We are all defined by our differences--the qualities and experiences that individualize us from everyone else. Sometimes we think our differences separate us from each other. It's like when you're going through something and the last thing you want to hear is, "I know how you feel." We dread that. We dread it primarily because we often think we deserve to rightfully feel whatever our emotions are on our own and not have to share them with someone else. It is a form of difference that we don't want infiltrated by someone else's common understanding. Yet, as of late, I have found myself challenged by that.
I was fortunate enough to be cast in the BC Theatre production of Red by John Logan and directed by my friend, Joe Meade. Was I intimidated at first? Without a doubt. Was I still intimidated as it went on? Without a doubt. Yet, something shifted along the way of this creative process between a small, intimate group of friends that has allowed me to recognize something great on a larger scale. The majority of the play, Rothko and I (Ken), cannot maintain a fluidity with one another, constantly questioning and striking down the beliefs we have set for ourselves. The core of the play is a struggle of difference. It left me wondering, why do our differences have to distance us from each other? I think that as the play comes to a close and both Rothko and I truly see each other, we too recognize that differences are not absolute. Differences are not meant to be agents for arguments or qualities that glorify one person over another. What I learned as Ken is that through our differences as human beings we are able to discover the harmonious respect we innately have for one another. Weirdly enough, this has been a thematic topic in academics, conversation, and now my creative outlets. I guess that there is an evident validity to the idea.
In the play, there is a moment where Rothko says as humans we are in a state of perpetual dissonance. Rothko was right--to an extent Ken and I would argue. Our past is stained with wars, violence, and disagreement but that does not mean we are constrained by them. I like to think we can prevail as one. We have the ability to see that there can be unity between two people--among all of us if we choose to believe in it and be proud of our differences. Silence is indeed so accurate. The moments that need no speech can say the most. So, when your friend says, "I know how you feel," don't get mad or frustrated. That person perhaps might sit next to you, grab your hand and truly see you. Give them that opportunity, you might surprise yourself. I think Rothko and Ken's story can testify to that. We can be different and still the same--we can avoid and still give in--we can disagree and still, we can respect. There's a beauty to that.
Red was much more than just a play--it changed me and I cannot express how grateful I am to have been taken on its journey. In the time I spent with it, I found that life can be easily succumbed to sadness and adversity. But, if all of us find those times of silent solidarity and harmony, we may stumble upon understanding and smile at it. In the end, we will find each other and be happy. Be proud that you are you but equally proud that you are never alone and can always learn from those in your life. A little thing--a little play--a happy ending. Here's to a better tomorrow.
A lot can happen in just a few short months. You could move to another country, travel the world, share all new experiences, and realize that there is so much more you still have not done. A part of my life is ending and at first I could not understand how it is that we move on from one stage in life to the next. How do we take the step that makes the present something of the past? How do we approach the end? We all ponder that dark ominous cloud. Leaving home for the airport to go to Spain I asked myself, will I be lost forever? A young daughter about to walk down the aisle turns to her father anxiously with tears stewing and asks, will I always be your daughter? When newlyweds are preparing the final days before their first-born comes, each wonders, will we still love each other? And an old widowed man on the cusp of death looks at an old picture of his wife on his farm porch and asks her, will I see you again?
I was lucky enough to travel to Paris, Rome with the Irish Queen (Karen O'Chief), London, Vienna, and even squeezed in a spontaneous trip to Bratislava, Slovakia. How did that happen? In summation, I have travelled a lot during my abroad experience, I have witnessed a lot, I have done and eaten a lot (both good and regrettable), and I have changed a little. Change, you gotta love it, even though when first encountering it the majority of us are intimidated by it. Change is the perfect theme to encompass this entire experience. I have changed the way I look at life, people, and even slightly myself. I felt that change along the way and I learned to take it in stride. Day by day and little by little, inevitable new ways of thinking overcame me and new people came into my life. I like to think I learned how to nibble on change instead of swallowing the force of it whole. That is how we learn to live in the present, to enjoy the little moments as they come, and to reflect without letting those little moments of change pass us by without even feeling them.
It is the constant dilemma we all face, at all ages, at different stages of our lives. We cannot help but struggle to figure out a way to live in the present. It becomes so bad sometimes that we end up missing whatever it is we did have. Our life can simply become a fragment of the past. Our feet never really touch the ground. We are either so obsessed with how things could have gone differently in the past or we are so obsessed with predicting how are lives will change in the future. Eventually everything becomes something of the past and we were too clouded to enwrap ourselves in those moments while they were happening. Rather, we were too numb to even feel the change while it was happening. Case and point. Our feet never touch the ground. We should strive not to be those unfortunate few who near their final bows before death look back and regret how little they actually lived. That would be the ultimate failure of life itself.
I know I am not the only one who wonders what will happen when something ends. I understand the scared kid I was when I walked up the airport, I empathize with the young bride grabbing her father's arm, I feel that fear those soon-to-be-parents feel as they look at each other, and I ask the same question the old man does every time I lose someone I love. Each one of them--each one of us unquestionably looks at what is to come after the next thing--after the change. What is to come when one chapter ends? Well I think the problem is in one word itself: end. We look at everything that nears its' expiration date as a finite end, a concrete termination stamp, or even the point of no return. That is where we are wrong and it is that word that causes us the most destruction.
Yes, indeed I could look at my abroad experience and say, "Wow, now what is going to happen once this all ends in a couple of days?" But realistically, there does not have to be an end. The choice is ours to make. I look at the closing of my time here in Spain as a beginning to a new challenge back in the United States. A new journey begins as I learn to take what I learned here and approach my life back at home differently. I will make comparisons in the education systems, talk spanish to my old friends, laugh more at the stupid tourist mistakes I made when I eat dinner with my family. I will live in the present. The present never has to end. Rather, it can always be beginning and always be unfolding.
To my anxious self walking up to the airport gate, I would smack him across the face. Tell him to snap out of it. Home will always be there, trust me I have learned that now. However, college won't always be so kill it while you can. There was no ending when I went abroad, only a new beginning in the present. To the young girl grabbing her father's hand, I would first give her a tissue to stop the black tears from running down her face. She is not ending her time as a daughter, she will always be one, especially to her over-protective Dad. Now, she will get to play both a wife and a daughter. There was no ending, only a new beginning in the present. To the young soon-to-be-parents I would squeeze in the middle of them and then put both of their hands on the wife's stomach. They would feel a kick. Not only do they love each other now and always but they love each other so much so that they created a human life to share in that love as well. There was no ending to their love, only a new beginning of love in the present. And to the old man staring at his wife's picture, I would sit next to him, maybe light a cigar for the two of us and look out at the horizon. I would tell him that I do not know if he will ever see his wife again. The end of life is truly the end of the present, but that's only if he believes so. I would hope and encourage him to believe in something beyond this life after death. Maybe in a whisper of the wind him and his wife will be together or they will grow side-by-side as two sunflowers out in their farm's fields. It is the belief that the present never ends that allows us to live in it and to ignore the things beyond our tangible control. If he believes in the everlasting life of the present, then there is no ending in his death either, rather, just a new beginning with his wife in the afterlife.
The little moments I have experienced are endless and the questions about when something ends can be endless too. But, it is whether we choose to believe that everything has to expire with change that will allow us to overcome the fear of it or not. I am starting to understand that now. My abroad experience, my happiness, my life never has an end, as long as I believe that. We are infinite creatures of an infinite present. So, avoid the questions and do not believe in "the ending". Instead, open yourself to change, carry older details of yourself with you and embrace the present--a present full of constant beginnings. Here is to a better tomorrow.
The World
is a big place, we all certainly get that. What I and others may not seem to
get is how small it actually can be. I have been living in Spain for two months
(it feels weird to casually roll that off the tongue) and there have absolutely
been plenty of times where I have have felt out of place, even unwanted I would
say. Besides exploring Madrid, I have now been to Barcelona, Toledo, Mallorca,
Córdoba, and Granada. Even then, there is still so much more
to see of Spain. In Madrid for example, the majority of my classes are in
Spanish and though I liked to think that I was going to be able to manage the
language barrier there have been a plethora of moments where the language
controls me. Our relationship can be hot or cold depending on the day and plus
the native speakers that take my classes only make the frustration
boil even more. What are you going to do though? I just nod my head and act
like I am understanding I guess (picture a bobble-head), eventually I end up slightly getting it after some efforts.
I swam in the Mediterranean Sea
after seeing La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona but then got charged 8 euros for bread
and butter to my dismay and when I fumbled a little trying to argue with the
waitress I was yet again, defeated. I went to Toledo with the rest of my BC
friends and I got lost with my friend's host mother who just repeatedly kept
saying, "Oh mi corazón," and grabbed my
hands. In Mallorca I rented a car and hiked up a mountain where I nearly fell
off into the bluffs more times than I could count. Córdoba was charming but not charming enough to satisfy my cravings with the thick tomato gazpacho soup we were served. And in Granada, I
got lost again with friends after seeing La Alhambra and went deep underground
to see where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabel were buried as the line smushed me up against the glass so much so that I saw my own breath.
I have talked about venturing
outside the comfortable and I am sure a lot of people hear it enough too. Dad always
told me that his best stories came from some of his most uncomfortable
instances in life. That's what makes him and his childhood friends so close.
They remember the dumb crap they got themselves into the majority of the time
and thank those times for the lasting friendships and brotherhoods it
left behind. As uncomfortable as this big, grand world has been on my adventure
abroad I find myself stopping at times to think--to look back--to re-evaluate.
Again, I am taking the majority of
my classes in Spanish and even more so, I am still taking them. I am surviving and I am improving. Because of it, I have made new Spanish friends and
learned more than I ever have about the language itself. Sure, the majority of my new Spanish friends only started talking to me because I was incorrectly
speaking and they wanted to correct me but still, it brought conversations
and laughs to the table. I saw La Sagrada Familia and swam in the Mediterranean
Sea in Barcelona with my college friends. Wow. When will I ever be able to say
that again? I had someone else's host mother call me her "heart" and
hold my hand while we wandered the streets of Toledo. I had barely met her. It
was enough to bring a tear even from the most unbelieving in care and
compassion. I drove up a cliff and survived the ride in Mallorca. I mean
really, I dodged countless bikers and saw my life flash before my eyes in a few
occasions but what is that compared to the fact that I drove up to the top of a
mountain. And the view was what really took your breath away. Though the soup
plopped a pit in my stomach and forced me to change my order, I got to sit
in a one-of-a-kind vintage winery restaurant that had some of Spain's most
famous and prestigious dine within its walls. And Granada let me peak at the
remains of two of the world's most famous monarchs. I mean Christopher Columbus
asked for this woman's permission to discover America. How is that for some
history? Plus, La Alhambra was not too shabby itself.
Trust me, I know, the world is a big
place especially when you take yourself out of the familiar--away from your
friends--away from the place you call home. After reflecting on my travels and
adventures so far I find myself easily basking in the things that went wrong.
It is the ultimate trap, for that matter, the easiest trap to fall in. For some
odd reason, we find it easier to point out all of the moments that went against
our favor. It can come out like rapid-fire, especially if you are frustrated
enough. It is okay though, I think it is human nature.
But more importantly, happiness is
not human nature. Happiness is a choice, one that only you can make for
yourself, one that only I can make for myself. I think of my Dad in times when
things go wrong, when I fall flat on my ass in front of a crowd or end up
spending more money than I wanted to without even realizing it. He chooses to
look at an experience as a whole; all the memories of his adolescence, his
marriage to my Mom, and his career. It is all one humbling novel of life to him. There were numerous moments of weakness,
embarrassment, and failure but they are what shaped his experiences equally as
much as the good times did. Our biggest laughs can come out of moments when we
should be crying or we find ourselves smiling more than frowning upon the
poor decisions we made in our past. The good and the bad make an experience,
both will inevitably surface one way or another. It is whether we choose to be
happy about it that we are left to control. The choice is yours. The choice is
mine. That big bad world we like to talk about is not as big as we think it is.
It is small enough to give us our own time and our own choices. The world
is not our enemy, it is our friend--one that gives chance for life, adventure,
and love. Do not choose to dwell on the bad moments but instead, look at the puzzle in its' entirety and stay grounded and collected. Embrace the good, the
bad, and the ugly. And choose to be happy that you got to experience it all.
Here is to a better tomorrow.
You know
that really corny quote that says, "Sometimes it takes being lost to know
exactly where you are"? Or something like that. It was on one of those
education posters in your 3rd grade teacher's room or it occasionally appears
under the new profile picture of a girl you graduated from high school with.
And I know, half the time we say to ourselves, "Oh my god, how many times
am I going to see that stupid quote? It isn't true". Well, I would like to
say that if there was ever a time I was lost, it was these past two weeks in
total.
There is a park in Madrid here
called, El Parque Retiro, and might I say it probably was the most beautiful
and cleanest one I had ever been to. I decided to work out for the day there in
the park; I would run for a while and then stop and do some exercises. It was a
simple and good idea in thought that is until one path led to another and
another after that and then I was simply lost. And no, it wasn't the lost where
you could just waltz up to a map and know exactly where to go after that
because doing so didn't help either, trust me I tried. I was hot, thirsty, and
had sweat covering so much of my clothes that the shade of color changed
darker. And so I thought to myself, what do I do now? Why whatever any normal
person would do when they are lost; wander.
So I did just that, I walked through
the park until I could eventually find myself a way out. The funny thing about
all of it was that I found being lost to somehow be a prime opportunity to
maybe see things I never had before. To my surprise, I stumbled into a rose
garden, watched couples row haphazardly through the lake, and I walked down the
alley of Spanish stone statues. Now, though these new sites and visions of
Spanish history were all new, somehow I found a lot of them speaking personally
to me. Ruby red roses--a favorite of my late grandmother's, gushy romance in
the park lake--something my sisters and I would quietly laugh at, and historic
stone statues--pieces of Spain's past that my grandfather Burt would find
unbelievable while my eyes fell out of their sockets.
Maybe what I thought about in my
last post is slowly making itself present. Pieces of my life, trinkets of those
I care about or visions of old memories are somehow quietly, and without me
really noticing, trickling down into little details of my day-to-day
experiences. I think it all seemed to come full circle during my weekend trip
with friends to Barcelona. Well now, the change in language dialects and the
occasional nudity on the beach was fairly different from America but it seemed
that getting lost through the gothic streets of Barcelona opened up the
opportunity to see commonality between the Spaniards and I.
At one point, a group of us just
decided to wander, hoping we would find the place we had been in search of.
Along the way, I saw friends chat at local cafes while sipping on their
cappuccinos, soon-to-be mothers and fathers picking out clothes for their child
in Las Ramblas, and then there were little ones going to church with grandma
and grandpa at the famous Barcelona Cathedral. You cannot help but think of
yourself in those very situations--how simple life used to be and how simple it
can be if you choose to look at it in a good way. My Dad told me once about how
he used to hold clothes over my mother's stomach when she was pregnant with us.
"I think it will fit," he used to say and then she would laugh at his
cheesy words and comment, "Jesus, Skip. Sometimes I wonder." There
were plenty of those interactions around me with young couples, both frustrated
at the others' attitudes yet still so in love. It was refreshing to see ironically. I imagined my
friends and I grabbing coffees at Starbucks or buying all the junk food we
could before curling up to watch a movie. And then I saw a little bit of myself
in the kid who was whining about having to go to church with his grandparents.
I was just like him at that age and I am sure he will be seeing himself at my
age now looking back and regretting all the trouble he used to
cause, whether he meant it or not.
I guess there is an answer to the
riddle. What to do when you're lost? Simple; listen, observe, learn, and move
on. Of course, I cannot observe so much so that I can change my past but I can
learn about who I was and who I should be moving forward from all of this. I
suppose I would like to change that quote from earlier, "Sometimes it
takes getting lost to know exactly where you are and to know exactly where you need to go." When those trinkets
and memories come flooding back in those moments when you are admiring your
surroundings and people passing by, do not regret or wish you could have them
back. Rather, resolve the problem with new directions--new paths to take so as
to move forward toward a place where new memories are made, whether they are
with those here or with the spirits of those who have left us. So the motto of
the story: always carry a cellphone, a map, and an open sincerity toward
yourself and others. Doing so will only make being lost that much more
rewarding and humbling as we follow new, unknown paths in life. Here is to a
better tomorrow.
Think about the last time you said goodbye to someone or something. Do you remember? How easy was it? How hard was it? For the longest time I have been told of and experienced the harsh brutality that comes with having to say a goodbye. It's weird I suppose, the majority of the time we expect them to be hard in the moments leading up to it but it still never seems to make the moment any less harder or emotional. I think a lot of us can find truth in that statement.
A few days ago, I visited a place I said goodbye to a while ago, Brookfield High School. I was running and decided to take an old but still familiar path around the fields. I crashed the football team's practice and was welcomed back on the old field with open arms and lots of catching up. It was a short pit-stop to my final check point at the old equipment shed, still splashed with old graffiti of young high schoolers and still heavy with a lot of character--character that brought back many memories. I did a few exercises up and down the hill and when I turned to walk around the front of the shed, a familiar shade of blue caught the corner of my eye.
It was a blue Brookfield football practice jersey simply coating the top of the fence as the gate doors brushed up against it. I could not help but remember the days I wore the Brookfield blue before I said goodbye to it. But, it was not until I looked closer at the jersey did I notice something even closer to my heart. Written on the jersey was the number, 51. It was almost as if the jersey was sitting there and watching, waiting for me to waltz by it. And for some inexplicable reason, I found it and it found me. For those who may not know, the number 51 has been a symbol to the Consalvo family for generations. It started as a number on an address and evolved into a football jersey number that has now become our common lucky number in the family. Some of us like to look at it like a guardian in one sense or another.
Once I saw the 51 on the jersey it was almost as if a picture-perfect moment transpired. I smiled at the site of it and the meaning it still has, just as I did so, the sun faded down onto my face. I turned to glimpse back at the football team then once more at the jersey. And as I stepped to walk away, the drum-line instantly picked up to cap off a wondrous little moment I shared with myself.
When we say goodbye to someone or something, depending on the circumstance, we think it is a definite one--a permanent one. But to our dismay and surprise, good people and good things never really seem to stay gone. I thought I said goodbye to BHS, to Brookfield, to Pop, and to 51. But the high school's hallowed halls still feel dense with countless memories, Pop's cologne can infuse the air once in a while, and the number 51 will appear when I least expect it but I most need it. Maybe it's a sort of phenomenon or disillusion, but it keeps me balanced and sane so maybe something is working.
So there is a beauty to be found in saying goodbye I suppose, as hard as I take it though sometimes. There tend to be little pieces, visions, trinkets of those that we say goodbye to that find their way back into our lives at sometimes the most surprising but most necessary moments. I said goodbye to my family before leaving for Spain, as hard as it was. Watching Mom get choked up and Dad roll his eyes obviously made me immediately miss them. But I guess it is like I said, maybe there will be little pieces or trinkets of life I see along the way around the world that brings those special people and things right back to me. It is the kind of thing that makes you smile humbly walking down a sidewalk or around a street corner. It may be a mother gently waving her fingers over her sleeping son's arms or a father teaching his son how to smoke a cigar blind to the fact that the kid is actually choking. In any facet, I find comfort in the belief that all I love and care about is with me in every step I take in life. Sometimes the thought is the only thing to keep us happy and grateful. So really, I guess I don't believe in goodbyes, rather, I anticipate the, "Hello, again." Here is to a better tomorrow.
Many people have said it and many people have heard it;
“heroes are the ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.” It is
simple, yes, but also so completely true that it is hard to find a fault in
such a belief. I have grown up under the guidance of people I still view as
heroes simply because I think they are extraordinary. For a lot of us, our
parents are our heroes. Students are so inspired by their teachers and
professors that they too become educators in adulthood. Meanwhile, our youthful
innocence is congested with hopeless dreams of flying like Superman or saving
civilians like Batman. No matter your age, heroes are unquestionably a part of
our lives.
I have worked as a camp counselor for quite some time over
my summer vacations and the stories I can recollect are infinite. But, this
summer was different. Though on the surface I probably appeared to be as goofy
as I usually was or exhausted from the constant beatings campers inflict on my
body, I was secretly admiring one camper in particular. John C. is a
rising 2nd grader about to experience life in a new school and feels
just as much anxiety and excitement that comes with a change in environment as
any other normal kid. He is passionate about math and loves the color green.
John is also autistic and so, is very special. With his condition come
obsessive behaviors over ideas, beliefs, or things. Interestingly, he loves
toilets and all things related to plumbing and also Abraham Lincoln and
anything associated with his name.
During all of my weeks at camp I was lucky to meet many new,
young faces full of vivacious spirits but John was so memorable for too many
great reasons. Though autistic, he is brilliant and extremely bright. Even if
he tended to abruptly interrupt your conversations or reading time, he was at
least always doing so with a contagious happy attitude. It was never easy to be
strict or upset with him as biased as that may make me sound. During our weekly
trip to the beach in Week 4 I was instructing the campers to be quiet as we
listened to the rules. Initially, it was hard to get John to stop interrupting
that is until I learned to compromise.
As I said earlier, John loves toilets and all things
associated with them. Therefore, he is infatuated with drains. As he started to
get overly excited and disruptive while listening to the beach rules, I calmly
sat next to him and placed my hands over his frantic arms that he incessantly
swings when energized and said, “I will make you a promise.” He quickly asked,
“WHAT?” to which I said, “I will allow you to show me a drain near the beach if
you promise me that you will stay quiet.” His smile warmly spread from
ear-to-ear and he graciously looked up at me and whispered, “You know Matthew,
you are good. You are great.” He then gently patted his arm over my shoulder
and we turned to listen.
Okay sure, maybe a hero is someone who is not ordinary but
extraordinary. But, are the qualities or actions that make those heroes
extraordinary distinct? Do you have to save someone’s life? Does a hero have to
be widely recognized? I like to think not to all the above. A hero can be
someone who compromises when situations can be difficult and rewards a child
with something he so dearly loves. Then again, a hero can be someone who smiles
as much as they can at their mentors and is always willing to be a friend to
anyone.
When John smiled and put his arm up around me, for the first
time I think I saw my cousin, Anne. Most importantly, I think I understood her
relationship with Dylan. I saw care and generosity in the purest of forms. She was a hero to him and he was a hero
to her in both life and death. What Anne did was heroic that day but I think
the both of them were each other’s idols long before that. A hero could emerge
through a smile, a laugh, or even a bedtime story. You have your heroes who you
admire but I want you to recognize that you may be a hero too. John, you taught
me so much and I will never forget that heroic smile. Nor can I forget our
trips to the drains and bathrooms in which you heroically taught me how to fix
clogs. So, never forget to pass along a smile for it is the little things and
the little moments that create our heroes. Here is to a better tomorrow.
September 11, 2001. December 14, 2012. April 15, 2013, April
19, 2013.
There are dates that define us,
days we will never be able to erase. I was just 8 years old when the attacks on
the World Trade Towers occurred. Mr. Huber was checking our math sheets over
with his hand lying on the side of his hip and the intercom made the
announcement. I rode the bus home without any idea of what I was about to see
at the house. My parents in disbelief, on their knees in the living room, the water was
boiling over the pot on the stove and every television had on CNN in each room
with people crying on the streets of New York City. Those images are stained
forever on my mind.
I
had just turned in my final for a class on Blackboard and put on my Nautica
Jeans fleece to go to my meeting with the Resident Director and then I got the
text from Deanna. 27 people dead in Sandy Hook, including children. I ran back
to my room immediately, my roommate jumped off of the couch at the same time
after seeing it on his computer. The television went on and I fell to my knees. Mom told me about Anne the next day. I fell to my knees again. I guess now I understand how my parents felt when I saw them in the same
position just 11 years earlier.
I
had finished talking with my friend, Chris, he was pacing our other friend, Dan,
in the Boston Marathon. He asked if I was ready, if I was coming. I hesitated
to decide and ultimately, chose to let him go alone with him. I would cheer
them on as they ran by. I watched many of my closest friends go by, in such joy
and excitement to see the crowds cheering them on. It made you believe in the
good in all of us when you saw it. I stood with my friend, Deirdre, as she
waited for her sister and then she got a text. Explosions at the finish line.
People ran, started crying, police yelling for us to get inside. My closest
friends were there, passing that finish line. All I could do was get away.
They
locked us in on that Friday morning, my roommates and I and the rest of the
community were wondering how much more of this we could take. Scared was the
only way you could describe the feelings that day. There was nothing more to do
or feel, all we could do was wait.
Tragedies,
people say, are always going to be a part of life. Whether you lose your
grandmother, have your leg amputated, or are diagnosed with Cancer, tragedy can
strike at the smallest and largest of magnitudes. The funny thing about tragedy
is that we tend to remember so much more about it than the other events we
experience each day. It is more defining; it consequently creates change in an
individual, community, or nation that can never be undone. Because we
understand that concept we are scared to imagine life after a tragedy. We can
become feeble and believe that there is no way to operate and carry on beyond
the scope of what has happened. Change can be good, yes, but in some cases in
life, it can be unimaginable.
After
recounting everything that has happened this week I am still wondering what it is
that we take from all of it? Do we suck it up and embrace the change? Or do we
hold on to the, “what could have been”? The only thing I have found solace in
is that each of us who have endured tragedy remember all the little things
prior to the incident and those immediately after it. I remember every word of
my conversation with Chris when I was deciding to run or not. I watched sisters
hold their composure to keep the other one stable as she was running. My
roommate and I grabbed hands as we turned to each other the morning of April 19th.
Yet,
it is not good just to remember all of these little things and moments because
you will continually associate them with the horror that you experienced on that
day. What we have to do is make something of those little things that unites
communities and people to their shared humanity. I want to remember so many new
little moments at next year’s marathon. We’ll witness more parents cheering on
the runners as they try to keep all their kids in line and not crying. Our law
enforcement, our heroes will protect the streets more cautiously next year but
nothing will stop them from cheering either. Friends will take more obnoxious
pictures that will be laughed at in future years and runners will smile even
bigger as they wave to their loved ones. Maybe I’ll run it next year, make a
little thought into a larger reality.
The
little things do indeed matter; we remember them in our greatest triumphs but
also significantly, in our greatest times of loss and tragedy. But we can carry
on; we owe those who lost their lives in such horrible tragedies at least that.
Work as hard as you can because that is what everyone was doing in the World
Trade Centers that day, learn as much as you can at school because that is what
those children loved to do at Sandy Hook, and cheer as loud as you can for your friends
and family always, that is what Martin, Lu, Krystle, and Sean did on Marathon
Monday. Turn little things into resilient ones that honor both the past and
acknowledge the present. In the end, the little things are actually the
greatest. In the end, the little things will make for that better tomorrow. So,
here’s to it.
I was fortunate enough to be cast in the BC Theatre production of Red by John Logan and directed by my friend, Joe Meade. Was I intimidated at first? Without a doubt. Was I still intimidated as it went on? Without a doubt. Yet, something shifted along the way of this creative process between a small, intimate group of friends that has allowed me to recognize something great on a larger scale. The majority of the play, Rothko and I (Ken), cannot maintain a fluidity with one another, constantly questioning and striking down the beliefs we have set for ourselves. The core of the play is a struggle of difference. It left me wondering, why do our differences have to distance us from each other? I think that as the play comes to a close and both Rothko and I truly see each other, we too recognize that differences are not absolute. Differences are not meant to be agents for arguments or qualities that glorify one person over another. What I learned as Ken is that through our differences as human beings we are able to discover the harmonious respect we innately have for one another. Weirdly enough, this has been a thematic topic in academics, conversation, and now my creative outlets. I guess that there is an evident validity to the idea.
