by Dan Gediman
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.
Christine Kingery is the director of marketing for an engineering firm in upstate New York. She enjoys working on public infrastructure projects because she believes parks, roads, and trails can positively enhance a community. In her free time, Ms. Kingery canoes with her cat and explores local history.
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.
Felipe Morales was born in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, in 1974, and immigrated with his family to Tampa, Florida, in 1990. He now lives with his wife and children in Rowlett, Texas, where he enjoys spending time with his family and friends.
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.
Lex Urban is the former captain of the two-time National Champion Williams College Men’s Tennis team. Mr. Urban served a year as an AmeriCorps member of City Year in Washington, D.C., where he now lives and practices law.
Accomplishing Big Things in Small Pieces<
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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?
William Tyler Wissemann was raised in Hastings-on-Hudson, New York. He will graduate from Bard College with dual Bachelor of Arts degrees in computer science and photography in May 2012. Mr. Wissemann was honored to be asked to present his essay and demonstrate the Rubik’s Cube at College Night at the Walters Art Museum in 2009.
I Have to See the World
Veena Muthuraman
Saint Augustine once said, “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page.” Me, I want to read the entire library.
I believe in going places. I believe in getting out of my apartment and into my car or a plane and going to see a totally new place. I want to see the world in all its glory, with my own eyes and in the flesh; television and Google Earth just won’t do. I believe that travel opens one’s mind to new cultures and perspectives; it affords one a broader vision of life, a vision that does not come by sitting within the four walls of one’s home.
I grew up in a small city in southern India. I was all of seven years old when we went to visit my grandparents for my monthlong summer vacation. Until then, my world consisted of our small apartment and our bustling city surrounded by pristine beaches, coconut groves, and misty mountains. I was aware of the existence of a different world beyond home, but surely I didn’t want to spend my vacation in some backward village in a rural district of an alien state. We boarded a state transport bus, and I sat by the window, sulking.
Soon I noticed the wetlands giving away to parched land. The cities we were passing now were more crowded than the ones we left behind; people were darker, like me, and they were dressed differently. When I finally got to my grandparents’ village, the landscape and the people were so vastly different from what I was used to that I was overwhelmed. A village with just one street, houses with tiled roofs, and all of the houses had barns with cows and bulls inside! I wanted to go see them, but I was scared. All of the village kids looked at me as if I was an alien from outer space, and I promptly hid behind my mother’s sari and refused to talk to anyone.
Over the next couple of weeks, I slowly got to know the place and the people; I learned the other kids’ games and played with their toys. They taught me how to milk a cow, how to catch fish in the nearby stream, and how to steal mangoes from my grandpa’s grove. And finally, when it was time to go back home, I was sad to leave but ready for new adventures. Because by then I seemed to have realized that our little corner of the universe and the people who live here are too diverse and too wonderful to be left unseen. I had to see the world.
Years later, on a plane to this country I now call home, it was this desire to travel, this conviction that there’s so much to see and to cherish on this earth than just the familiar places of my childhood, that kept me from breaking down and staying in India. My intense longing for my family, my friends, and the places I loved was countered by my anticipation for what I would find in the New World. And America has not disappointed me. The sloping Alleghenies of Pennsylvania where I spent my school years, the tall skyscrapers of Chicago where I live now, the colors of a New England fall, the deep crevices of the Grand Canyon all reinforce my essential belief that only by leaving the security of your home will you find the beauty of the world around you.
Mark Twain said, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness. . . . Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”
I couldn’t agree more.
When she is not traveling, Veena Muthuraman can be found deeply submerged in Excel worksheets while simultaneously dreaming of new travel adventures. Ecuador is next on her list, but Ms. Muthuraman will need to outsource care of her eleven-month-old before she can go. She currently lives in London, England.
Deciding to Live
Kij Johnson
I believe I am a climber.
Three years ago, a series of medical and personal crises took what was a clinical depression and made it something much darker.
I thought of it as falling—as jumping—off a bridge on a rainy, winter day: three seconds in the air before I hit the water and plunged deep into the icy cold, my heavy coat pulling me deeper. And the surface far overhead—too far away.
This is the question that kept me from making the image a real one: What if I changed my mind? After jumping into the water, the air in my lungs would fail me before I could swim back to the living world. I would know for those last seconds that I did want to live after all, but it would be too late.
I’m not sure why I started climbing. I walked through the door of the local climbing gym one day on a whim. It was an alien world: strong, beautiful men and women, towering walls under sodium vapor lights, white dust filling the air. Light instead of dark. Up instead of down. It was in every way the opposite of what was inside me.
The second time I climbed, I got to a move in which I was sure I would fall. I was twenty-five feet up on a rope, but I didn’t know yet that I could trust it. I heard my voice say out loud, “I have a choice here: fear or joy.” What I meant was climb or don’t climb, live or die.
In the more than two years since then, I have climbed hundreds of days—inside and out, sometimes tied to a rope, often not.
I do pay a price here. My body can be so bruised from hitting walls that people ask me about my home situation. Nine months ago, I broke my leg and ankle. I healed fas
t, but the risk remains. Next time I might not.
Climbing requires a cold-blooded decision to live. If I am inattentive or careless, I will fall. Every time I climb at the gym or rope up for a route outside or go bouldering—which is climbing without a rope, and it is often more dangerous—I am taking a risk. And I am committing to staying alive.
Now, I believe in climbing, in not jumping. Jumping would have been easy—just step over the bridge railing and let go. Climbing is harder but worth it. I believe that deciding to live was the right decision.
There’s no way to describe the terrible darkness of depression in a way that nondepressed people can understand. Now, I’m less focused on the darkness. Instead, I think about the joy I feel in conquering it and the tool I used.
I am a climber, and I am alive.
Kij Johnson is a writer whose fiction has won the Nebula Award and the World Fantasy Award, and she has been nominated for the Hugo Award. She lives in North Carolina and climbs wherever and whenever she can. Ms. Johnson is at work on a series of essays about climbing.
Walking in the Light
Paul Thorn
I don’t want to be a God-fearing man. I believe in religion without fear.
I grew up in a Pentecostal-type faith in northeast Mississippi called the Church of God of Prophecy, where my father was the pastor. At the age of twelve, I was sent to a summer Bible camp where fear was the motivation for belief. One night the counselors staged a Russian takeover of the camp, simulating the assassination of our camp director. Real shotgun blasts scared us all to our knees, and we begged God for salvation.
At the age of seventeen, I was disfellowshipped from my church for having premarital sex with my girlfriend. Since my father was the pastor, a meeting was arranged with me, my dad, and my Sunday school teacher. I was given two options: stand and confess my sins in front of the congregation and be forgiven or continue my evil ways and no longer be in the club. I chose to be disfellowshipped and became officially unaffiliated with the church.