Your heart pounds excitedly. You relevé to see above the other couple hundred heads in the crowd. After years of dreaming about seeing Broadway shows on the regular, you're living in New York and can take the ACE line 6 stops uptown to play the lottery. Tickets used to drain your parents' wallet, but now, with your residency you can afford a weekend gamble because, after all, you can just come up and play next week.
You turn nervous and jittery to your friend Steph. This is his first time playing the lotto, this your second. You recall the last time you played lotto, how very many people there were and how even with three people, none of your names were called. You dial down your expectations realizing there's probably twice as many people here vying for coveted front row and box seats to the year's biggest blockbuster. Still you can't help but be hopeful and pray to Heavenly Father that you'll get to enjoy this most delightful of delights.
The man with the megaphone begins calling names. You clap as lucky patrons scream with joy even though a little monster inside you gets increasingly bitter and worrisome as seats disappear. States are shouted out: California! Indiana! Massachusetts! Minnesota! New Jersey...(The great state of no-smiles always gets a groan.) You wonder to yourself if it helps that you put WA down instead of NY. Maybe they're nicer to out-of-towners; people from far reaches of the globe may only get to see this show once. Your suspicions are suddenly confirmed as places like Japan and Israel are called. (Seriously, how many people from Israel are at this lottery?) This game has got to be rigged. Somehow they sort through the whole pile of cards in under a minute seeking the candidates most likely never to return. You rue the day you moved to New York. Even though you put WA down on your card, somehow they know you live here and will come back religiously until you get a ticket. You'll never win lottery now.
The front row is completely gone. Only 8 seats left which means only 4 names called since most everyone asks for 2 tickets. Just as you tilt your head to the ground swearing you'll never convert to Mormonism, you hear, "From the great state of Washington, Ben Bartels!" An uncharacteristically manly grunt of "YES" is emitted from your ecstatic larynx. Steph pats you on the back as you worm your way through the crowd to the doors leading inside the theater. You can't believe it. You can practically feel the gleeful hormones surging through your body. You make a mental note to ask one of your Mormon friends back home to convert you. Hopefully it's not too late to go on a mission.
The rest of the day you run on essence of whimsy. Life is beautiful and everything laughable. Jealous texts from friends reading "FU****!!!!" or "F*** YOOOOOUUUU!!!" help you appreciate what a blessing it is to see this show for such a low price. The world's a divine miracle. The show is fabulous. People are literally 15 feet away from your face. Some ensemble members glance up at you from time to time. The speakers are right in front of your face but you don't care; by the time you're 60, doctors will probably be able to repair eardrums. The giddiness lasts for the rest of the week. After the haze is over, you wonder if you'll ever be able to win the lottery again...
To your amazement, next week, it happens again! Your friend Nik wins the Wicked lotto and your friend Steph graciously allows you to see it with him as you've been long anticipating the day you could see Teal Wicks in person. You revel in the amazingness that is winning the lottery again and seeing a long-running Broadway show front row with someone you admire playing the lead. You think your luck has probably run out.
But then you and your friend Haylin decide you wanted a gay night out so you chance playing the Priscilla lottery. You win and are then witness to the gayest thing you've ever seen on stage. Your luck is uncanny. Your status update is met with a long line of angry comments. You think this is probably the last time this'll happen.
Well, you were sort of right. Colleen and you went lottery hopping and ended up at Godspell which plays half an hour later than the other lotteries. The lottery has all been called so you go to the front to ask if they have standing room tickets. The ticket woman tells you to "Hold on a sec" and proceeds to usher the winners inside. To your surprise and bewilderment, she realized she forgot to give away the last pair of seats so she unceremoniously hands over the ticket slips proclaiming "Winners". You see Godspell up close and on cushions. Spit flies into your face. Colleen is actually pulled on stage by a very hot Jesus to play pictionary! You start to think fate really likes you or maybe God is once again trying to tell you something...
I hope you enjoyed my second-person account of my first lottery win!...and the subsequent slew of shudder-inducing, murder-inciting wins. (Maybe I should play the real lottery.) In case you couldn't tell, I won box seats for The Book of Mormon on Broadway with my friend Steph. And by the way, that was our first week in the city... After that I won all the other Broadway lotteries. Boo-ya bitches. Yes, I'm gloating. Yes, it was phenomenal. Yes, you should reconsider being my friend, either to partake of my amazing luck or to forever upturn your nose at me. Now here comes the usual explicating.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the New York theatre scene, and may someday want to visit there, here's the rundown on discount tickets. There are lots of discount seats. You can check out a number of sites including playbill.com, groupon.com, studentrush.org, or tkts.org. (There are several other ones depending on the occasion.) The easiest discount tickets to get are the rush seats which become available the day of a performance when the box office opens. There are a limited number of seats and the prices hover around the $25-$40 area. Most shows do general rush (available to all the public) but some only allow student rush. If a show is sold-out, you can pay about $30 to rent a little space in the back of the house; this is called standing room only.
The lottery, which I described above, is something only the really popular shows do. Basically, they make so much money and sell so many seats that they can afford to sell the front row for about $32 a pop. Currently there are 5 lotteries that I'm aware of: Wicked, Godspell, Rent, Priscilla Queen of the Desert, and The Book of Mormon. The lottery is open to the public two and a half hours before the show starts and closes two hours prior. At this time, they pull names at random and the lucky winners can either request 1 or 2 seats at the discount price as long as they have cash (some allow credit) and relevant ID. Oh, the no-brainer: YOU HAVE TO SHOW UP TO HEAR YOUR NAME CALLED. (Honestly, I don't know why you would go to the trouble to enter your name and then leave. Stupid.)
And that is the very truncated guide to Broadway show hopping! If you would like more details, feel free to ask, provided you know who I am and how to reach me. (In later posts I will give more details on show tix and such. Stay tuned.) I promise I was just as excited as you would've been had you played these lotteries.
By the way, another blog post is coming later today. You should read it. Tell your friends.
Devilishly,
Jamin
Friday, December 23, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Challenge/Is This Home?
Dear Neglected Readers (You've doubled in number since the last time I addressed you this way),
Ironically, when your life is really rich with experience you have less time to write about it. So for this holiday season I'll give you a present: a whirlwind walk through of my life this fall. Lucky you.
I endeavor to write at least one post a day until the end of this year. In that time you should be duly informed on every minuscule detail of my life and will not feel the need to talk to me ever again. So starts the challenge.
Post 1:
Is this home?
The first year away from your parents is a huge transitional period for any college student. Most people long to go home at least once in their first semester. Many did in fact make the venture for Thanksgiving or various weekend excursions. I did not return until this break for practical purposes; a journey across the country is more time-consuming than is worth two days of rest. But I don't think I wanted to return anyway. For me, in the quiet moments (and by quiet I mean there's still honking, the sound of an old radiator clanking and screaming hall mates next door) sitting alone in my dorm room, my yearning to be home was subdued by the knowledge that I would no longer return to the house I had grown up in.
The old brick rancher had many faults. Years of remodeling consisted of replacing two bathrooms, tearing up pee-soaked, skin-irritating carpet, removing the entryway pillars, re-flooring the kitchen, a new heating system, dishwasher, laundry machine, sink, refrigerator, basement light, basement bedroom, and windows, more shades of paint than on an entire season of Bravo's Top Design, and more furniture shifting than a household that frequently suffers earthquakes. The yard weathered tumultuous seasons, a trampoline, two swing-sets, a grave, two hot-tubs, several birthday parties, a family of 12 Russians, gaggles of teenagers, golf-swing tread-marks, a pig roast, and years of doo-doo from a revolving doggie door that brought us a Dalmatian, a Labrador, a beloved Dachshund named Munchie, and our two current dogs Rudy and Celine. But after all the remodels and the outdoor apparel, that house became beautiful, even if you could scratch your head on the ceiling or still find ants crawling out of the top step to the basement.
It had what every house inevitably gains: the feeling of home. Years of life become embedded in the floor. Every passage through your hallway is a reminder of the many nights you spent with friends who vomited from drinking too much water of all things, who vomited from trying alcohol (a little more typical), who surprised you on your sixteenth birthday by pelting you with water balloons, who ate, slept, and laughed with you until 5 in the morning and begrudgingly left four hours later. Sitting at your dining room table for dinner you recall decorating for the many holiday seasons, coming home to a burnt spot on that table and a house full of drunken, costumed adults, dancing with a Jamaican man who randomly hopped the fence of your backyard, playing Quelf, Loaded Questions and other board games, sitting with your grandparents to fill them in on the news of the day. Walking into your bedroom you remember all the feelings of angst, all the nights lying awake worrying how you'd fare at the next music competition or how you'd be seen at school, all the nightmares falling into the abyss, all the pleasant dreams about friends you miss, all the happy nights when adrenaline kept you awake, and the creepy vision of the old man you watched die in that very room. And your couch. Oh your couch. Endless hours spent mindlessly watching television or napping or just plain doing nothing to decompress from the wild life you live outside your house.
But, everything that's good feels painful to lose so I guess it's a testament to the childhood I lived in that house that I miss the fluorescent-lit Bionicle Battles in my basement and the movie nights with cast mates. And however much I miss that house, I'm oddly freed by returning to a place I've never lived in. There's a sense of continuity, that this time of my life is resolutely about self-discovery, that I'm a floater, not quite ready to settle.
Separation makes you appreciate everything you loved about your corner of the world even if it had nothing going for it EXCEPT that it was your corner of the world. The familiarity, the intimate knowledge you have of its inner life, the peers you first learned how to be a friend for, the teachers you thought knew everything, the town you couldn't wait to get out of but also secretly cherished. It's at home where you don't feel guilty doing nothing but sit on your couch for hours on end. It's at home you feel like you can become invisible. It's at home where you remember your dreams and the gap that still exists between who you are and who you want to be.
For me, though, home isn't as fixed as I imagined it. I discovered truth to the phrase "home is where the heart is". I feel that inexplicable aura of comfort here in this new house. I felt it the moment my dogs licked my face in recognition of my scent after months away. My parents have filled their energy in this house and I can be safe here. But, I'm also sure now that I've spread this aura back on the other side of the continent. It was born of my parents but didn't come from them. I created my own home with my new friends in New York, who have taken this journey with me into the cliched but essential step into adulthood. We've tested the bounds of our late-night sanity, the balance between work and play, the tolerance of less than likable people, shouldered the burdens of each other's emotional baggage, discovered what's vitally important to us when no one else is acting as our conscience. It's with these people now that home is forming. It's not a home of accumulated history or square footage (No, definitely not square footage. I'm basically living in a closet.). It's arcane but we're starting to get a sense of place.
I may one day find another house that is a home. But for now, I don't need it. The illimitable power of friends and family presses itself upon me both here and there, and I am content.
Jamin
Ironically, when your life is really rich with experience you have less time to write about it. So for this holiday season I'll give you a present: a whirlwind walk through of my life this fall. Lucky you.
I endeavor to write at least one post a day until the end of this year. In that time you should be duly informed on every minuscule detail of my life and will not feel the need to talk to me ever again. So starts the challenge.
Post 1:
Is this home?
The first year away from your parents is a huge transitional period for any college student. Most people long to go home at least once in their first semester. Many did in fact make the venture for Thanksgiving or various weekend excursions. I did not return until this break for practical purposes; a journey across the country is more time-consuming than is worth two days of rest. But I don't think I wanted to return anyway. For me, in the quiet moments (and by quiet I mean there's still honking, the sound of an old radiator clanking and screaming hall mates next door) sitting alone in my dorm room, my yearning to be home was subdued by the knowledge that I would no longer return to the house I had grown up in.
The old brick rancher had many faults. Years of remodeling consisted of replacing two bathrooms, tearing up pee-soaked, skin-irritating carpet, removing the entryway pillars, re-flooring the kitchen, a new heating system, dishwasher, laundry machine, sink, refrigerator, basement light, basement bedroom, and windows, more shades of paint than on an entire season of Bravo's Top Design, and more furniture shifting than a household that frequently suffers earthquakes. The yard weathered tumultuous seasons, a trampoline, two swing-sets, a grave, two hot-tubs, several birthday parties, a family of 12 Russians, gaggles of teenagers, golf-swing tread-marks, a pig roast, and years of doo-doo from a revolving doggie door that brought us a Dalmatian, a Labrador, a beloved Dachshund named Munchie, and our two current dogs Rudy and Celine. But after all the remodels and the outdoor apparel, that house became beautiful, even if you could scratch your head on the ceiling or still find ants crawling out of the top step to the basement.
It had what every house inevitably gains: the feeling of home. Years of life become embedded in the floor. Every passage through your hallway is a reminder of the many nights you spent with friends who vomited from drinking too much water of all things, who vomited from trying alcohol (a little more typical), who surprised you on your sixteenth birthday by pelting you with water balloons, who ate, slept, and laughed with you until 5 in the morning and begrudgingly left four hours later. Sitting at your dining room table for dinner you recall decorating for the many holiday seasons, coming home to a burnt spot on that table and a house full of drunken, costumed adults, dancing with a Jamaican man who randomly hopped the fence of your backyard, playing Quelf, Loaded Questions and other board games, sitting with your grandparents to fill them in on the news of the day. Walking into your bedroom you remember all the feelings of angst, all the nights lying awake worrying how you'd fare at the next music competition or how you'd be seen at school, all the nightmares falling into the abyss, all the pleasant dreams about friends you miss, all the happy nights when adrenaline kept you awake, and the creepy vision of the old man you watched die in that very room. And your couch. Oh your couch. Endless hours spent mindlessly watching television or napping or just plain doing nothing to decompress from the wild life you live outside your house.
But, everything that's good feels painful to lose so I guess it's a testament to the childhood I lived in that house that I miss the fluorescent-lit Bionicle Battles in my basement and the movie nights with cast mates. And however much I miss that house, I'm oddly freed by returning to a place I've never lived in. There's a sense of continuity, that this time of my life is resolutely about self-discovery, that I'm a floater, not quite ready to settle.
Separation makes you appreciate everything you loved about your corner of the world even if it had nothing going for it EXCEPT that it was your corner of the world. The familiarity, the intimate knowledge you have of its inner life, the peers you first learned how to be a friend for, the teachers you thought knew everything, the town you couldn't wait to get out of but also secretly cherished. It's at home where you don't feel guilty doing nothing but sit on your couch for hours on end. It's at home you feel like you can become invisible. It's at home where you remember your dreams and the gap that still exists between who you are and who you want to be.
For me, though, home isn't as fixed as I imagined it. I discovered truth to the phrase "home is where the heart is". I feel that inexplicable aura of comfort here in this new house. I felt it the moment my dogs licked my face in recognition of my scent after months away. My parents have filled their energy in this house and I can be safe here. But, I'm also sure now that I've spread this aura back on the other side of the continent. It was born of my parents but didn't come from them. I created my own home with my new friends in New York, who have taken this journey with me into the cliched but essential step into adulthood. We've tested the bounds of our late-night sanity, the balance between work and play, the tolerance of less than likable people, shouldered the burdens of each other's emotional baggage, discovered what's vitally important to us when no one else is acting as our conscience. It's with these people now that home is forming. It's not a home of accumulated history or square footage (No, definitely not square footage. I'm basically living in a closet.). It's arcane but we're starting to get a sense of place.
I may one day find another house that is a home. But for now, I don't need it. The illimitable power of friends and family presses itself upon me both here and there, and I am content.
Jamin
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
For My Mother and Grandfather: What He Left
Packages with seaweed and tea leaves. Letters that no one could properly translate. Black and white photographs of a family she couldn’t remember. These attempts at reconciliation were sent in the mail every few years. Traces of a family my mother could have had. But the young boys seated on her father’s lap did not bear familiar faces or even have names. They were just that, traces.
Finally, earlier this year my mom receives a message on facebook from a man claiming to be her half-brother. Eventually we verify that he and the rest of his family are indeed related to us. We scour his profile for photos. There’s an album of my cousin’s recent marriage, the perfect place to see all our lost family. While we’re unsure who is a sister or a brother and so on, the old man is unmistakably my mother’s father, the man who walked out on her life.
He had attained a great age and in the subsequent scramble of communication, it was heavily implied that my mom return to Korea to see him before he passed. A combination of finances, practicality and indignation prevented us from flying her over immediately. We at least agreed that the journey should wait until this coming spring. So we contented ourselves with befriending the younger members of our lost family.
But now he has passed. Now there will be no more chance to see him. And yet, I do not feel grief. His blood runs through my veins, but it is his mistakes that have meant more to our family than his heritage.
If he had not been an alcoholic and driven my grandmother away, she might not have been homeless, might not have been desperate enough to seek a refuge for her daughter. My mother would not have been sent to America to forge a new life, that came with its own challenges, but a better life. She would not have the spirit of competition or the inner ferocity that allowed her to succeed despite being the only Asian of her generation to grace a small beat-nick town. She would not have been able to pay her own way through college. Might not have met my dad at that college. Might not have married him and had a child. Might not have sought to create a happier, stabler family than the one she left behind or was raised in. Might not have been my mother.
On the night I heard the news, my mother said she could not stop crying. I wasn’t sure what spawned her tears. Love? Perhaps not. More like lost opportunity. A sense of unresolved tension. A chance to fill the void left. A chance to forgive, to leave the homeless little girl behind.
So grandfather, I cannot love you, but I am grateful to you. You gave my mother a life. You paid with thousands of miles separating you and your kin and years of mild resentment mingled with longing curiosity. We spoke of your role in our family as only a missing piece of the family tree. But at least for me, you were an outgrowth of a branch, a canker on the branches that really rooted me to the ground: my adopted grandparents. They were the faces I saw every day after school in childhood. They were the loving embraces I knew meant safety. Theirs are the scents I recognize from around the corner. They’ll be the ones I mourn when they pass.
How strange it is then that when I think on you, I cry. I think, it’s not for you. It’s for my mother. For what she thinks she could have recovered by meeting you. Or whatever it is that makes her sad. All I know is that your passing means just this to me: I love my mother and my family. You gave us that and you needn’t have given anything else. I won’t look back in regret of a missed opportunity. But I hope you find peace.
Finally, earlier this year my mom receives a message on facebook from a man claiming to be her half-brother. Eventually we verify that he and the rest of his family are indeed related to us. We scour his profile for photos. There’s an album of my cousin’s recent marriage, the perfect place to see all our lost family. While we’re unsure who is a sister or a brother and so on, the old man is unmistakably my mother’s father, the man who walked out on her life.
He had attained a great age and in the subsequent scramble of communication, it was heavily implied that my mom return to Korea to see him before he passed. A combination of finances, practicality and indignation prevented us from flying her over immediately. We at least agreed that the journey should wait until this coming spring. So we contented ourselves with befriending the younger members of our lost family.
But now he has passed. Now there will be no more chance to see him. And yet, I do not feel grief. His blood runs through my veins, but it is his mistakes that have meant more to our family than his heritage.
If he had not been an alcoholic and driven my grandmother away, she might not have been homeless, might not have been desperate enough to seek a refuge for her daughter. My mother would not have been sent to America to forge a new life, that came with its own challenges, but a better life. She would not have the spirit of competition or the inner ferocity that allowed her to succeed despite being the only Asian of her generation to grace a small beat-nick town. She would not have been able to pay her own way through college. Might not have met my dad at that college. Might not have married him and had a child. Might not have sought to create a happier, stabler family than the one she left behind or was raised in. Might not have been my mother.
On the night I heard the news, my mother said she could not stop crying. I wasn’t sure what spawned her tears. Love? Perhaps not. More like lost opportunity. A sense of unresolved tension. A chance to fill the void left. A chance to forgive, to leave the homeless little girl behind.
So grandfather, I cannot love you, but I am grateful to you. You gave my mother a life. You paid with thousands of miles separating you and your kin and years of mild resentment mingled with longing curiosity. We spoke of your role in our family as only a missing piece of the family tree. But at least for me, you were an outgrowth of a branch, a canker on the branches that really rooted me to the ground: my adopted grandparents. They were the faces I saw every day after school in childhood. They were the loving embraces I knew meant safety. Theirs are the scents I recognize from around the corner. They’ll be the ones I mourn when they pass.
How strange it is then that when I think on you, I cry. I think, it’s not for you. It’s for my mother. For what she thinks she could have recovered by meeting you. Or whatever it is that makes her sad. All I know is that your passing means just this to me: I love my mother and my family. You gave us that and you needn’t have given anything else. I won’t look back in regret of a missed opportunity. But I hope you find peace.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Mini-Skirt
Today I will be brief.
A man may never feel freer than when he wears a dress.
Lesson: shake your booty with impunity and you will feel better.
Goodbye
A man may never feel freer than when he wears a dress.
Lesson: shake your booty with impunity and you will feel better.
Goodbye
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
A Tribute to Steve Jobs
“No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.
“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."- Steve Jobs, 2005
Today as we honor the passing of a visionary, I am reminded to always live my life with vivacity and integrity. This is not an easy pursuit but the struggles associated with these goals are overcome with the dignity that arises from being continually spirited and honest. Let us seize the day with every fiber of our being knowing that those days are limited. Let us create with the hope there's always something new to discover. And let us find inspiration, rather than sadness, in the passing of great men to forge a future built upon their legacies.
Rest in Peace Steve Jobs
“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."- Steve Jobs, 2005
Today as we honor the passing of a visionary, I am reminded to always live my life with vivacity and integrity. This is not an easy pursuit but the struggles associated with these goals are overcome with the dignity that arises from being continually spirited and honest. Let us seize the day with every fiber of our being knowing that those days are limited. Let us create with the hope there's always something new to discover. And let us find inspiration, rather than sadness, in the passing of great men to forge a future built upon their legacies.
Rest in Peace Steve Jobs
Friday, September 16, 2011
Just Another Day
In just one day of living in NYC you may see:
A mass of people swaying awkwardly around a drum corps
A dealer not so subtly offer you drugs
A piano in the middle of the park
A homeless man curled up on a bench for an afternoon nap
A 99¢ pizza place
A ghetto bootie that does not belong to a female
A strap-on on and fake boobs on a manequin
A pigeon flitting fearlessly a foot away from your face
A jazz combo playing Afro Blue on the walkway
A huddle of theater kids dancing inappropriately to the music in the air
A few same-sex couples walking happily together unimpeded
A pair of kids practicing Capoeira on a raised platform
A line at Starbucks wrapping three times around the interior of the store
A little person not sanctioned by the university shouting at passersby as if he were traffic control
A quartet of semi-intoxicated friends (two guys, two girls) converge on a single point in the air to make out. All at once. Like literally four set of lips interacting inclusively.
A Broadway star buying a meal at the same chicken joint as you
A beautiful purple sky created by smog and light pollution
A high skyline blinking with bright lights, the biggest reminder that you're in one of the greatest cities on Earth- a city so steeped in history, so full of energy, so industrial and yet so beautiful.
Enjoying his bite of the Big Apple,
Jamin
A mass of people swaying awkwardly around a drum corps
A dealer not so subtly offer you drugs
A piano in the middle of the park
A homeless man curled up on a bench for an afternoon nap
A 99¢ pizza place
A ghetto bootie that does not belong to a female
A strap-on on and fake boobs on a manequin
A pigeon flitting fearlessly a foot away from your face
A jazz combo playing Afro Blue on the walkway
A huddle of theater kids dancing inappropriately to the music in the air
A few same-sex couples walking happily together unimpeded
A pair of kids practicing Capoeira on a raised platform
A line at Starbucks wrapping three times around the interior of the store
A little person not sanctioned by the university shouting at passersby as if he were traffic control
A quartet of semi-intoxicated friends (two guys, two girls) converge on a single point in the air to make out. All at once. Like literally four set of lips interacting inclusively.
A Broadway star buying a meal at the same chicken joint as you
A beautiful purple sky created by smog and light pollution
A high skyline blinking with bright lights, the biggest reminder that you're in one of the greatest cities on Earth- a city so steeped in history, so full of energy, so industrial and yet so beautiful.
Enjoying his bite of the Big Apple,
Jamin
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Another National Anthem
9/11
A day that will be emblazoned into this generation's brains like the Kennedy assassination and the Atom Bomb dropping were seared into generations previous. A day that changed the character of the past decade. A day in which many were disavowed of the notion that America was eternally and completely "the land of the free": that being here meant you were safe from the outside world. A day we look back on in remembrance, reverence, and caution. Ladies and gentlemen, on a day like today so steeped in history, so pungent with loss, it is important to not let ourselves become stagnant.
Ten years ago, our country suffered a great loss. We lost innocent men and women and symbols of our strength. Now, although these monuments are resurrected, we can never recover our valuable citizenry or the notion that we are somehow unlike everyone else- vulnerable. But instead of being defeated by these wounds, we can let them make us stronger. A loss of innocence doesn't just have to be a calamity: it can awaken you to the totality of life.
So, ten years after that horrible day, I urge you to take a good look at the world around you and the life you lead. While I will never condone the use of terrorism or think a nation deserves to suffer so terribly, the current state of the world and particularly our foreign affairs is a direct result of our nation's own decisions. Whatever you believe politically, I urge you now to not just let 9/11 be a bad memory. I urge you to let it galvanize your deepest potential as a thinker, worker, human being. What you choose to do with your released potential is up to you but that day shadowed some of the very things that made our nation great, and this day can be the turning point in which we recover it. If we want to truly honor those lost, what we can do is choose to uphold the national identity that makes us who we are. We can be strong, resilient, productive, and free.
A day that will be emblazoned into this generation's brains like the Kennedy assassination and the Atom Bomb dropping were seared into generations previous. A day that changed the character of the past decade. A day in which many were disavowed of the notion that America was eternally and completely "the land of the free": that being here meant you were safe from the outside world. A day we look back on in remembrance, reverence, and caution. Ladies and gentlemen, on a day like today so steeped in history, so pungent with loss, it is important to not let ourselves become stagnant.
Ten years ago, our country suffered a great loss. We lost innocent men and women and symbols of our strength. Now, although these monuments are resurrected, we can never recover our valuable citizenry or the notion that we are somehow unlike everyone else- vulnerable. But instead of being defeated by these wounds, we can let them make us stronger. A loss of innocence doesn't just have to be a calamity: it can awaken you to the totality of life.
So, ten years after that horrible day, I urge you to take a good look at the world around you and the life you lead. While I will never condone the use of terrorism or think a nation deserves to suffer so terribly, the current state of the world and particularly our foreign affairs is a direct result of our nation's own decisions. Whatever you believe politically, I urge you now to not just let 9/11 be a bad memory. I urge you to let it galvanize your deepest potential as a thinker, worker, human being. What you choose to do with your released potential is up to you but that day shadowed some of the very things that made our nation great, and this day can be the turning point in which we recover it. If we want to truly honor those lost, what we can do is choose to uphold the national identity that makes us who we are. We can be strong, resilient, productive, and free.
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