This I Believe: Life Lessons (4 page)

Peace Can Happen

Christine Kingery

My grandmother was born in northern Russia to a large family of fourteen siblings. She was sixteen years old when World War II broke out. Her first job was going onto the battlefields to dismantle bombs that hadn't exploded.

She was captured by the Nazis when she was seventeen and taken to a “work camp” in Germany. They shaved off her waist-length hair and tortured her. Grandma never saw her parents and siblings again. Her mother died when Grandma was young. Her father was taken away to Siberia for political treason and never seen again, and most of her siblings died in the war.

My resourceful grandmother escaped the camp and worked for many months as a nurse in underground movements in Germany and Belgium. She was captured by the Nazis again and put into another concentration camp. This one was bigger. A death camp. There she met my grandfather, and the two escaped.

After the war, they had nowhere to go. They returned to a concentration camp in Stuttgart, which had been converted into a displacement camp. There my mother was born and raised. It took my grandparents eleven years to finally come to America.

When I was young, I heard many stories about the war. One day when I was eight, I said to my grandmother, “I hate the Germans for what they did to you! Don't you just get so
mad
at them?”

I'll never forget my grandmother's response. She said in her broken English, “The Germans are my friends. When I escaped and had nowhere to go, the Germans gave me food, shelter, and clothes. They were my friends even in the camps. The Germans are the kindest people I know.”

Her answer shocked me, and it was my first introduction to the meaning of compassion.

A few years later, in high school, I had the chance to visit Japan. My host family took me to Nagasaki to the Atomic Bomb Museum and Peace Park. It was the fiftieth anniversary of the bombings. I was terrified, being
so
white skinned and
so
American!

I walked slowly through the crowded exhibits, looking at the black-and-white photographs. In every picture, in every Japanese victim's face, I saw my grandmother's reflection looking back at me. The experience was overwhelming, and I began to cry. I needed to get air, so I went outside.

There in Peace Park, beautiful, colorful origami cranes—thousands of them!—were draped over statues and trees. I sat on a bench and cried. I cried for the suffering of the Japanese people. I cried for the suffering of my own family in Europe during World War II. I cried for the suffering yet to be caused by wars sure to come.

An old Japanese lady saw me on the bench. She was about my grandmother's age, and she spoke very little English. She sat next to me and put her wrinkled hands in mine. She said, “Peace starts right here. Peace starts with you and me. It starts today.”

She was right. I didn't have to suffer personally in order to understand the pain of others. I believe that through compassion, peace can happen. It echoes from the heart of a single individual.

A Priceless Lesson in Humility

Felipe Morales

A few years ago, I took a sightseeing trip to Washington, D.C. I saw many of our nation's treasures, and I also saw a lot of our fellow citizens on the street—unfortunate ones, like panhandlers and homeless folks.

Standing outside the Ronald Reagan Center, I heard a voice say, “Can you help me?” When I turned around, I saw an elderly, blind woman with her hand extended. In a natural reflex, I reached into my pocket, pulled out all my loose change, and placed it on her hand without even looking at her. I was annoyed at being bothered by a beggar.

But the blind woman smiled and said, “I don't want your money. I just need help finding the post office.”

In an instant, I realized what I had done. I acted with prejudice—I judged another person simply for what I assumed she had to be.

I hated what I saw in myself. This incident reawakened my core belief. It reaffirmed that I believe in humility, even though I'd lost it for a moment.

The thing I had forgotten about myself is that I am an immigrant. I left Honduras and arrived in the United States at the age of fifteen. I started my new life with two suitcases, my brother and sister, and a strong, no-nonsense mother. Through the years I have been a dishwasher, a roofer, a cashier, a mechanic, and a pizza delivery driver, among many other humble jobs, and eventually I became a network engineer.

In my own life, I have experienced many open acts of prejudice. I remember a time at age seventeen, I was a busboy and I heard a father tell his little boy that if he did not do well in school, he would end up like me. I have also witnessed the same kind of treatment toward family and friends, so I know what it's like, and I should have known better when I encountered the blind woman.

But now, living in my American middle-class lifestyle, it is too easy to forget my past, to forget who I am and where I have been, and to lose sight of where I want to be going. That blind woman on the streets of Washington, D.C., cured me of my self-induced blindness. She reminded me of my belief in humility and to always keep my eyes and heart open.

By the way, I helped that lady to the post office. And in writing this essay, I hope to thank her for the priceless lesson.

Finding Out What's Under Second Base

Lex Urban

My belief was formed eighteen years ago as a five-year-old kid during my first of many seasons of Little League baseball. My friend, Patrick, was on second base when I came up to bat. I sent a line drive out to left field, and after admiring my hit for a while (that momentary pause that drives coaches and parents nuts), I took off running in the direction of first base. Patrick, however, had yet to start running. In fact, he hadn't even left second base. Instead of running for third, Patrick had picked up the base to explore what was underneath. Apparently the mystery that had plagued kids for centuries—what could possibly be hiding underneath second base?—needed to be solved immediately. The fact that it was the second inning of our first T-ball game was of no consequence.

What followed were howls of laughter from many kids and even a few adults. I don't remember if we won the game, if I made it to second base, or if Patrick took the base with him as he advanced to third. What I do remember, and what has become a core philosophy of mine, is that I should always take the time to find out what's underneath second base.

Looking underneath second base is about living for the moment. It's not caring if others think what I'm doing is stupid or foolish. It is about being honest with myself and doing what makes me happy and not bowing to outside pressures. It is a reminder that I should look beneath the surface of things, and more important, people. Everyone has a story—a series of significant and insignificant experiences that precede each moment of their lives. I am more patient and understanding, because I realize that the story may be a painful and stressful one.

After college graduation I did not get a high-paying job on Wall Street like many of my classmates did. I decided to dedicate a year to full-time community service as an AmeriCorps volunteer at City Year in Washington, D.C. I tutored kids of all ages in math and reading. I saw firsthand the impact of painful and stressful experiences. A hardened exterior usually hid a much softer individual on the inside. A kid who told me off on the first day later expressed sadness that he didn't get to see me over the Thanksgiving break. I saw the power of giving my time to help others. It has truly been the most memorable experience of my life thus far.

No longer a five-year-old without a care in the world, I have been introduced to the adult concepts of planning, responsibility, and maturity. No one can deny the importance of the future, but no one can guarantee its presence, either. I try not to get so wrapped up in planning for the future that I forget to enjoy what's right in front of me. Taking time to look underneath second base reminds me that it's the journey and not the destination that counts.

Looking under second base reminds me to take the time to appreciate things. It reminds me that the daily grind and the hustle and bustle of a fast-paced world is a voluntary activity. I can choose how I live my life. I choose to always take the time to find out what's under second base.

Accomplishing Big Things in Small Pieces

William Wissemann

I carry a Rubik's Cube in my backpack. Solving it quickly is a terrific conversation starter, and it is surprisingly impressive to girls. I've been asked to solve the cube on the New York City subway, at a track meet in Westchester, and at a café in Paris. I usually ask people to try it first. They turn the cube over in their hands, halfheartedly make a few moves, and then sheepishly hand it back. They don't even know where to begin. That's exactly what it was like for me to learn how to read. Letters and words were scrambled and out of sequence. Nothing made sense, because I'm dyslexic.

Solving the Rubik's Cube has made me believe that sometimes you have to take a few steps back to move forward. This was a mirror of my own life when I had to leave public school after the fourth grade. It's embarrassing to admit, but I still couldn't consistently spell my full name correctly.

As a fifth-grader at a new school, specializing in what's called language processing disorder, I had to start over. Memorizing symbols for letters, I learned the pieces of the puzzle of language, the phonemes that make up words. I spent the next four years learning how to learn and finding strategies that allowed me to return to my district's high school with the ability to communicate my ideas and express my intelligence.

It took me four weeks to teach myself to solve the cube—the same amount of time it took the inventor, Erno Rubik. Now, I can easily solve the 3 × 3 × 3, the 4 × 4 × 4, and the Professor's Cube, the 5 × 5 × 5. I discovered that just before a problem is solved it can look like a mess, and then suddenly you can find the solution. I believe that progress comes in unexpected leaps.

Early in my Rubik's career, I became so frustrated that I took the cube apart and rebuilt it. I believe that sometimes you have to look deeper and in unexpected places to find answers. I noticed that I can talk or focus on other things and still solve the cube. There must be an independent part of my brain at work, able to process information.

The Rubik's Cube taught me that to accomplish something big, it helps to break the problem down into small pieces. I learned that it's important to spend a lot of time thinking, to try to find connections and patterns. I believe that there are surprises around the corner. And, that the cube and I are more than the sum of our parts.

Like a difficult text or sometimes like life itself, the Rubik's Cube can be a frustrating puzzle. So I carry a cube in my backpack as a reminder that I can attain my goals, no matter what obstacles I face.

And did I mention that being able to solve the cube is surprisingly impressive to girls?