This I Believe: Life Lessons

by Dan Gediman

  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.

  Licensed marriage and family therapist Robin Mize works with individuals, couples, and groups. Before studying counseling, Ms. Mize received a PhD in drama from the University of California, Santa Barbara. She lives with her family in Takoma Park, Maryland.

  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.

  Freelance writer Carla Saulter, aka Bus Chick, blogs about transit riding on her website, buschick.com. She serves on Seattle’s Transit Master Plan Advisory Board. Ms. Saulter and her husband and two children still enjoy life without a personal vehicle.

  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.

  Samantha Jacobs is working toward her master’s in art education in St. Louis, Missouri, and is looking forward to becoming a career art educator. Although no longer a nanny, Ms. Jacobs does continue to babysit and eat Eggo waffles on a regular basis.

  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 t
hrough 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.

  Clinical audiologist Stephanie Disney has led hearing screening programs for newborns and has served adults with mental disabilities and children with special health care needs.

  Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace

  Dani Weathers

  When my dad died, we weren’t there to say good-bye. He was alone on a Colorado road riding that stupid motorcycle he just had to have. When he died, I felt like I died, too.

  I was diagnosed with manic depression and post-traumatic stress disorder shortly after my dad died on August 6, 2006, hit by a woman in a car. His death left me numb and empty. Desperate to feel something—to feel anything—I resorted to cutting myself. I thought if I could feel the pain of sharp objects digging into my skin, then I was still alive. Soon I was addicted to self-injury.

  My depression and my cutting became too much for what was left of my family. My mother and brother seemed too distant to save me from my misery. We became strangers in the house we’d lived in since I was eight. I came to hate them, and in hating them, I felt more alone than before. My cutting grew more frequent.

  Eventually, I felt scared of the person I had become; I didn’t want to cut anymore, but I was terrified of what would happen if I didn’t. The people closest to me were weary of my ongoing battles, too. At one point, a former boyfriend shouted at me, “It happened four years ago! Get over it already! Just move on!”

  His words stunned me like a slap in the face, stopping me from grabbing anything sharp. Although I disagreed that I should “get over” my father’s death, I realized I couldn’t continue to let cutting and depression control my life. After all, Dad wouldn’t want me to hurt myself this way. I also saw how unfair it was to depend on my incredibly patient friends to clean up my messes. After years of trying to mend my grief by cutting, I was finally ready for the real process of healing to begin.

  It hasn’t been easy to share my tale. When people hear about my depression, they pity me or, worse, think I’m crazy. But what would remaining quiet achieve? My silence won’t heal my wounds—in fact, it nearly cost me the last bit of life I kept buried under my pain and loss.

  So I say to the world, I have depression, and I am a recovering cutter. I believe I am worth something, and I don’t want to fear what other people think of me. I want to live another day, because I believe that this scary, horrible, and yet awesome world is worth fighting for. My visible and invisible wounds are signs of my strength and the trials I’ve struggled to survive. And I hope that by telling my story I can help other people who share this addiction.

  Today, my smiles are sincere, my laughs genuine. Today I am a new girl, a phoenix reborn from the ashes of all of the tragedy and struggle that had been my life. Today I believe I am alive.

  And Dad, wherever you are now, know that I love you.

  Dani Weathers is a charismatic human specimen, but she still has demons of her own. She is a sophomore studying English at Ohio State University. Ms. Weathers aspires to be a future teen fiction author, but for now she is content with learning to reenjoy life with her friends, family, and her four wonderful cats.

  The Triumph of Kindness

  Josh Stein

  I believe that when people come together, it’s a beautiful thing. And when someone who can’t do something tries to do it and everyone else helps, that is a great moment.

  One beautiful sunny day, I had a Little League baseball game. At the time it was very important to me, and I was really focused on doing well, as were the other seven-year-olds. It was our last game of the season, and we were all trying to have fun and to end it with a bang the best we could.

  As the game progressed the score got close. When we had our final chance to win at the end of the last inning, it was my turn to bat. I looked over at my coach, who was talking to my dad about something—probably the stock market or something like that. As I stepped into the batter’s box, my coach called me back to the dugout. He asked me a strange yet interesting question. He asked if it would be all right if my brother hit for me.

  My brother wasn’t on the team. He had never even played baseball due to his disability. He couldn’t stand, and he certainly couldn’t hit. But I responded very maturely for a kid my age. “Of course he can hit for me,” I said. I was still puzzled as to how, though. Thoughts ran through my mind, such as: Would the kids make fun of him? Would he hit the ball?

  As my dad carried him to the plate, I realized that without his wheelchair he would have to be held up. The joy on his face couldn’t be traded for anything in the world. Just being on the field gave him all the happiness he needed. What will the other kids think? I wondered.

  I heard someone call out, “C’mon, hit it outta here.” Then came another, “You can do it!” These words of acceptance showed me how great the moment really was. On the first swing, which was pretty much my dad holding Sam’s hands around the bat and my dad swinging, he—or they—hit the ball. The kids on the other team did something amazing then, something seven-year-olds should never know how or why to do. But in the spur of the moment, these seven-year-olds did. They purposely overthrew the ball. Three times.

  Sam had hit his first and only home run. And as my dad carried him around the bases, I knew this memory would stick with me and everyone else there forever.

  I’ve seen it with my own eyes. When people come together, it’s a beautiful thing.

  Josh Stein is a ninth grader at Hewlett High School in Hewlett, New York. He enjoys playing tennis, basketball, and golf and hanging out with his brothers.

  Time to Walk the Dog

  Betsy Buchalter Adler

  I believe in w
alking the dog.

  I also believe in flossing my teeth, practicing the piano, and eating five servings of fruits and vegetables a day, but those things can be ignored. The dog cannot be ignored.

  The dog stands in the doorway, polite but implacable, waiting for me to clip on his leash. He couldn’t care less about my deadlines and duties. He knows, and I know, that the walk is the thing.

  Walking the dog is not aerobic exercise. It’s a meander. We stop periodically so the dog can read the latest smells with his long, elegant collie nose. We walk to the park or the bakery or just around the neighborhood. The dog is amenable to all of these destinations. He’s outside. I’m on the other end of the leash. Life is good.

  I could say I got the dog for exercise or to get myself out of the house or to have an excuse for my husband and me to make up silly songs, the way we did when our kids—all grown up now—were too young to roll their eyes at us.

  But in fact I got the dog to have an anchor in the ordinary world of sights and smells, outside the words and laws that are the tools of my legal practice. Lawyers are surrounded by rules, agreements, promises made and broken. We parse words to determine who is legally bound to do what. Then we try to connect those obligations to the facts in front of us in order to solve somebody’s problem. It’s all too easy to focus on work to the exclusion of, well, meandering.

  The dog forces me to meander. I have to stop trying to make facts and rules behave themselves and focus on what’s going on right here, right now, like the ruby-throated hummingbird zooming around my neighbor’s Mexican sage. I would have missed it completely if the dog hadn’t stopped and stared. I would have gone right past that tiny red sock in the middle of the sidewalk, kicked off by some passing baby in a stroller, if the dog hadn’t pounced on it and carried it away in dogly triumph.