Letters to Home, Week One

A note of explanation: Although I have lived away from home since I was seventeen and a freshman in college, I have rarely gone more than a few days without talking to my parents.  Last week, for the first time since I was a child, they left for a vacation abroad.  And, for the first time since I was a child, I am having separation anxiety issues.  I have become so accustomed to passing on small tidbits of information and trivia or calling my mom to tell her the amusing anecdotes of my daily life that my parents were scarcely gone 24 hours and I was itching to dial their phone number.  To ease my need to share absolutely everything with my parents, I have decided to keep a running list of musings directed to my parents (and since they make up half of my current following, I think it will be okay).

Day 1: Friday, September 23:

So I am listening to Laurie R. King’s The Game and just hating that you are unavailable to talk with.  I am just loving this newest adventure!   I love that the men in these novels never seem to understand that Mary Russell-Holmes is no ordinary female.  When she whips out her throwing knife and tosses it across the room (to land perfectly in a foul painting) in order to prove her point to yet another doubting man, I was instantly transported from India to a small room in Palestine and the English Nesbit was traded for the enigmatic Mahmoud.  Mary Russell (and more likely Laurie King herself) is wicked and I love it.

I really have to admire King’s ability to craft such real, believable characters.  I have noted this before, primarily in Justice Hall--I loved the novel so much because I loved Mahmoud and Ali.  They were real characters to me, real people, and I shared in each of their emotions.  I love Russell best, though.  Partly because she’s so clever and determined, and she has compassion, razor sharp wit, and gumption.  She seems like the kind of person I would like.  The scene in the small Indian shop where Sunny buys Russell the pretty amber necklace was so touching, as Mary analyzes the situation and regrets the duplicity her profession so often requires.  These novels so often evoke a multitude of emotions--delight at the capers Russell gets into and the bickering conversations between Russell and Holmes, but also pain and sadness as the volatile world of the 1920s intrudes upon the fictional world of Sherlock Holmes.  I appreciate that.

Still working my way through Emma. As I read, I can’t help but compare the novel to the various movie versions we’ve watched.  In the movie versions, Emma is just so much more likeable.  I know that in large part this is because in the movies we are not privy to Emma’s thoughts, which, in the novel, reveal the depths of Emma’s self-absorption and silliness.  I think it is also due to the fact that the directors and screenwriters adapt the novel to make Emma more likeable so that audiences will warm to her quickly.  We as readers have more time to acquaint ourselves with our heroine.  

I’m also struck by how similar Emma and Mrs. Elton are.  This is not something that comes through in the movies, but is very apparent in the novel.  I’m amused that Mrs. Elton appears to be as meddlesome as Emma, though not as subtle or refined in her interfering.  And the fact that Emma detests Mrs. Elton for their shared traits is just delightful.  Delightful.

Tyler Fortier and band at a concert this last
spring; his new CD "Bang On Time"
will be amazing, trust me.

Day 2: Saturday, September 24:

Got Ralphie’s note in the mail with the article on T.S. Eliot.  Delighted to know that he remembered that pistachio flavored gelato is truly the best flavor.  I am comforted to know that in a world where such flavors as hazelnut and artificial chocolates are out there to tempt the unsuspecting eater, Ralphie knows which flavor to choose.

Day 3: Sunday, September 25:

Amazing weekend.  Friday was a Sherlock night, always enjoyable.  And Saturday we watched the Ducks play Arizona (and win, naturally) and then went to Cornucopia to watch my friend Tyler play.  It was great.  The band played a few songs off his new album and they sounded amazing; I can’t wait to hear the full album soon!  And near the end of the night, after everyone had enjoyed a couple of drinks, Tyler got whimsical and sang a few lines of the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.”  When I started singing along, he turned the microphone towards me and my friends and I sang the chorus with the band.  Almost a dream-come-true moment, singing with the band.  Was glowing with delight the rest of the evening and most of today.  

A Hope For Tomorrow

When I was fifteen I had a crisis of faith.  I am not a highly religious person.  I do not follow any organized religion, and while I believe in a higher power, I am fuzzy on the details.  For as long as I can remember, though, I have maintained an almost religious faith in the republic forged by men like Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin.  I love my country and the ideals upon which is was founded.  I look with deep reverence to the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.  My heart thrills at words like “We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal…” and I feel great surges of pride to be included in the phrase “We the people….”  I so revere the First Amendment that I have its 45 words seared into my memory and when I recite it, I can’t help but feel excitement build to a crescendo as I enumerate its freedoms.
In a country where the freedom of expression is permitted, promoted, and so highly regarded, though, dissent is also ever present, and at fifteen, I listened to those voices of dissent.  It was easy to feel disillusion then; despite the numerous accomplishments of his regime, Bill Clinton left the presidency with a tarnished record, and the disastrous 2000 election placed a man in office whom I could not trust, let alone admire.  My faith in American politics was shaken by current events; studying history did not help.  I was studying American history my junior year, and was busy uncovering America’s shameful past.  Those early weeks of American history revealed to me many of the horrors behind America’s colonial years--the abuses of Native Americans and the fact that this country was literally built with slave labor.  Even Thomas Jefferson, my Jefferson, the author of those beautiful words in the Declaration, was not above the shame of our past.  I was fifteen, on the cusp of sweet sixteen, and I was naïve, dramatic, and lost.
And then the world broke.  I stood in the bathroom one morning, getting ready for school, and listened as a shocked radio DJ informed listeners that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center.  The day that unfolded was a nightmare; each hour brought more news more terrible than before.  Even ten years later I can recall with painful clarity my grief and fear on that terrible day.  To borrow from Franklin Delano Roosevelt, September 11 was a date which will live in infamy, and I cannot describe the pain that even now remains strong.  I believe it is unnecessary to describe my feelings, though, because the pain and the grief and fear I felt were shared by all.
The stories that have emerged from that day are heartbreaking, but they reveal the true beauty that lies in mankind.  They are stories of profound loss, but also of true heroism and humanity.  I grieved--and still grieve--for the loss of so many that day, but I cannot help feel pride in the men and women who revealed themselves to be heroes that day.  To the rest of the country, the rescue workers and emergency responders who so valiantly worked to pull people from the towers became heroes of an almost epic proportion.  But there were other heroes that day; the men and women who took to the streets with cups of water and sandwiches, blankets and kind words for the shocked and shaken survivors were heroic, too, as were the countless others who rushed to provide supplies, to donate blood, to offer any form of comfort possible.  And one cannot forget the unimaginable bravery and self-sacrifice of the passengers of Flight 93.  We found and lost so many heroes that day.
In the aftermath of 9/11, I saw the world pull together, united by a shared sense of sorrow and empathy.  The attack was not an attack upon America, but a profound loss that shook the global community.  For a brief moment it felt as though the world was not divided by nationalities or other social constructions and differences; instead, the world was one giant community that pulled together and grieved collectively.  In the years since 2001, I have seen this occur at other moments of great loss--the 2004 tsunami that devastated Thailand, the earthquakes in Haiti and Japan--but for me, the aftermath of 9/11 holds the greatest significance.  I am forever changed by what I witnessed, deeply moved by mankind’s display of strength, compassion, and hope.
September 11 cured me of my crisis of faith.  Where the idols of Jefferson and Franklin once stood, I had a whole slew of American heroes.  I maintain a wariness towards politicians (both past and present) that I may never lose, but I look at that as a good thing; to blindly believe in a hero or idol is dangerous and leads to zealotry.  I still revel in American mythology, but I am careful to remember that it is, in fact, mythology.

Two months after the attacks I traveled to Washington, D.C., and saw for myself the still smoking Pentagon and the makeshift memorial citizens had erected.  I had gone to D.C. with a group of strangers--students and teachers from around the country--and though we were friendly with one another, we were a group of individuals.  As I stood looking at the Pentagon, so overcome with emotion that I felt ready to collapse, I heard a companion start to sing “God Bless America.”  He drew our party together and we stood, arms around another to offer comfort, companionship, and strength and we sang and cried.  When we left the memorial, we were no longer individuals but a small community banded together by our shared experience.
That day, like 9/11, changed me.  I had never felt great emotion when I hear the national anthem or other patriotic songs, but, days later as I sat through a Veterans’ Day assembly, I was overcome as I listened to my school sing “The Star Spangled Banner.”  I couldn’t help but cry, unphased by the stares and whispers of my neighbors.  I still cry every time I hear a large group of people sing the national anthem.  I return to the 9/11 memorial and that beautiful moment of unity I felt as I stood with my companions.  I hope I never forget that feeling.
The September 11 attacks changed me in another way.  I am Hispanic-American, and growing up I took great pride in this.  I am proud of my heritage and I celebrate my ethnicity.  As a child, though, I took pains to always differentiate myself; I took pride in identifying myself as Bolivian-American or Hispanic-American.  In the aftermath of 9/11, though, many people like me of mixed backgrounds dropped their hyphens.  On September 11, 2001, I, like so many others, ceased to be Hispanic-American or Bolivian-American and became simply, proudly American.  For a moment, we were all united as one nation, no longer divided by our ethnic or racial backgrounds.  For too brief a time, we became the country Martin Luther King dreamed of.  This of course has faded, and America is again a country with hyphenated citizens.  As we prepare for tomorrow, though, I cannot help but hope that we can all remember that feeling of unity.  My hope is that tomorrow, we will not experience feelings of hate or revenge, but instead that we will celebrate the good in humanity that we saw emerge so clearly on 9/11.  This country was founded upon the ideal that all men and women are created equal, and I hope that tomorrow, we all remember that ideal.  I pray that we can all come together again as a single community, forgetting our cultural, ethnic, and religious differences.  I hope that tomorrow finds us as one nation, indivisible, with compassion and love for all.