The American Dream

So I go to a really, really good private school. There, I can learn from exceptionally dedicated teachers who have an amazing commitment to teaching. And my parents—how supportive they are, how incredibly invested they are in my success. At the school they’ve sacrificed to send me to, we’ve got Smartboards, a 60 acre campus, astroturf, tennis courts, baseball diamonds, rain gardens, outdoor classrooms, an art room that’s bigger than a single floor of my house, computers everywhere, books, a dining center (not a cafeteria), low class sizes, low student-to-faculty ratios, and we have all these resources, and I can study hard, do the homework, get extra help, come in early, stay late.

And I can do this, and I can apply to really, really good colleges. Maybe I don't get into my top choice, but that’s okay, the others will do just fine. At college, I can challenge myself, push myself with my courses, come in early, stay late, talk with professors, take them out to lunch, do research with them, get glowing recommendations, read interesting and invigorating things, learn more about the world, and eventually, graduate, and move into the Real World (not the TV show). I can get a job, maybe through a connection at an internship I did over the summer. And maybe I got that internship because of that research I did with that professor who wrote me that glowing recommendation. 

So then I’m working, and earning money. And I can work hard--harder than others at my company or firm, I can rise to the top because of my work ethic, my drive. I make money, and of course, spend--consume--and I contribute to the economy through my consumerism! This is great! This is how it’s supposed to work! Money that I’ve made goes back into the economy! And who knows, maybe I’ll have enough money left over to have kids. That would be nice. 

With this, I successfully participate in Capitalism! Don’t you see? I studied harder than others at school! I worked harder at college than others! I worked harder than others at my job! Deservedly, I make more money than others.....Deservedly? 

Really? What did I do to deserve this? It seems like I was given this opportunity through some accident of birth, a roll of the cosmic dice. See, what we neglected to consider, was the fourteen year-old girl living in that terrible part of [substitute your favorite American city here]. She takes care of her four younger brothers by herself because she’s never met her father, and her mother is generally too busy looking for work or money or heroin or cocaine. The other problem the girl has (besides feeding and clothing her younger brothers, and going to school herself), is she’s pregnant with her seventeen year old boyfriend’s child. She’s been hanging out with this boy because he has been giving her money he’s earned from slinging drugs. School’s mostly a thing of the past for him. Naturally, he wanted sex, and she obliged. Was there really any choice?

Now, tell me something. Is this her fault? Is she poor because she didn’t work hard enough, like I did? Is she lazy? Is it unfair for her to receive “handouts”? And I’m wondering: why are people hungry in the richest nation in the world? Maybe the problem isn’t with her, but with the situation she was born into. Maybe it’s a systemic problem instead of an individual problem.

But I studied hard, I worked hard—I certainly did, So why should I have to give my money that I earned to people like this girl? Because I was given an amazing head start on life. It’s like I’ve been placed on a completely different playing field, and given the chance to compete. And compete I did.

And the fourteen year-old girl’s playing field? Well, not quite the same as mine. Hers isn’t made of Astroturf. More like concrete. Hers doesn’t have big white stadium lights, just the neon sign of a liquor store. 

So go ahead, call me a socialist. Call me vindictive. Call me Anti-Capitalist and Un-American. You can tell me I’m being too political, but I’m really just trying to be humane.  

Politics as Usual?

Tuesday night, I watched President Obama deliver the State of the Union Address, and thought about what the country saw in him two years ago, and what I still see in him today, as he begins to recover from the strong message the country sent him and his party during the Midterm elections this year.


For me, Mr. Obama is a highly inspirational figure, as he's done something no one has ever done before. Without a doubt, Mr. Obama will have a significant place in American history as the first black president in a country whose past is splattered with the horrors of slavery and Jim Crow. Mr. Obama's presidency is an impressive thing which will stand out in the pages of history text books, as well as the hearts and minds of those who lived to see it happen.


But more than just getting elected, it's what he stands for that has impressed itself upon me. He stands for hope and change (At least, I hope it's more than a campaign slogan), and his ethnicity is a constant reminder of the incredible progress that people can make in this country.


I'm tired of the same old politics, the bickering, the at-each-other's-throats, the mindless obsession with staying in power, the unwillingness of "leaders" in Congress to give an inch, or compromise (an almost childlike quality)--which all comes at the expense of Americans who really do buy into this Democracy.


I expect more from our leaders in government, and I'm apprehensive towards the future that our progenitors have laid out and created for us...with immediate concerns like the defecit or terror or health care, but also with long term concerns like the impending disappearance of oil and water. Having experienced 9/11 when I was still in elementary school, and with complex international relationships with North Korea and countries in the Middle East, the world seems precarious and scary. With the advent of China and India, there's the growing possibility that America may have already reached its Golden Age--and that maybe I missed it.


So I'm nostalgic for a past I never experienced, but that my parents experienced. This is the past of JFK and Civil Rights and the year 1968; and I'm ready for my day. I'm young, idealistic, and perhaps a bit naive, but energized by the events in my parents' youth, which remind me of what America really stands for. In November of 2008, the hope was that maybe this one man, this one figure, could unify us, and bring us back to that day where it seemed like anything was possible. Maybe my faith in government is misplaced, and I don't yet have the cynicism of my father, but I think it's okay to believe in a person and a set of ideals and values. 


To me, Mr. Obama embodies a new wave of politics and leadership, as he himself is new, fresh, inspiring, capable, and seemingly unstoppable (he certainly seemed that way in 2008). He somehow embodies the change my generation wants to see in the world, and he's the hope of America. It's not only his blackness that sets him apart, though that's a constant visual reminder, but it's his rectitude and strength. There's a palpable purpose to him that makes me think we're going in the right direction. I'm proud to call him our president, and I trust him. There's a hope that maybe he can unify us as a country and rise above the bitter partisanship that seems to consume Washington and the 24-hour news cycle. Maybe that's a bit too much to ask in one man, but maybe he's the start.


In November of 2008, there was a sense that perhaps we had gotten it right with this one. I know there will always be doubters and people who have honest ideological differences, but even Limbaugh, Beck, and Hannity had to be in awe the day he was sworn in as president.


During his campaign, this poster became immensely popular as a symbol of him and his campaign. One of the reasons that this poster has been so successful and iconic, I think, is that it embodies all of what I'm talking about here in this single shot of Mr. Obama looking upwards towards better things. The other thing that this picture does, is that it removes Mr. Obama's color. He's red, white, and blue--American--not black or white. And maybe this is one of the most important things people see in him. 

Maybe I Get It

The other day as I was sitting in church, I think I got it--or at least a part of it. I think I got a little glimpse into why people come to church so regularly every Sunday, and I was pretty moved thinking about it. I had just come from teaching Sunday School, and had just finished ushering my Kindergartners into church as I sat down next to my mom, who is deeply religious and has been taking me and my brother to church practically since we were born. 


I looked around at all the people there: the old ladies who are there every single Sunday, prim and proper, their noses expertly powdered, their makeup meticulous, their pearls aligned just right, some with gloves and hats, some still with husbands, all wearing truly their Sunday's Best; The middle aged couples with kids my age, most of whom are absent from church on Sundays; The younger couples in their late twenties and early thirties who are just starting to have kids. And as I looked around, I realized why I do really like going to church, even when it means getting up early on a Sunday morning. 


I'm not sure if I believe in God, and I don't know what happens when we die--I haven't really figured that out yet--but I've always gotten a warm feeling of community at church, from the time when I first started singing in the youth choir before our voices changed, and now, as I'm a part of the youth group at church. It's something special to belong, to be part of a group--and that's exactly how I feel at church. I can walk in there and instantly see people I know--adults, children, and kids my age--and be recognized, feel welcomed, invited, and wanted.  


And sitting there on Sunday morning, I saw all of these people who congregate here every week, under the big, expansive, strong roof of The Church of the Redeemer, and I saw them as one body, one group. In receiving communion, singing hymns, and listening to the gospel and the sermon, we all share together in something that's much bigger than any of us, but we all put our collective selves into it. 


For an hour on Sunday morning in that church as the sunlight filters into the church and hits the dark umber wooden support beams, we can all be together as one people and one body. We can all share in each other's hurt, pain, struggles, burdens, successes, joys, and jubilation. And through this, there's this heavenly exhale that we all take (that I took on Sunday), and there's this beautiful release, where we can let our problems be lifted up and carried away, feeling lighter and strengthened. I saw the church as bringing out the capacity for people to put aside their differences and share in a deep and firm support for each other. 


I liked thinking about that kind of faith--I think I'll be back.