Lost and Found

Stuck.

I went to a therapist for six months about a year ago to learn how to read myself. It's an incredible skill and I think that everyone should do it.

I'm going to whisper something to the one reader who still visits this site: I think I may have outgrown my job.

Perhaps this is a fleeting thing. I don't know. After you learn to read yourself, according to my therapist (or, perhaps, me... maybe I'm making this up), you need to act. Make a decision.

And that's where I'm stuck. What's next?

Research.

I'm currently writing a piece on the new blog (Itinerant Foodies) about going to Maine with Maya. I went into the archives of this blog to see some details.

While conversing with Maya about the old times via gchat, she brought up a point.

"I love how some hurricane down south ended up being Katrina."

Interesting that my first experience with what will go down in history as one of the worst disasters to hit the United States, was the inconvenience of a rainy vacation.

New Site.

So. While I'm not quite ready to retire Indentured Servant, I thought that those of you who would like updates more than once a month might want to read my writing on a new site. About food. The good news is that it also starts with "I." (Which, if you think about it, is an appropriate letter for blogs.)

Check it out.

http://itinerantfoodies.wordpress.com.

The Light.

The Subway near Nate's apartment in DC had a sign on the door. It would be open 24 hours during the Inauguration. This was our first stop on the morning of the 20th. Prior to last week, I'd never experienced breakfast at Subway before. I can't say that it was amazing, but I will say that it was a necessity.

It took three hours to travel the mile from the apartment to the Mall. At first, we walked the streets with wonder, watching the street vendors take advantage of the momentous day, moving with the flow of the crowd, holding closely to our belongings while wondering whether it would be a good idea to buy the morning's edition of the Washington Post, for memory's sake. The walk had many detours. The police officer at 10th Street told us to go back to 3rd, that that was the only way across to the Mall, that the opening may be closed soon. And so we moved along, with the huddled masses.

Perhaps, I thought, this is how people felt at Ellis Island. Full of hope. Surrounded by hundreds of others with the same goal in mind: to experience the greatness that is the United States of America.

Strangers - people who had no authority, yet seemed to know something more than we did - directed us to the tunnel near 3rd Street. As we entered, the light disappeared and we felt warmth. We were no longer in the elements. I saw a woman with an American flag wrapped around her. I saw couples holding hands and friends taking photographs. People sang and chanted. Yes we can. Yes we did. The tunnel was for cars, yet we'd taken over as a pedestrian freight train. We were in darkness, yet we were jubilant. We would soon reach our destination, we would soon witness the transfer of power from George W. Bush to Barack H. Obama.

When I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, I could not help but make the obvious metaphor. For eight years, we were in darkness. But at the end, there was hope. Hope that we'd find our place, hope that what was to come was better than the place we were currently occupying.

There were obstacles. Long lines. Confusing directions. A massive crowd of no fewer than 4000, pushed together for an hour, all with the same destination.

But we made it. To the Mall. To the blessed open land, the view of the Capitol, the large screens unveiling the details we could not see with our own eyes. And together, our smiles returned. The journey - the long, long, long journey - was over. We were one, the representatives of the United States of America - on a cold January morning on acres of dead grass as we witnessed change. Beautiful change.

City Council.

My man-friend thinks that I should run for City Council. I do not think that this is such a good idea, but I've been stewing on it for the past half an hour or so. According to Facebook, I have a lot of friends. Maybe these people will vote for me. Voting for me might fall somewhere in between writing a "Happy Birthday" comment on my wall and showing up to a social event.

I've been thinking about my agenda and what would change under my rulership - I mean, leadership - and the main thing that I'd want to do is eliminate corn subsidies. I've been advised by a grumpy old gentleman who calls me "Spirit Child" that that is not the role of City Council, but that he'll pay my filing fee, nonetheless.

It's a start. Perhaps my days in politics are just beginning.

Hope! Change! Etcetera!

The Middle.

I just got back from a road trip across the United States. There were things that were planned: meals, cities, visits with friends and family. And then there were the things in the middle, the parts that could not be scheduled in advance. I saw, in a sense, a firsthand encyclopedia entry on the United States of America.

I saw industries: pistachios, cotton fields, oil rigs, wind power, music. I experienced food cultures, population statistics, topography changes. In my mind, the words "Border Patrol" existed only in films and news articles prior to this journey. I discovered the existence of a place called "Arkansas" and learned that it is quite beautiful. I saw very few Obama bumper stickers. (Most of the ones I saw were gathered in a parking lot for a BBQ joint in Memphis.)

I don't think that I could write a concise encyclopedia entry about the United States, our land, our people. Perhaps that's a good thing.

Patriotic.

The New York Times website has a feature that artistically displays, in a single word, the feelings of both John McCain and Barack Obama supporters. The word that I put down yesterday afternoon, during some downtime in our get out the vote operation, was Patriotic. A first, perhaps. True, I'm proud of our country, and have been for quite some time. My first visits to third world countries brought me perspective. The United States not only has excellent infrastructure, education and opportunity, but we also have the wherewithal to see change in a short period of time. In the places I've visited - Cambodia and Tanzania - positive change can take a lifetime. Meanwhile, if there's a problem here, we can move to get results almost immediately. Our country is beautiful and I feel fortunate to have had the opportunities that exist nowhere else.

Nonetheless, Patriotic is not a word that I'd generally use to describe myself. Perhaps it's youthful naivety. Perhaps it's because, outside of 9/11, I've never been a part of a unifying movement. But yesterday, and today, and hopefully for a long time, I feel Patriotic. Today, I am proud to be an American. We did something huge yesterday, something that will go down in history, something that we can tell our children and grandchildren about with smiles on our faces. My father was in the marching band for Johnson's inaugural parade, an experience he'll never forget. I will cling, with pride, with tears, with joy to what happened on November 4, 2008. I will never forget.

Here are a few moments throughout my volunteer work on the Obama campaign in the past several days, ones that have left photographic imprints on my heart.

One.

The same day that I canvassed and came upon the young girl who wanted God to be President, I knocked on the door of a white couple in their sixties. They brought me into their doorway, which is a canvassing no-no. We're not to enter homes. For good reason. Instead of allowing me to ask my three questions and move on, they demanded that I tell them why I voted for Obama. I explained my case, giving my personal reasons for supporting him. I believe in grassroots work. I respect the fact that he chose Christianity as an adult, as opposed to allowing faith to be a cultural decision. I believe him when he says that we are not as divided as some might think. His views and goals match up with mine; he cares about the general well-being of people. Etcetera, etcetera. And then they came after me with angry attacks, both aimed at Senator Obama and myself.

He's a socialist. He's a Muslim. He's the anti-Christ. He supports Acorn. He has a crazy pastor. He hangs out with terrorists. McCain's attack ads and Sarah Palin's rhetoric had clearly done well with this couple.

When I tried to leave, the man looked at me and asked me if I was a part of Acorn, and then told me that I need to learn to think. He told me that I needed to think long and hard about what I was doing. In his eyes, I was a domestic terrorist. I was stunned. I had no idea what to say. And so I told a story, a story about a family member whose health care needs have been overlooked by our government.

"I'm volunteering - not getting paid, sir - for Obama because we need change." And I wept. In the doorway. The woman looked at me for a split second, and I'd like to think that she saw me as a human, not a demon. I excused myself and moved on, willing myself to finish the route and wait to weep, silently, in my car.

Two.

I spent the majority of my time working in an inner city neighborhood, with the idea that most people in Clintonville are pretty aware of their rights, turn out to vote, and are crunchy in general. The Linden area needed my help. Monday evening, I arrived to do a literature drop with polling locations. I spent the evening doing this literature drop with my friend Theresa (who was in town from New York state and wanted to help) and five Somali high school boys.

We were a team, running down the streets, dropping signs on the doors of Obama supporters. These boys couldn't vote, yet they wanted to help. They excitedly asked me if I knew any state politicians, if I'd met Obama, and where I went to college. They wanted to know the details of Mary Jo Kilroy's policies (an answer I could not give them). They were energetic and bright.

When I asked them where they wanted to go to college, they all said Harvard.

"Where Barack Obama went," they explained.

I hope they make it. And after what happened yesterday, I'm a firm believer that anything can happen.

That, my friends, is what hope looks like. It's not that bad. And neither is patriotism.