Day 85- America, the potluck

Dear Mr. President,

Tonight I am at a potluck dinner for visiting friends. We've gathered a group of people, some of whom have known one another for lifetimes, while others are connected to the group only through the briefest of acquaintance. College students, new parents, old friends and complete strangers; we've come together over food and drinks and a shared affection. The hosting family has a philosophy of inclusion; the more, the merrier. They may not know all of their guests, but there is nothing they won't do for them. This group of people recalls the America I always thought I lived in when I was young. I had this fierce belief, as a child, that we not only welcomed every one to our country, but that we sought to support them, to nourish and educate and inspire them, to foster the culture that brought out the best in people. This diversity, this welcoming spirit, is what I thought made our country strong, wise, and exceptional.

Clearly, I grew up in an era that demanded more cynicism. The hopeful belief that our country was always right or at least well-intentioned was lost as I came of age under President Bush, who was elected as I began High School. It wasn't just that I began learning about the darker aspects of our own history; I saw that the leadership of our country had failed, completely to learn from the mistakes of the past. I don't think that my experience of losing faith in the American idea is wholly different from that of many American youth. We are nurtured on the idea of an America that is one big, benevolent force for good, and then we come of age, shocked to find that this America was just one more Santa Claus.

I think this is why so many of my peers are so cynical, so disengaged. We see the disparity between the way we are raised to feel about our country's history, and the brutal, often bloody reality of that history and how it is continuing to unfold, and we can't help but be disillusioned. I think this sentiment was what you tapped into when you campaigned; you touched the part in all of us that still wanted to believe in Santa Claus, in American exceptionalism and the hope that the idealism of America's myth could yet be realized.

So many of the guests at the party tonight are upset about the current state of American politics. Because this is Seattle and, for all of our diversity, we're still a fairly liberal bunch of people, most of them are upset that the public option failed, or that some other aspect of your policy hasn't lived up to your campaign's promises. I'm sure that the disappointment of your supporters has become just as tedious a refrain as the anger of the right at their perceived marginalization. Maybe our expectations were unreasonable; maybe your promises were too lofty. The truth is likely somewhere in the middle. Being in this room, surrounded by the love and hospitality of friends and strangers alike, seeing the capacity we have, as individuals, for goodness and generosity, I have to believe that for all of the complaints on the left, for all of the hysteria on the right, we are an exceptional nation, a place of constant evolution and redefinition. The real truth behind the America we believed in as children was that this great undertaking has never been more than the collective efforts of a group of strangers, the sum of our best selves and best intentions. When we lose sight of our own role in this project, every one loses out.

You don't have to prove how bipartisan you can be to unite and inspire this country. Mr. President, your success came not in your stance on the issues but in your ability to make us believe in our own abilities. You haven't reached every one, Mr. President, but you've certainly taught me that this country will only change when we all are willing to work for it. I am frustrated with the slowness of our progress, angry at the extent of our compromises, but I am hopeful that we are moving in the right direction.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey

Day 62

Dear Mr. President,

Today I gave blood at my local blood center. Before any one is allowed to donate, they are asked a series of questions about lifestyle, travel and medical history. When the woman preparing me for my donation saw that I'd been to Palestine, she started asking me about the trip. Soon, she and several other employees were talking about Palestine, where it was, what the political situation is, and their own travel experiences. They asked me about Ariel Sharon and the peace processes, and before long the other donors and I were chatting as well. The man in the chair next to mine had just relocated from southern California for work, and his wife and two young children were still there.

It was one of those perfect, sunny days that Seattle gets, more often than our reputation implies, but not so often that we've forgotten how to appreciate. I'm terrified of needles, and blood, and doctors, so this particular experience is not one I usually handle with very much grace. But this kind man, and the employees and the center chattering away as though we were all old friends, the sunlight pouring in through the windows, even the calm, sleepy greyhound that lived in the recovery area outside combined to keep me from the grips of complete panic. After, we ate cookies in the recovery room and joked about the weather.

We're all so different; facing such different struggles and looking for such different things in life. It reminded me strongly of the concept in Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle, of a karass, a team of people who work together without knowing it, to do God's will. I may spend most of my days in groups based on false constructs- age, social class, employment, education- but there are other things that bind us together as people, a willingness to help one another, that I sometimes forget in my day to day interactions. In the end, what ought to have been a really awful experience was really not so terrible at all.

Respectfully yours,

Kelsey