoln Memorial and they will be beautiful.
I am proud to be an American. I am equally proud of the bricks my family has laid in the continuing American story. I represent the four corners of Illinois. There is my grandfather, who grew up Catholic on the South Side of Chicago. His wife, my grandmother, grew up in the old state capitol of Illinois, Vandalia, the daughter of school teachers. On my mom's side, my grandfather grew up as a son of sharecroppers in central Illinois. My grandmother grew up the daughter of Austrian immigrants in northern Illinois, hearing German spoken in the house. Between these four families, at least one man fought in World War I, six men fought in World War II (including my grandfather), my paternal grandfather served in the Korean War, and many have served our country in countless other ways, from teaching to volunteering to working for the government, volunteering on political campaigns, voting, and more.
When I was on vacation with my grandparents recently in yet another beautiful part of our country, the beaches of North Carolina, I learned that my great-grandfather joined the Navy right after Pearl Harbor. This may not seem unusual until you consider he had a well-established job in the Vandalia School District, a wife and three young children. He felt so called to serve our country that he led his family across the country during his service to the Navy.
I was really touched to learn about this story. I am beginning the application process for the Peace Corps, in part because I want to serve our country. In this post-9/11 era I want to be a part of creating change in some of the most economically deprived corners of our world with my abundant American optimism and sense of opportunity. I have no illusions that I would be a good soldier. While I tremendously respect my family's service to the military, I know I would not be good at that. But I can be a good peacemaker and represent our country well in other ways. So... Peace Corps, here I come! On 4th of July, it just feels good to know that could be my next step.
