Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Doing Biking
So... I'm currently not doing Chicago. I'm doing Alabama, then Mississippi, then Tennessee, then Southern Illinois, then Kentucky and finally Cincinnati. I'm doing this on a tandem with my dad for civil rights. It's going to be pretty rad, but I'm not going to write about it here. I'm going to write about it here. I know I haven't been that active in my blogging as of late, but if you've been missing it, now's your chance to reconnect!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Awareness
I ended 2008 with a bang. Quite literally. The bang of my helmet hitting the concrete. Just when you think you’re invincible… Not to worry though, the whiplash has healed up nicely, and I have a renewed commitment to healing my body. Thus, I took the crash as an excuse to finally go see a chiropractor, you know, to get aligned for the new year.
After going over an elaborate model of a spine, closely examining my X-Rays, and discussing possible ways chiropractics could even help my infamous knee pain, my doctor (chiropractors are referred to as doctors for all you skeptics out there), leaned over to me and said, “Awareness is the first step to healing.” He was referring to awareness of my body slumping while typing at a computer. He had me assume a ridiculous position with chest out, shoulder blades squeezed, palms open and upward, and chin awkwardly pulled back into my face. This is the position that can apparently help resist the bodily damage resultant of constant typing, sitting and gawking. But, his comment struck me a little deeper. Awareness.
I got to pondering if awareness really is the first step to healing. I wanted to jump on his bandwagon with an enthusiastic, “Yes!” But, I also felt the devil advocate’s whispers. She murmured in my ears, “Sometimes isn’t it better to not know? When you know there is a problem, can’t the awareness of it only serve to magnify it?” My mom is one of those people who can greatly overlook any bodily pain. She rolls her eyes as I elaborate on my back, my knee, the stabbing sensation in my right temple. For me, my body and mind are intimately connected. For her, the body is just there. Am I creating problems for myself in part simply because I have such an awareness of my body?
Perhaps, but I think there really is something to Dr. Joe’s statement, not only for the healing of bodies, but also of minds and societies. It is of course a privilege to be able to dig into ourselves and the world around us. It takes time and energy to be acutely aware. And being aware without the conviction to heal may actually be more harmful. If I was just aware that my shoulders were slumping creating chronic back problems, but never took the advice of Dr. Joe to perk up and reset, the stress of knowing I was messing myself up could probably only compound the initial problem. Thus awareness is only the first step if you are willing to take more steps after. So awareness is not an end, but a means. Or maybe it is part of the end, but only if the end is also mixed with understanding, commitment and action.
I want to harness my awareness of this world. My brother and I were commenting last night that in the post-Bush world, there is such opportunity to harness the energy that we used to expel bitching and use it for good. I challenge everyone to take a moment each day to just notice the good, touching, ugly and unjust around us. But then take one more step after noticing it. That step could be just telling someone else about the moment. That step could be writing. That step could be something grander. Whatever you do, keep marching forward.
After going over an elaborate model of a spine, closely examining my X-Rays, and discussing possible ways chiropractics could even help my infamous knee pain, my doctor (chiropractors are referred to as doctors for all you skeptics out there), leaned over to me and said, “Awareness is the first step to healing.” He was referring to awareness of my body slumping while typing at a computer. He had me assume a ridiculous position with chest out, shoulder blades squeezed, palms open and upward, and chin awkwardly pulled back into my face. This is the position that can apparently help resist the bodily damage resultant of constant typing, sitting and gawking. But, his comment struck me a little deeper. Awareness.
I got to pondering if awareness really is the first step to healing. I wanted to jump on his bandwagon with an enthusiastic, “Yes!” But, I also felt the devil advocate’s whispers. She murmured in my ears, “Sometimes isn’t it better to not know? When you know there is a problem, can’t the awareness of it only serve to magnify it?” My mom is one of those people who can greatly overlook any bodily pain. She rolls her eyes as I elaborate on my back, my knee, the stabbing sensation in my right temple. For me, my body and mind are intimately connected. For her, the body is just there. Am I creating problems for myself in part simply because I have such an awareness of my body?
Perhaps, but I think there really is something to Dr. Joe’s statement, not only for the healing of bodies, but also of minds and societies. It is of course a privilege to be able to dig into ourselves and the world around us. It takes time and energy to be acutely aware. And being aware without the conviction to heal may actually be more harmful. If I was just aware that my shoulders were slumping creating chronic back problems, but never took the advice of Dr. Joe to perk up and reset, the stress of knowing I was messing myself up could probably only compound the initial problem. Thus awareness is only the first step if you are willing to take more steps after. So awareness is not an end, but a means. Or maybe it is part of the end, but only if the end is also mixed with understanding, commitment and action.
I want to harness my awareness of this world. My brother and I were commenting last night that in the post-Bush world, there is such opportunity to harness the energy that we used to expel bitching and use it for good. I challenge everyone to take a moment each day to just notice the good, touching, ugly and unjust around us. But then take one more step after noticing it. That step could be just telling someone else about the moment. That step could be writing. That step could be something grander. Whatever you do, keep marching forward.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
The Family Band
I grew up in one of those families that valued music and knowledge of music, but had very little auditory and rhythmic skills. We were the kind of family that put all the kids in piano lessons, only to watch each child successively find his/her way out. I’m not sure how my brothers did it. But my technique consisted of taking candy from the piano teacher despite not completing my 3 consecutive weeks of practice, of cursing the busts of famous pianists that I had on my piano when I got the lowest award possible at my first piano competition, and finally just storming out of my piano teacher’s house when I could not for the life of me get my two hands to do different things while playing the politically correct piece, “Little Indian Boys.” Still my parents did not relent. Perhaps they read a parenting book prior to our births that informed them to keep us in musical lessons for all of childhood regardless of the skill we presented.
Ben took up the clarinet. He actually was pretty good at it. The several Christmases of him playing, “Chestnuts roasting by an open fire…” while our dog whined along were priceless. He even got good enough to be first chair in the Wind Ensemble, only to have his clarinet lessons in college be his only B he received in all four years. We haven’t seen the clarinet since. Adam on the other hand took on trumpet… then harmonica… then a brief interlude with pots, pans and bottles…then a stint in a musical… then a rap group… I moved onto flute from piano as any little girl should. But, I never really loved it. I never excelled, and I always hated my flute teachers. I also had some time in my childhood where I thought I could sing. I even starred in my 5th grade musical (a Rock and Roll version of Little Red Riding Hood). Still, none of our talents were sustainable. It seems the Gingold Gerhardstein soil was not rich enough for the musical seeds my parents tried to sew.
We degenerated into a family of camp songs. The kind of family that never sang in tune, and when we couldn’t remember the words we’d simply rewrite them to suit us. In our bubble we’d pump up each other’s egos. I’d say, “Adam I really like how you held out the low note of SEEEEAAAA in the Titanic song” or Ben would compliment mom for reaching a note no other human has ever even approached. But on our own, we floundered.
I think this failed attempt by my parents to make us into musicians resulted in me looking for music in my potential mates. Thus, I have dated lots of musicians. My first love had a family band that played surf music at bookstores throughout the city. All I ever wanted was to be in the band… but the best I could seem to do was date the band. That is until this Christmas.
This Christmas we lazed around, skied, played games and ate the standard Swedish meal, but then the unexpected happened. My aunt Carla brought out poppers wrapped in musical-note paper. She announced that in these small poppers, an orchestra was contained. We all skeptically grabbed a popper and rolled our eyes as we pulled them apart. Much to our surprise, each of us was left holding a blow-chime (I’m not sure if there is a real name for the instruments we had) of various sizes. Not only did we have our own individualized instruments, but we also had musical note crowns. Adam was quick to grab the conductor’s baton and the eight of us got in order around the couches.
I was #2 also known as Re. My Uncle George exclaimed his excitement of being number 6 when he said, “I’ve never been first chair number 6 in my life!”
We each filled with pride as we perfected the one sound each of our instruments could make. My mom had trouble holding her instrument, often covering the hole with her finger. Adam informed her that she really didn’t need to use two hands to hold her 1-inch instrument.
After sufficient warm-up, we were ready to go. Adam held the sheet of paper with the musical scores, held up the baton and pointed at George, #6. “666 666 68456 7777766 66655658,” also known as Jingle Bells. When pointed to, we blew. We stopped blowing when the next person was pointed to. The synergy was amazing. Next came O Come All Ye Faithful. This one started on my cousin Andy, by far the least excited about being in the band, but still he blew. We all blew. We did several songs, each one getting better, each note getting stronger. Talk of going on the road was abuzz.
On the 26th we decided to reconvene the band in order to perfect our performance. More family was coming up on the 27th, and we wanted to give them a show. This practice was not going as well. The pep seemed to have been lost in our notes. Perhaps our first problem was we had branched out to the non-Christmas genre: London Bridge is Falling Down, Can-Can… we squeaked them out, but not without some serious roadblocks. Namely, number 3, my mom. Her blowing had become erratic, airy, and uncontrolled. There were murmurs of replacing her. But we were soon distracted by an obstinate number 4, cousin Andy. Every time Adam pointed at number 5, 6, 7, a peep was heard out of number 4. It was clear that our egos were taking over. It was no longer about the band. Carrie, number 1, reminded us that, “there is no I in BAND.”
As our spirits began to fall, it was up to the conductor to bring us back together. Adam held his baton high and said, “This one goes out to baby Jesus,” and he pointed at Carrie. “112143 112154…” The beauteous song we all know and love emerged from our flutes, “Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Jesus, happy birthday to you.”
Ben took up the clarinet. He actually was pretty good at it. The several Christmases of him playing, “Chestnuts roasting by an open fire…” while our dog whined along were priceless. He even got good enough to be first chair in the Wind Ensemble, only to have his clarinet lessons in college be his only B he received in all four years. We haven’t seen the clarinet since. Adam on the other hand took on trumpet… then harmonica… then a brief interlude with pots, pans and bottles…then a stint in a musical… then a rap group… I moved onto flute from piano as any little girl should. But, I never really loved it. I never excelled, and I always hated my flute teachers. I also had some time in my childhood where I thought I could sing. I even starred in my 5th grade musical (a Rock and Roll version of Little Red Riding Hood). Still, none of our talents were sustainable. It seems the Gingold Gerhardstein soil was not rich enough for the musical seeds my parents tried to sew.
We degenerated into a family of camp songs. The kind of family that never sang in tune, and when we couldn’t remember the words we’d simply rewrite them to suit us. In our bubble we’d pump up each other’s egos. I’d say, “Adam I really like how you held out the low note of SEEEEAAAA in the Titanic song” or Ben would compliment mom for reaching a note no other human has ever even approached. But on our own, we floundered.
I think this failed attempt by my parents to make us into musicians resulted in me looking for music in my potential mates. Thus, I have dated lots of musicians. My first love had a family band that played surf music at bookstores throughout the city. All I ever wanted was to be in the band… but the best I could seem to do was date the band. That is until this Christmas.
This Christmas we lazed around, skied, played games and ate the standard Swedish meal, but then the unexpected happened. My aunt Carla brought out poppers wrapped in musical-note paper. She announced that in these small poppers, an orchestra was contained. We all skeptically grabbed a popper and rolled our eyes as we pulled them apart. Much to our surprise, each of us was left holding a blow-chime (I’m not sure if there is a real name for the instruments we had) of various sizes. Not only did we have our own individualized instruments, but we also had musical note crowns. Adam was quick to grab the conductor’s baton and the eight of us got in order around the couches.
I was #2 also known as Re. My Uncle George exclaimed his excitement of being number 6 when he said, “I’ve never been first chair number 6 in my life!”
We each filled with pride as we perfected the one sound each of our instruments could make. My mom had trouble holding her instrument, often covering the hole with her finger. Adam informed her that she really didn’t need to use two hands to hold her 1-inch instrument.
After sufficient warm-up, we were ready to go. Adam held the sheet of paper with the musical scores, held up the baton and pointed at George, #6. “666 666 68456 7777766 66655658,” also known as Jingle Bells. When pointed to, we blew. We stopped blowing when the next person was pointed to. The synergy was amazing. Next came O Come All Ye Faithful. This one started on my cousin Andy, by far the least excited about being in the band, but still he blew. We all blew. We did several songs, each one getting better, each note getting stronger. Talk of going on the road was abuzz.
On the 26th we decided to reconvene the band in order to perfect our performance. More family was coming up on the 27th, and we wanted to give them a show. This practice was not going as well. The pep seemed to have been lost in our notes. Perhaps our first problem was we had branched out to the non-Christmas genre: London Bridge is Falling Down, Can-Can… we squeaked them out, but not without some serious roadblocks. Namely, number 3, my mom. Her blowing had become erratic, airy, and uncontrolled. There were murmurs of replacing her. But we were soon distracted by an obstinate number 4, cousin Andy. Every time Adam pointed at number 5, 6, 7, a peep was heard out of number 4. It was clear that our egos were taking over. It was no longer about the band. Carrie, number 1, reminded us that, “there is no I in BAND.”
As our spirits began to fall, it was up to the conductor to bring us back together. Adam held his baton high and said, “This one goes out to baby Jesus,” and he pointed at Carrie. “112143 112154…” The beauteous song we all know and love emerged from our flutes, “Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Jesus, happy birthday to you.”
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Just one of those days...
12/22/08
6:30am. It was one of those mornings that seemed to come way too soon. I got up when my alarm went off, but was quickly drawn back to the warmth of my bed. 15 more minutes. No luck. My body seemed pretty determined to stay put. Sometimes my body insists it is sick just to allow my mind to stop fighting the responsibility of the day. Despite the thermometer’s lack of support in my conclusion of illness, I made a deal with myself. Stay in bed, sleep it off, and go into work for a half-day.
11am. I’m showered, have a lunch made, have snowman baggies full of spiced pecans I made for my coworkers. I’m ready. I go out to my snow and ice covered car to do the big dig. Normally I would take the bus, but I had a few Christmas errands to run and needed to get the car unburied for my journey to Minnesota. So, I dig, scrape, kick and chisel. The car appears to be free. I sit down and ignite the car. It starts. Good sign. Then I attempt to move. After three separate attempts, I begin to realize this is a fruitless venture. I then try to turn my car off and get the keys out only to realize I can’t get the car started again, and I can’t remove the keys from the ignition. So, I’m stuck in ice, my car won’t start, and I’m supposed to be at work. I go inside to call AAA. After explaining the situation, they inform me that they can be there by 3:15, hopefully sooner. So, I resign myself to one of those days of sitting around waiting. I get some loose ends done, but mostly I sulk.
4pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for about 30 minutes and they inform me that it will be 30-45 more minutes. In the mean time I realize that my parents are planning to drive through Chicago on their way to Minnesota that night. I begin to wonder why I am planning to venture on my own the next day… I check the weather and see that a wintry mix is coming in the next day. I start to wonder if I can really even make it to Minnesota the next day.
6pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for 30 minutes, and they inform me that it will be another 30-45 minutes. In the mean time I decide that I should probably leave that night with my parents to go to Minnesota. Though, my mom insists on needing her own car, so we decide to caravan. (My parents realize when they are en route to Chicago that they forgot all of Christmas in Cincinnati—it should arrive tomorrow via Greyhound). I then pull into damage control mode. Having taken the day unexpectedly off work, I was feeling like I needed to go in before leaving town…
7:30pm. 8 hours after the initial call, AAA arrives!! And here I am going to admit the really stupid thing that I have in fact admitted to no one until this moment of ultimate confession. It turns out that my car was not stalled. I had simply left it in reverse when I turned it off, and thus it wouldn’t turn on or let me take the keys out. I know. Let it sink in. Stupid. But, still, I was legitimately stuck in the ice. The lovely tow-truck man shoveled me out 3 times and directed exactly how I move the wheels until freedom was had.
8:00pm. Kinko’s. One of my tasks for the day was to pick up some last minute presents I had decided to make. Thank god for 24 hour stores… If only the post office were so convenient. I made two different calendars (very good gift idea for pretty cheap!). I get to Kinko’s and they accidentally made an extra of 1 of the calendars, and not made the other. They tell me it will only be 10 minutes. So, then I go to my car to wait only to realize the calendars they did complete were all for 2008. My heart sank; I certainly needed these calendars before leaving town. So, I rush back inside in panic mode. They promise to get them done within the hour.
9:00pm. A good old fashioned use-up-everything in the fridge omelet sufficed for dinner. Everything was packed and ready to go. I make my first trip out to the car with skis and suitcase. Oh shit. No I didn’t. Yes I did. I left my keys to my apartment inside. Locked inside. No roommates home, I start buzzing all my neighbors apartments. Buzzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Nothing. This is when I had that, “this is it, it’s time to stop” moment. Finally I find someone to let me in, and luckily I had left my apartment door cracked. Coffee in hand I make the final sweep and head out.
9:15pm. Calendars are good and I drive to work. At work I am able to distribute my spiced pecans to co-workers’ mailboxes (very important), and I look up another 75 mammogram patients that have constantly been a constant pressure (no pun intended) on me over the past week. While I don’t complete the entirety of the task I am able to assess where I am and what I need to do upon return.
11:15pm. Parents show up, and the caravan to Minnesota begins.
1:30am. Asleep to the sweet sound of my mother's snoring in the Baymont Inn in Janesville, WI.
As I said, it was just one of those days.
(Disclaimer: I realize this story of my bad day may not be so entertaining, but it was one of those days I felt like I needed to write out. Now that I have written it out, I realize it wasn’t nearly as crazy as I had made it out to be in my mind, and I therefore will no longer hold onto it with such stress. So thank you for being my audience.)
6:30am. It was one of those mornings that seemed to come way too soon. I got up when my alarm went off, but was quickly drawn back to the warmth of my bed. 15 more minutes. No luck. My body seemed pretty determined to stay put. Sometimes my body insists it is sick just to allow my mind to stop fighting the responsibility of the day. Despite the thermometer’s lack of support in my conclusion of illness, I made a deal with myself. Stay in bed, sleep it off, and go into work for a half-day.
11am. I’m showered, have a lunch made, have snowman baggies full of spiced pecans I made for my coworkers. I’m ready. I go out to my snow and ice covered car to do the big dig. Normally I would take the bus, but I had a few Christmas errands to run and needed to get the car unburied for my journey to Minnesota. So, I dig, scrape, kick and chisel. The car appears to be free. I sit down and ignite the car. It starts. Good sign. Then I attempt to move. After three separate attempts, I begin to realize this is a fruitless venture. I then try to turn my car off and get the keys out only to realize I can’t get the car started again, and I can’t remove the keys from the ignition. So, I’m stuck in ice, my car won’t start, and I’m supposed to be at work. I go inside to call AAA. After explaining the situation, they inform me that they can be there by 3:15, hopefully sooner. So, I resign myself to one of those days of sitting around waiting. I get some loose ends done, but mostly I sulk.
4pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for about 30 minutes and they inform me that it will be 30-45 more minutes. In the mean time I realize that my parents are planning to drive through Chicago on their way to Minnesota that night. I begin to wonder why I am planning to venture on my own the next day… I check the weather and see that a wintry mix is coming in the next day. I start to wonder if I can really even make it to Minnesota the next day.
6pm. No AAA. I call again. Wait on hold for 30 minutes, and they inform me that it will be another 30-45 minutes. In the mean time I decide that I should probably leave that night with my parents to go to Minnesota. Though, my mom insists on needing her own car, so we decide to caravan. (My parents realize when they are en route to Chicago that they forgot all of Christmas in Cincinnati—it should arrive tomorrow via Greyhound). I then pull into damage control mode. Having taken the day unexpectedly off work, I was feeling like I needed to go in before leaving town…
7:30pm. 8 hours after the initial call, AAA arrives!! And here I am going to admit the really stupid thing that I have in fact admitted to no one until this moment of ultimate confession. It turns out that my car was not stalled. I had simply left it in reverse when I turned it off, and thus it wouldn’t turn on or let me take the keys out. I know. Let it sink in. Stupid. But, still, I was legitimately stuck in the ice. The lovely tow-truck man shoveled me out 3 times and directed exactly how I move the wheels until freedom was had.
8:00pm. Kinko’s. One of my tasks for the day was to pick up some last minute presents I had decided to make. Thank god for 24 hour stores… If only the post office were so convenient. I made two different calendars (very good gift idea for pretty cheap!). I get to Kinko’s and they accidentally made an extra of 1 of the calendars, and not made the other. They tell me it will only be 10 minutes. So, then I go to my car to wait only to realize the calendars they did complete were all for 2008. My heart sank; I certainly needed these calendars before leaving town. So, I rush back inside in panic mode. They promise to get them done within the hour.
9:00pm. A good old fashioned use-up-everything in the fridge omelet sufficed for dinner. Everything was packed and ready to go. I make my first trip out to the car with skis and suitcase. Oh shit. No I didn’t. Yes I did. I left my keys to my apartment inside. Locked inside. No roommates home, I start buzzing all my neighbors apartments. Buzzzzz. Buzzzz. Buzzzz. Nothing. This is when I had that, “this is it, it’s time to stop” moment. Finally I find someone to let me in, and luckily I had left my apartment door cracked. Coffee in hand I make the final sweep and head out.
9:15pm. Calendars are good and I drive to work. At work I am able to distribute my spiced pecans to co-workers’ mailboxes (very important), and I look up another 75 mammogram patients that have constantly been a constant pressure (no pun intended) on me over the past week. While I don’t complete the entirety of the task I am able to assess where I am and what I need to do upon return.
11:15pm. Parents show up, and the caravan to Minnesota begins.
1:30am. Asleep to the sweet sound of my mother's snoring in the Baymont Inn in Janesville, WI.
As I said, it was just one of those days.
(Disclaimer: I realize this story of my bad day may not be so entertaining, but it was one of those days I felt like I needed to write out. Now that I have written it out, I realize it wasn’t nearly as crazy as I had made it out to be in my mind, and I therefore will no longer hold onto it with such stress. So thank you for being my audience.)
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Yes We Will
Refusing to let that night die.
I have clearly taken a hiatus from the blog world. If in that time you have felt compelled to stop reading, I get it. There is a lot of media out there, a lot of interesting intrigues to choose from. “Interesting intrigues” is probably redundant, but I like it. That is maybe why I did not do so well on my GRE I took last weekend. I like redundancies. But, I am not going to use my blog to vent about that experience. I’ve got back up plans; all will be well.
What I really want to write about is Tuesday, November 4th. It’s crazy to think that day was only two weeks ago, yet so quickly we have resumed our regular lives. I admit that it feels a bit forced to be writing about that night now, it is old news, right? But I am sticking to my commitment to myself to write of that night for the very fact that it shouldn’t be old news yet. We need to be rejoicing in the spirit of November 4th for more than a few hours or days, it is on us to keep it alive.
I was lucky enough to be one of the million who gathered in Grant Park to see Obama accept his victory. That night epitomized why I love partying with liberals. Prior to attending the festivities there were several murmurs of fear. What if Obama loses? There will be massive rioting no matter what! That many people downtown will just be chaos…
But I assure you; it was the calmest crowd of a million to ever gather. We stood for hours in a huge park with limited visibility and watched the news on a big screen. Never once did I hear people grumble as their toes were stepped on and shoulders rubbed by complete strangers. When one person cheered, everyone cheered. It didn’t even matter what we were cheering for specifically, there was simply a wave of positivity that we were all riding. One stranger gave me a piece of pizza he couldn’t finish. Another offered me his extra water bottle when he overheard me discussing my thirst. And then there was the moment. The moment that Obama was declared our president-elect. I remember bending over in a loud relief filled yelp, grabbing for whoever was close and holding on tight. That moment will forever be locked in my mind, body, and soul with no words to ever do it justice. So he won, and still we were capable of continuing to stand peacefully together watching the news. We listened to a terrible rendition of the Star Spangled Banner without a single boo. We danced and sang along to classic oldies songs. And we sporadically broke out into gasps, shrieks, yelps, and yippees.
When Barack Obama took the stage a stillness overcame the crowd. There was only a handful that could actual see his face, but his presence permeated throughout the crowd. My friend’s boyfriend lifted me so I could see his figure on the stage. But I think what is remarkable about Obama, is that he is so much bigger than his body. He brought together 1 million people in a public space to be there with him in that moment. He gets it. We got it. It was beautiful.
After his eloquent speech, and lots of waving, people slowly ambled out of the park. There was no stampede. Simply a leisurely walk out onto Michigan Avenue. The street was closed, and the happy crowd filled it in celebration. Cops were everywhere, but their presence was not oppressive. People were taking pictures with them and petting their horses. My friend’s and I walked up Michigan Ave., breathing it in as deeply as possible. A short eccentric man walked up to me and hugged me, saying. “Hugs for Obama.” No other time would it be ok for a stranger to walk up to another stranger in downtown Chicago and hug her.
So, as times get rough. As the economy looks bleaker and bleaker. As George Bush does his final damage. We must remember to keep the night of November 4th alive. Prior to that night we were chanting, “Yes we can.” On that night we chanted “Yes we did.” We did get him elected, but our work is not done.
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