This I Believe: Life Lessons (10 page)

Finding Our Common Ground

Robin Mize

There was a big peace march in Washington a few years back. I watched as my husband made a sign to carry and my son painted slogans on a T-shirt. “Sure you don't want to come?” my husband asked me.

He knew that I was sympathetic to the cause. I felt just as strongly as he and all our friends, who were going, did. But I just couldn't go. I begged off, saying I wasn't comfortable with the crowds.

But the thing that made me uneasy wasn't just the number of people gathered there. It was the mob mentality of a large group of people who feel they are right, even if I agree with them. It was the absolutism lurking in the liberal ideals. To me it felt just as scary as any other kind of intolerance.

On the other hand, I know it takes a kind of fervor and belief to change things. But there is a fine line there, and somehow group protests, while I respect them, walk too close to that line for me. What scares me is the self-congratulatory, undiscriminating nature of the mob. I think of the French Revolution, I picture those Nazi rallies, and I fear the self-complacency of knowing that you are right.

I wonder if it has to do also with the fact that I come from a family in which the liberal is a rare bird. Four of my siblings are staunch conservative Republicans. I love them dearly, and the fact that these people whom I love are the evil enemy of the peace march gives me pause.

It forces me to accept a contradiction, knowing both things to be true. They are the enemy, but they are also my family. We do not agree, but I have to accept that they are thoughtful and compassionate people who have come to the opposite conclusion about how things should be. I must admit that it's hard for me to disagree so profoundly yet still respect and love them. Sometimes I wish I could agree with my siblings and not be troubled by these uncomfortable differences of opinion.

This brings me to what I believe: I believe we are all doing the best we can. The other side isn't any more ignorant or selfish than we are; they are not big business or big brother or the international monetary fund. They are just like me. I choose to respect their opinions, even as I disagree with them.

I am grateful that my children must accept this diversity, too. They can't just dismiss the other side as evil. They are forced to love the enemy because the enemy is their loved one. The love came first.

It seems to me that here in my family is an essential element of our democracy: we agree to disagree. Our ability not only to accept, but to respect, our differences is our common ground.

Bus Chick's Manifesto

Carla Saulter

When I was in third grade, I started riding the Metro bus alone. At first, I was allowed to ride to school only, but eventually my parents extended my privileges to include my favorite childhood haunts: Grandma's apartment, Pike Place Market, and in the summer Seattle Center. Back then the bus symbolized independence. It gave me a power rare among my eight-year-old peers: the ability to get around the city without the assistance of an adult.

By the time I turned sixteen, a new power beckoned—a form of transportation that was available on demand and did not require an umbrella or an extra pair of gloves. Like most young Americans, I believed the auto industry's propaganda: that a car was required for my transition to adulthood. For the next ten years—except for a short time in college when I found myself unable to afford a personal vehicle—I left the bus behind.

But then I accepted a job at a software company based fifteen miles outside the city. During my commutes, I became more aware of the negative impact of car culture: pollution, sprawl, isolation, and fatalities. I began to question my right to subject the earth and my beloved city to the impact of my choices. So, I returned to my roots and began riding the bus to work. Eventually, I was using my car so rarely that I decided to try living without one. I sold my lovely silver coupe in March 2003 and have used the bus as my primary form of transportation ever since.

Riding the bus isn't always fun. I don't like riding on rainy days, when the floor is slippery and the windows so fogged up you can't see your stop. I don't like standing when the bus is crowded. I don't like drivers who ride the brakes. I don't like practical hairstyles or sensible shoes. Despite these occasional inconveniences, I will never go back to driving, because this I believe:

I believe in sitting next to my neighbors, in saying, “How you doing today?” and “Nice weather, isn't it?” I believe in feeling the sun on my skin, in breathing fresh air and moving my body. I believe in eavesdropping. I believe in novels you can't put down. I believe in businesspeople and teenage lovers, middle-aged gossips and giggling toddlers. I believe in watching and listening. I believe in naps. I believe in the camaraderie that develops among riders late at night, when the smooth-voiced driver plays jazz loud enough for everyone to enjoy.

I believe in clean air, in keeping cities dense and vibrant, and in protecting our remaining farmland and forests. I believe in the beauty of Puget Sound and the majesty of Mount Rainier. I believe that human life is sacred, that the world's resources should be shared, and that every choice matters.

I believe that change is possible—if all of us ride.

Right Now Matters

Samantha Jacobs

After seventeen years of getting up and going to school every morning, I ended my formal education and entered the notorious “real world.” My mother warned me when she said, “You are about to enter a really weird time in your life, and I can't prepare you for it. Just be aware.” Boy, was she ever right.

Eager to get far away from my college town in Tennessee, I moved back to my native St. Louis and landed a job as a nanny for a wealthy and extremely likable family. As far as nanny work goes, I struck gold. Yet I was uncomfortable with being a college graduate and working as a less-cool version of Mary Poppins. While my friends were going off to law school or getting married or doing the daily grind in glamorous cities, I was concerned about strategically placing Eggo waffles in the toaster so they didn't burn, while maintaining that crispy grid.

Reason told me that what I was doing mattered, providing care and protection for two young children, but my insecurities thought otherwise. I began to blame myself for my current state of affairs. I made the decision to get this job, to flee Tennessee, and to not invest any time in looking for more “challenging” work. Needless to say, it was turning into that weird time my mother warned me about.

While torturing myself with feelings of insignificance about my job, I tried to find worth in other things, like running, sporadic blogging, weekend getaways, dying my hair, etc., but nothing seemed to fulfill me. Then I had one of those “aha!” moments where everything becomes unmistakably clear. I was playing outside with my little charges when one of them came up and said, “You're so great. You don't even have to play with us but you do it anyway. Our other nannies never did that. We love you!”

I was floored. Not only did I underestimate their ability to be so gracious, but they made me realize that it's truly not about what life hands you but what you do with it. That whole “making lemonade out of lemons” thing really hit home for me on this one. I could easily just patrol these girls, make sure they don't run out in the street or draw all over the walls, but I don't. I play with them. I make my life a part of theirs and vice versa. And together, we have perfected the fine art of Eggo toasting. How many people can say that?

So what do I believe in? I believe that self-worth is where you find it and that the most beautiful form of self-worth occurs when you maximize the amount of love you share with the world, no matter how mundane or humble the circumstances may be. I believe that just because you have a college degree doesn't mean you need a job with a BlackBerry. And most important, I believe in lemonade.

Seeing with the Heart

Stephanie Disney

Looking at my daughter, the clerk behind the counter asks, “What is she?” Since this is not the first time I have heard this question, the stored-up, smart-aleck answers swirl through my mind. Instead, understanding that I am my daughter's role model for handling life issues, I stifle the negativity and respond, “She's beautiful, and smart, and well behaved, too.”

The clerk says, “Oh,” and glances at me, wondering if I just didn't understand the question, and I smile because I understood the question right away, but I am only just now beginning to understand the real answer: that family is defined by bonds much deeper than birth, or skin color, or genetics. Like anyone lucky enough to experience “found” love, I believe that family is defined only by the heart.

I met my daughter, Rudy, while working as an audiologist at the Commission for Children with Special Health Care Needs. She was a small, quiet, noncommunicative two-and-a-half-year-old—and my heart recognized her immediately.

I am the whitest of white women, and my daughter is some indefinable combination of all that is beautiful from at least three races: curly, dark hair; petite features; freckles; a golden tan skin tone; one blue eye and one brown. If her race had only one name it would be perfection.

My daughter and I share so much in common it never occurs to me that others might not see us as a family. That's why I was startled the first time a stranger inquired about my daughter's race and our relationship. I had forgotten that we didn't look alike. The next time I was asked, I politely explained that we are mother and daughter and that Rudy's race is unknown. The twentieth time somebody asked about my daughter's race and our relationship, I explained why the questions were inappropriate. The fortieth time someone asked, I just pretended not to hear.

Now, after much time to reflect about the purpose of these questions, I understand. I understand that everyone wants love and acceptance. And these are such rare gifts that when people see them freely demonstrated, they are compelled to seek the source.

Recently, Rudy surprised me when a white-haired lady, standing right beside us, asked if I was her mother. Rudy threw the lady a disbelieving glance and said, “Well, she helps me with multiplication, fixes my hair, kisses me, and we both have freckles on our noses—who else could she be?”

When Rudy asks me to explain why people need to ask questions like that, I tell her not to worry, it's the answers that really matter. The questions of race and family can be complicated to be sure, but I believe all of the answers can be found by seeing people first with the heart.