Dear Mr. President,
After an inexplicable night of insomnia, I found myself awake at 5am. Bird song, and the early first light were too tempting to pass up, so I donned my running shoes and went for a jog. The city was empty. Skyscrapers on the horizon were just beginning to reflect the pastel light of the rising sun, which was still competing with street lamps for dominance. Crows dotted the wires of telephone poles, the lines of the intersection on the empty road, and scuttled away from me in the park. It was the perfect morning, warm, but only beginning to hint at the oppressive heat that would rule the rest of the day. After I got tired, I walked for a ways, read the newspaper on a bus bench, and watched the city begin to wake up. I've never been a morning person, so this voluntary predawn excursion seemed to signal something deeply wrong. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was an indication that I've finally overdosed on 90's sci-fi television. Maybe I was just restless for the expansive luxury of an empty city street.
Then I saw the interview you gave with an Israeli journalist. Your answer to the question about what parts of your old, pre-white house life that you missed, struck a chord with my strange morning excursion. You miss going for walks, being anonymous, experiencing the world in private. This freedom, which I take for granted, most days, is the steep price of your office. I am often overwhelmed and frustrated by my invisibility, my smallness, my inability to affect change. I have not often stopped to consider the benefits of this anonymity; the peace of insignificance. When one is as alone in the world as I often feel myself to be, it is hard not to envy some one like you.
You also spoke of Jerusalem, of walking through the streets of the old city. Even reading your words in the simple light of my laptop screen, I could almost see the affection that compels them. Every one I speak to, young, old, Israeli, Palestinian, American, every one I know speaks of Jerusalem this way. It is why I dislike hearing it referred to as "The Holy Land." It is not about the shrines or the churches or the mosques or the synagogues. It is not about the dead men who died so that others could die for it, or who died trying to take it away from the people who died to take it away from the people before them. It is about the living. The sounds of the old city markets, the smooth stones in the street, the punishing sun brought low at sunset, spilling a softer, more forgiving light across the palm trees and the balconies and the minarets and the satellite dishes. The clothes that dry on lines, the foods that cook on street corners, the hum of so many people in one place. It is the same beauty, perhaps, of every city, but made all the more precious by the great powers that have battled for it in the background of its entire life. The life in this city, not the history or the blood spilled, but the mundane, anonymous, boring life is what makes it so beautiful. These things that cannot often be found in briefing books, or, as you've sadly reminded me, practically anywhere in the lives of those in power. I am glad to know you still remember it, and while I am grateful that you've given up that part of your own life for this service to our country, I hope that one day you are again able to walk in the old city, or in any city, and feel anonymous, even if it is only for a moment.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Showing posts with label wandering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wandering. Show all posts
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Day 124
Dear Mr. President,
Some days, I'll admit, I really don't know what to say. I read the press briefings, I read the White House blog, I read the news. Sometimes I'm upset or encouraged by things and I want to tell you. Sometimes I think I actually can offer a unique perspective. Most of the time, I remember that you're surrounded by advisers who know better than me, (and probably even a few who know better than you,) and you don't need another voice chiming in to tell you what you already know. These days, when I have nothing policy-related to contribute, I just want to give you a better idea of what it's like to be me, your constituent and supporter and fellow American.
Today was a challenging day. For the last few days I've been feeling angry and exhausted and anxious, and today I realized it's because I'm scared. I'm scared of looking the mirror and reconciling myself to who I have become. I'm scared that the life I lead now might be all I'm ever going to do; that the 8 years of my life spent in near-minimum wage jobs, working for hours on my feet has brought me nowhere closer to the life I thought I'd have by this age. I'm scared that if I do what I have to do to finish my degree that it will be too hard, or I'll have gotten too stupid, or I'll be just as lost and tired and poor on the other side of graduation. This fear chases me every day, and today, for no reason at all, it has become overwhelming.
There are so many harder things in life than fear of disappointed hopes. Today while riding the ferry I met a Filipino woman who wanted me to know that she was 73 years old. She was so adamant about this that she pulled out her driver's license to show me. She's lived in America for 53 years and she told me that, even though she's a senior citizen and doesn't have to pay for the bus, she still pays every time because she's "rich." After we got off of the ferry (an ordeal in itself when you're 73, 5' tall, and trying to carry an umbrella and a full, boiling hot, cup-o-noodle,) she spent most of our bus ride shaking her umbrella at the bus driver and scolding him for driving too slow or stopping too long at stoplights. I think she might be a little crazy, but after living 73 years, moving to a new country and learning a new language, having 4 children and 8 grandchildren and still taking day trips on public transit by herself to see the sights of the islands, I also think she's earned a bit of madness. (The driver seemed to agree, and bore her abuse with good humor.) What strikes me, as I reflect on our conversation, is the intense self-satisfaction she seemed to exude. She told me she's going to die soon, but that it's OK because she's been alive long enough. I wonder what enough will look like, for me. Will I ever reach a point where I feel like I've done and said and lived enough? Will I ever take stock of my accomplishments with the same pride?
When people ask me if I think you've read any of my letters personally, I always point out that you read 10/night, and even if I'm only 1 in 40,000 letters every day, I still have hope. Sometimes I have specific questions I'd like answered, specific complaints I'd like addressed, and sometimes I don't worry about getting a response at all. Tonight is one of those times where I don't imagine there's a form letter your office can send in response to this, (unless, of course, you have "keep your chin up, tiger" form letters, in which case I think I really will have collected them all.) There's no legislative agenda to address my concerns, no shift in public policy that would make me sleep easy tonight. I'm just scared; scared about the smallness of my life and the darkness of the unknown before me. I don't think that you can be plagued by this kind of self-doubt, but having the tangible evidence of your own significance that comes with raising a family, writing bestsellers, and holding high office must be its own kind of burden. I suppose if you can do those things, if the woman on the ferry today can live the kind of life she has, I can put aside this unproductive fear and find my own way to contribute something more.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Some days, I'll admit, I really don't know what to say. I read the press briefings, I read the White House blog, I read the news. Sometimes I'm upset or encouraged by things and I want to tell you. Sometimes I think I actually can offer a unique perspective. Most of the time, I remember that you're surrounded by advisers who know better than me, (and probably even a few who know better than you,) and you don't need another voice chiming in to tell you what you already know. These days, when I have nothing policy-related to contribute, I just want to give you a better idea of what it's like to be me, your constituent and supporter and fellow American.
Today was a challenging day. For the last few days I've been feeling angry and exhausted and anxious, and today I realized it's because I'm scared. I'm scared of looking the mirror and reconciling myself to who I have become. I'm scared that the life I lead now might be all I'm ever going to do; that the 8 years of my life spent in near-minimum wage jobs, working for hours on my feet has brought me nowhere closer to the life I thought I'd have by this age. I'm scared that if I do what I have to do to finish my degree that it will be too hard, or I'll have gotten too stupid, or I'll be just as lost and tired and poor on the other side of graduation. This fear chases me every day, and today, for no reason at all, it has become overwhelming.
There are so many harder things in life than fear of disappointed hopes. Today while riding the ferry I met a Filipino woman who wanted me to know that she was 73 years old. She was so adamant about this that she pulled out her driver's license to show me. She's lived in America for 53 years and she told me that, even though she's a senior citizen and doesn't have to pay for the bus, she still pays every time because she's "rich." After we got off of the ferry (an ordeal in itself when you're 73, 5' tall, and trying to carry an umbrella and a full, boiling hot, cup-o-noodle,) she spent most of our bus ride shaking her umbrella at the bus driver and scolding him for driving too slow or stopping too long at stoplights. I think she might be a little crazy, but after living 73 years, moving to a new country and learning a new language, having 4 children and 8 grandchildren and still taking day trips on public transit by herself to see the sights of the islands, I also think she's earned a bit of madness. (The driver seemed to agree, and bore her abuse with good humor.) What strikes me, as I reflect on our conversation, is the intense self-satisfaction she seemed to exude. She told me she's going to die soon, but that it's OK because she's been alive long enough. I wonder what enough will look like, for me. Will I ever reach a point where I feel like I've done and said and lived enough? Will I ever take stock of my accomplishments with the same pride?
When people ask me if I think you've read any of my letters personally, I always point out that you read 10/night, and even if I'm only 1 in 40,000 letters every day, I still have hope. Sometimes I have specific questions I'd like answered, specific complaints I'd like addressed, and sometimes I don't worry about getting a response at all. Tonight is one of those times where I don't imagine there's a form letter your office can send in response to this, (unless, of course, you have "keep your chin up, tiger" form letters, in which case I think I really will have collected them all.) There's no legislative agenda to address my concerns, no shift in public policy that would make me sleep easy tonight. I'm just scared; scared about the smallness of my life and the darkness of the unknown before me. I don't think that you can be plagued by this kind of self-doubt, but having the tangible evidence of your own significance that comes with raising a family, writing bestsellers, and holding high office must be its own kind of burden. I suppose if you can do those things, if the woman on the ferry today can live the kind of life she has, I can put aside this unproductive fear and find my own way to contribute something more.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Day 93- Easter
Dear Mr. President,
Years ago, as an 18-year old traveling abroad for the first time, I found myself on a beach outside of the Hague on Easter. I remember it was cold and gray and empty, all the shops were closed, and I got horribly, horribly lost. I don't remember being afraid, which I suppose you just can't be when you're lost in a foreign country by yourself. I thought a lot about Easter and Jesus, imagining that my own wanderings throughout the strange landscape of the Netherlands were linked somehow to his own travels through the holy land. Fact or fiction, God or man, he has existed in my mind always as a wanderer.
Other, more mundane Easters have passed since then, spent waiting tables in a near-empty restaurant, being sent to the McDonald's on M street to bring back breakfast for the other bookstore employees, reading, reading, reading through the rainy hours by at home by myself. I have also learned a bit more about the historical Jesus, walked in the streets of Jerusalem, visited his birth place and tomb, the stations of the cross, the site of his temptation in the desert. I am not Christian enough to imagine him as more (or less) than human; the places that echo with his presence in Palestine did not move me as they did many of the tourists who seemed overcome by the intense resonance of the divine.
I know enough about Christianity to understand that Jesus is expected, any day now, at the Gates of Jerusalem. I know enough about his political philosophy to doubt, seriously, that he would approve of what the city has become. I'm not a Christian, so I'll be spending Easter making lattes and worrying about the earthly, mundane details of existence. However, since you are a Christian, Mr. President, I'll think of you tomorrow and hope that your own meditations on the central figure of your faith will lead you to use your considerable influence to better the conditions of those living in the places he once wandered.
Happy Easter.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
Years ago, as an 18-year old traveling abroad for the first time, I found myself on a beach outside of the Hague on Easter. I remember it was cold and gray and empty, all the shops were closed, and I got horribly, horribly lost. I don't remember being afraid, which I suppose you just can't be when you're lost in a foreign country by yourself. I thought a lot about Easter and Jesus, imagining that my own wanderings throughout the strange landscape of the Netherlands were linked somehow to his own travels through the holy land. Fact or fiction, God or man, he has existed in my mind always as a wanderer.
Other, more mundane Easters have passed since then, spent waiting tables in a near-empty restaurant, being sent to the McDonald's on M street to bring back breakfast for the other bookstore employees, reading, reading, reading through the rainy hours by at home by myself. I have also learned a bit more about the historical Jesus, walked in the streets of Jerusalem, visited his birth place and tomb, the stations of the cross, the site of his temptation in the desert. I am not Christian enough to imagine him as more (or less) than human; the places that echo with his presence in Palestine did not move me as they did many of the tourists who seemed overcome by the intense resonance of the divine.
I know enough about Christianity to understand that Jesus is expected, any day now, at the Gates of Jerusalem. I know enough about his political philosophy to doubt, seriously, that he would approve of what the city has become. I'm not a Christian, so I'll be spending Easter making lattes and worrying about the earthly, mundane details of existence. However, since you are a Christian, Mr. President, I'll think of you tomorrow and hope that your own meditations on the central figure of your faith will lead you to use your considerable influence to better the conditions of those living in the places he once wandered.
Happy Easter.
Respectfully yours,
Kelsey
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