"The Tide"

Last week, my English teacher told us to write a poem by Monday. I'd written barely any poetry in my life, maybe two, with clumsy, forced rhymes. But I wrote one, and rather enjoyed it. And, bizzarely, I've been on a sort of poetry-writing kick ever since. Here's one of my favorite ones I've written so far:



The Tide

I was sitting on a rock
The salt breeze on my face
I started watching a young girl
She had breast buds and baby fat
She spent hours building a castle
Her friend building at her side
But the tide was coming in
The castle wasn't high enough
I saw that and she knew it too
Her friend left and ran into the surf
But she stayed there to rescue her castle
The tide swept in and ate away the foundation
She tried not to hear the voice coaxing her into the water
She stayed there trying and trying to save the futile kingdom

I drew away and returned the next day
But the only trace was a small, flattened mound

Live and Let Live

The Fort Oglethorpe debate over cheerleaders’ signs has reached a national level. The cheerleaders put bible verses on their signs. Now eight years down the road, someone has spoken out against it, and the signs have been eliminated.
Let’s start by acknowledging that I am biased. I am a Christian, and that colors my perspective, just like any defining attribute would. However, despite my personal beliefs, I also believe strongly in separation of church and state. Why? Because other people hold their beliefs just as strongly as I do. Their creed is just as important to them as mine is to me.
That is not to say that I believe in relative truth. I believe that truth is simply truth. It is an unbending standard and doesn’t change from person to person. I believe that Jesus is “the way, the truth, and the life.” However, I am willing to respect the beliefs of others, even though I think they are incorrect.
I think that individuals have the right to embrace and express their personal beliefs. I can’t give enough support to the people in the stands holding signs. But there is a problem when government institutions endorse one set of beliefs as the cheerleaders did.
Having said that, let’s not be legalistic. Don’t spoil someone else’s joy just because you have the constitutional right to do it. One woman complained about the signs. Was she really genuinely offended by them? Or was she just being nasty because she knew she would win?
Here’s my policy:
1. Nobody should be a bully—not on either side of any argument.
2. And, as far as it is possible, live and let live.

The Job of a Journalist

It is the job of a journalist to report.
Different journalists may enjoy exaggerating for humor and effect, or they may prefer an unemotional statement of fact. Regardless of their writing style, the public counts on them for the truth.
Every American is not an eye-witness to every major event. Every American is not a fly on the wall of top-secret mischief. We the people must receive the facts from the “middleman” of this country: journalists.
With their connections and resources, they are privy to information that we can’t obtain otherwise. They have to be our informing eyes— spread out over the country and the world. Then, they report to us.
There are, therefore, two essential conclusions to draw here.
The first is that journalists must be honest—without polluting the facts or coloring the story with their personal opinion. They must tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Because we count on them for that.
The second is that they must not be meddled with. No outside party can interfere—not by blackmail, bribery, or bullying. This is not to say they should not be held accountable for any violation of my first point. I simply affirm that there is a reason why James Madison specified freedom of the press in the first amendment. Its inclusion was purposeful. Any interruption of the flow of news from the journalist to the public abuses the principles this country was founded on.

Boudica

Who is Boudica? It’s a reasonable question to ask. Though I made my blog her namesake, perhaps some of my thousands of followers could use a little clarification…
Back around 60 AD, Boudica was the queen of a part of England called Iceni. It was a time in history when the Romans were invading the island. In an attempt to reconcile the invading forces and the native people, the king of Iceni, Boudica’s husband, wrote his will leaving half of his land to the Romans and the other half to his two daughters. After his death, however, the troops flogged Boudica, raped her daughters, and took everything. This did not sit well with the good people of Iceni, so they rallied behind Boudica, joined forces with some neighboring tribes, and counterattacked. They won several victories against their oppressors, but— as it inevitably had to be— their revolt was ultimately squelched.
The point is that she tried. The odds were terrible, but she rallied the people behind herself and a greater cause. She fought back. So why did I name my blog after her? It’s simple: Boudica was a powerful and proactive woman.

College

I was contemplating what to blog about today when I realized that was a silly thing for me to ponder. What better to blog about than the one cruel responsibility completely taking over my life? College. It is coming. It is heartless.
This season of my life is characterized by an endless onslaught of informational meetings, campus tours, blank applications, essay topics, and meanest of all—deadlines. That school wants this now, but that then. This school encourages those a month ago, and insists on it next week. The other school wants everything by then, except in the case of also applying for such-and-such, in which case this and that should be done first… Understandably, it’s a bit confusing.
With such a whirl of different demands, it does not help to remember that my future depends on the decision I make. But I must compartmentalize. That phase comes later. Presently, my only problem is applications. Best description: 100,000-pound elephant. A herd of them.

U2

Confession: When my Dad told me we had tickets to the U2 concert at the Georgia Dome, I didn’t know who U2 was. Yeah, yeah, I apologize to the world. It was a crime.
So Dad lent me his four CDs. I listened, and realized how many of their songs I actually did know. Anyway, listening to them constantly for days, I got quite excited about seeing them.
It didn’t disappoint. The set-up was incredible. My dad read that they drop a million dollars every time they put it up. Every show, they spend a million just erecting the stage… It looked it. It was like a massive space shuttle. And there was a moving bridge that crossed over the audience. Once, during the show, Bono reached down and pulled some random girl up and over the railing. I thought she was never gonna stop hugging him. Lucky.
And the music. I have no words. Because there are no words. All the dramatic words are too cliché. Amazing. Incredible. Outstanding.
If you are as ignorant as I once was (cue “I was once was lost, but now I’m found, was blind but now I see”— Maybe that’s sacrilegious. Never mind.), please look them up and convert yourself.

Ode to Grandpa

As far back as I can remember, I have known and loved the French National Anthem. It was my Grandpa’s favorite song—quite a statement, considering his incessant humming and singing. His music-making presence filled up my house for years. The influence he had on me can hardly be measured in a few hundred words.
After serving in World War II, Grandpa became a chef, and his passion for all things culinary was contagious. Every time he visited, we baked oatmeal bread and proper New York-style pizza. Although he did teach me to love baking, it was those hours spent one-on-one with him that truly held the appeal.
The impact Grandpa had on me was much more significant than his sharing of hobbies. He taught me a multitude of life lessons, simply by example. Everyone he ever encountered, he treated like a friend. Consequently, he was always surrounded by people who loved him, even if only the cashier at Wal-mart that he met and talked with for five minutes.
He showed me the secret of happiness: being content. Grandpa’s thought and feelings were simple. He was always satisfied with his life. He lived as though he could not imagine a better place to be, and he hugged the people he loved as though there was nothing more important. He always looked for things to be cheerful about. And during his long battle against Alzheimer’s, that lesson was the one I needed most.
I was twelve when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and the five years that followed grew progressively more difficult. He forgot more and more first his recipes and the lyrics to his favorite oldies, then his family. There was so much to grieve about, but I didn’t because he had taught me to search for the silver lining. He believed in dwelling on the best of any situation, and especially looking for the humor. When he wasted away to skin and bones, instead of being worried, I laughed because his flannel pajama bottoms frequently fell to the floor when he shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast. I knew he would laugh too.
Watching Grandpa age and die of Alzheimer’s gave me perspective I could not have gained any other way. It taught me to cherish the small things, like the times he told me he loved me even though he could not remember my name. It also taught me to look at life from a far-reaching standpoint, how to recognize the things that may seem small but aren’t. When his care was too difficult for my family to handle, we took Grandpa to a nursing home, and I didn’t get to see him nearly as often. One afternoon last summer, though I was busily preparing music for my cousin’s wedding, I took the opportunity to go see him, devoting a whole afternoon to him. I put him in his wheelchair and played on the out-of-tune piano for him. I rolled him around and around the tiny garden, singing his favorite hymns. I read my book aloud and held his hand. By that point, good days were a rarity for him, yet all afternoon he was cheerful and affectionate. He died less than two weeks later, and I have few memories more meaningful than those hours I spent with him.
My Grandpa was delighted with his life. He loved his family and his God. He never failed to appreciate the small blessings in every day. At his funeral, I played “Simple Gifts.” No song could have been more appropriate.