I am not an activist, yet I am passionate and loyal to my cause. I'm a lioness, a wolf, a swan...dedicated to the deep connection and unconditional love of family. My family. Yours. The woman who migrates each night from bus stop to bus stop wrapped head to toe in her white blanket. I long to be loved by my own mother still.
And that is why I am so taken by this side of the election. It is, to me, the heart of what is to come. As joyful as parenting is, the ultimate intention, so too is it the most humbling of experiences. And that is what we need at the core of the president of our country.
" Malia Obama probably wasn’t sure if her Dad would make it home from work to watch her soccer game this past Friday night. He’s been pretty busy lately. But her Mom and her little sister would be there. The flow of the kids moving the ball down the field, under the lights of a chilly night in October. The families chatting on the sidelines. The starlight glow of downtown Chicago rising up from the north.
Malia Obama at mid field shouts “Mom!” And the smile, grace, and presence of the woman whose eyes never once leave her daughter---no matter who else she speaks to, waves back and sends a radiant smile. In that one wave and smile, you see hope come alive before your very eyes.
Then just a few minutes after eight; something like a shift in earth’s gravity occurs. To the casual observer, nothing in this scene has changed. That pull of the earth’s power must have been imagined. The true city dweller will feel it first, before they even see it. Blink your eyes and they appear. Ringing the shadows of this soccer field are people with guns. Serious people with guns. Like oak trees that move. The phrase, “Not on my watch” flashes through your head. You have to look hard to make sure they are even there. You never really see a gun. You’re not even sure they are moving. But when you blink your eyes, somehow their positions have changed. Something about the way they just appear calms your breathing. Instinctively you know. These are the good guys.
With that feeling of true safety pressed firmly in your very soul; you can remember the real secret at the heart of the city: we of the city are just a million small town kid's soccer game scenes all strung together. So the kids laugh and kick the soccer ball. Then some guy in a blue cap walks out of the gym next door. Hands in his pocket, face down, by himself. He walks over to Malia’s Mom, who has 3 conversations going on simultaneously with folks on the sidelines. The quiet guy in the blue cap puts his arm around Malia’s Mom. Shakes hands with a couple of the people. Talks with Malia’s Mom for a minute or two.
Just then a small miracle occurs. The quiet guy in the blue cap who nobody in the crowd of really paid all that much attention to; scrunches down so he is face to face with Malia’s little sister Sasha. He lifts up the brim on the cap. And then, standing 15 feet behind Sasha you see what she’s seeing up close. You see that smile. That smile that resounds with the very power and the glory of the city lights behind it. That smile now almost ready to take it's place in American history. You can’t hear, and are happy not to hear, what he’s saying to his youngest daughter. But you do hear her giggle. Then the father takes the daughter’s hand. The younger daughter. The one who is not in the game. The one who by all rights and purposes and measures any of us know at this time in our history---was destined not to get a lot of attention tonight. They move back in the shadows, behind the sideline crowd. Seen only by that quiet show of force here to keep them absolutely safe. Then the miracle: they have a foot race. While the soccer game is still going on. Just the two of them. Sasha and her Dad take off together, both running at full speed, as fast and then faster than either of them could ever imagine. Sasha laughing, and laughing at the finish line. Her Dad swoops down and picks her up. Then that smile. This time only for his daughter. No one else was looking. It was just for her. His youngest daughter’s giggle. It’s the music of his promise to make sure that everyone’s included.
And this past Friday night in Chicago: Malia Obama’s team won the game."
This is not mine. I copied and pasted it here from Busha Full of Grace and she copied and pasted it from Misplaced Mama.
She encouraged readers to copy this to their blogs.
It moved me. It spoke to me. The election is over. We have a new president. A man, a husband, and a father who sees the value of family more clearly than we've seen for a long time. Let's embrace this and see what happens.
Showing posts with label editorial. Show all posts
Showing posts with label editorial. Show all posts
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Skeletons in the Closet
Note: This was my very first post on my blog four years ago when Bush was running for his second term against Senator John Kerry. It's worth repeating because the same thing is happening now. This time it's not so much about a military record, but rather actions in the distant past that candidates are using against one another. I want to say, "Please, stop it already. Each of you just tell me how you'd run the country differently than it's being run now to make things better.
I was a teenager and college student during the late 60s and early 70s. Most of the presidential candidates during the last 10 years have been my age or a bit older. So often these candidates are judged on what choices they made during the 60s and 70s when they were impressionable young adults, who really had no idea what they wanted to do or where they would be when they were 50-60 years old. They were active participants in their decade and culture as we all were and they did things that kids did at that age. Of course now a student at Harvard (or Hawaii Pacific University or North Idaho College or University of Idaho or Matanuska-Susitna College) who has aspirations to be president or the very least a public servant may think twice about being offered a joint at a party on a Friday night after a long week of classes, tests, papers and labs, but in the 60’s this kind of behavior had yet to be used against anyone.
On December 1, 1969, the United States began a new method* of drafting young men to fight the war in Vietnam: It held a lottery. It worked like this: Each day of the year was printed on a piece of paper. These pieces of paper, representing each potential draftee's birthday, were placed in blue plastic capsules. Then all 366 capsules (one for each day of the year, including leap years) were placed in a large glass jar. As millions watched on TV or listened on radio, the capsules were drawn from the jar, one by one. The first date drawn was assigned a draft number of "one"; the next date drawn received draft number "two"; and so on, until each day of the year -- each potential birthday -- had been drawn from the jar and assigned a draft number. After the lottery, draftees were called for duty in order of their draft number, beginning with number "one," proceeding to number "two," and so on, until the military's manpower needs were met. So if you drew a low number in the lottery, you were likely to be drafted; if you drew a high number, you probably wouldn't be. In this particular draft**, anyone who received a number lower than 196 was eventually called to report; anyone who received 196 or higher was not. (http://www.cnn.com/SPECIALS/cold.war/episodes/13/the.draft/)
On that night I was watching the lottery with my boyfriend and his fraternity brothers and their girls friends. You have to know....and I do, since I was there...that almost all of them were hoping for a high number. Meaning if their birthday was May 1, they prayed that the May 1 ball was 366th ball drawn. There were tears and cheers that night and the conversation groups that formed, (high number groups and low numbers groups) had topics ranging from enlistment, to staying in college for as long as possible, to moving to Canada, to having a friend of someone's Dad make a call, or having Dad make a call to see if there was a way to avoid the draft. That night the feeling was that nobody thought any less of anyone in any group. If you were lucky enough to have the grades and the dollars to stay in college that was great. If you could move to Canada that was okay, too. If your Dad was a retired General and could get you in the reserves that was okay...or if you had to go and you figured out a way to get sent home by being wounded enough times without getting killed, then that was okay and if you wanted to enlist the next day that was just fine, too. My point is...it didn't make a difference what your choice was, because it was your choice. Nobody thought any less of these articulate, intelligent young men. We just didn't want them killed in a seemingly senseless war. Sound familiar?
So why do we chastise candidates for their actions of some 30 years ago? I think we should just look at their political record from the recent past. Look at things they've done in their job working for a better America and make decisions based on that.
I was a teenager and college student during the late 60s and early 70s. Most of the presidential candidates during the last 10 years have been my age or a bit older. So often these candidates are judged on what choices they made during the 60s and 70s when they were impressionable young adults, who really had no idea what they wanted to do or where they would be when they were 50-60 years old. They were active participants in their decade and culture as we all were and they did things that kids did at that age. Of course now a student at Harvard (or Hawaii Pacific University or North Idaho College or University of Idaho or Matanuska-Susitna College) who has aspirations to be president or the very least a public servant may think twice about being offered a joint at a party on a Friday night after a long week of classes, tests, papers and labs, but in the 60’s this kind of behavior had yet to be used against anyone.
On December 1, 1969, the United States began a new method* of drafting young men to fight the war in Vietnam: It held a lottery. It worked like this: Each day of the year was printed on a piece of paper. These pieces of paper, representing each potential draftee's birthday, were placed in blue plastic capsules. Then all 366 capsules (one for each day of the year, including leap years) were placed in a large glass jar. As millions watched on TV or listened on radio, the capsules were drawn from the jar, one by one. The first date drawn was assigned a draft number of "one"; the next date drawn received draft number "two"; and so on, until each day of the year -- each potential birthday -- had been drawn from the jar and assigned a draft number. After the lottery, draftees were called for duty in order of their draft number, beginning with number "one," proceeding to number "two," and so on, until the military's manpower needs were met. So if you drew a low number in the lottery, you were likely to be drafted; if you drew a high number, you probably wouldn't be. In this particular draft**, anyone who received a number lower than 196 was eventually called to report; anyone who received 196 or higher was not. (http://www.cnn.com/SPECIALS/cold.war/episodes/13/the.draft/)
On that night I was watching the lottery with my boyfriend and his fraternity brothers and their girls friends. You have to know....and I do, since I was there...that almost all of them were hoping for a high number. Meaning if their birthday was May 1, they prayed that the May 1 ball was 366th ball drawn. There were tears and cheers that night and the conversation groups that formed, (high number groups and low numbers groups) had topics ranging from enlistment, to staying in college for as long as possible, to moving to Canada, to having a friend of someone's Dad make a call, or having Dad make a call to see if there was a way to avoid the draft. That night the feeling was that nobody thought any less of anyone in any group. If you were lucky enough to have the grades and the dollars to stay in college that was great. If you could move to Canada that was okay, too. If your Dad was a retired General and could get you in the reserves that was okay...or if you had to go and you figured out a way to get sent home by being wounded enough times without getting killed, then that was okay and if you wanted to enlist the next day that was just fine, too. My point is...it didn't make a difference what your choice was, because it was your choice. Nobody thought any less of these articulate, intelligent young men. We just didn't want them killed in a seemingly senseless war. Sound familiar?
So why do we chastise candidates for their actions of some 30 years ago? I think we should just look at their political record from the recent past. Look at things they've done in their job working for a better America and make decisions based on that.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
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