http://thisibelieve.org A public dialogue about belief — one essay at a time Tue, 21 May 2013 19:37:46 +0000 en-US hourly 1 People from all walks of life describe their personal philosophies in a brief essay. This I Believe, Inc. clean This I Believe, Inc. wp@thisibelieve.com wp@thisibelieve.com (This I Believe, Inc.) This I Believe, Inc. A public dialogue about belief—one essay at a time believe,belief,murrow,npr,beleive,beleif,bob,edwards,featured,essay,history,philosophy http://thisibelieve.org/images/TIB-logo-rss.jpg http://thisibelieve.org http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12360/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12360/#comments Fri, 17 May 2013 04:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12360/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12360/feed/ 0 When Kara Gebhart Uhl was faced with a decision of being honest or being kind, she chose to be honest. Later, she came to believe that it's possible to be both at the same time. I believe I can be both honest and kind, even when the two seem to contradict. Honesty often throws kindness for a loop. From telling someone there’s food in their teeth all the way to telling someone you don’t love them even though you know they love you—honest statements, although said with kind intentions, can often seem cruel. I was sixteen years old, working at an amusement park, when I met Joe. He was older, had long, blond hair, and drove a motorcycle. The first time he called I smiled so hard my cheeks ached by the end of the conversation. He soon became my first boyfriend. We dated the entire summer. By early fall he had said, “I love you.” I said nothing. In the battle between kindness and honesty, honesty won. In the months following our breakup, Joe left love notes on my bedroom windowsill. In college, he called twice. The first time we talked. The second time, he left a distraught voice mail. I returned his call and left a short message. I never heard from him again. Several years later his sister called with news: Joe had committed suicide, months ago. Shortly before his death, his sister said, he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Joe had written a few lines about me in his suicide note, but only now had she gathered the strength to call. I thought about the first time Joe called, how my cheeks ached. The ache had returned—but this time, it was something much deeper. Not wanting to cry at work, I ran to my car and sobbed, both the finality of what he had done—and the fact that he had thought of me, even briefly, before he did it—sinking in. Once home, I reread his love letters to me. It was then I wanted so desperately to take back my silence, to tell him I loved him—not in a romantic sense, but in a you-deserve-to-live-a-long-life sense. A few days later I went to a party on what would have been Joe’s twenty-seventh birthday to celebrate his life. I met his family. I looked at old photos. I was intrigued to hear about the man he had become; we could have been great friends. I hated myself for choosing honesty over kindness, for not writing more, for not calling more, for not doing more. I wasn’t so bold as to think I could have fixed him. Rather, I was sad that I had to be unkind and tell him I didn’t love him. Several days later, worried I would never find peace, I reread what Joe wrote to me in his note: “How people should be . . . wonderful and I’m glad I had the time with her—still I have a wonderful feeling inside.” It was then I realized that Joe thought my honesty was kind. His words to me were his way of telling me so, his way of being honest—and kind—to me. A year later, on what would have been Joe’s twenty-eighth birthday, my husband and I put flowers by his grave. I thanked him for a lesson I’ll always hold dear: I can be honest and still be kind. This I Believe, Inc. clean 12360 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/48550/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/48550/#comments Fri, 10 May 2013 05:08:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/48550/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/48550/feed/ 0 As an adoptive mother, Julie Sellers knows there is another woman somewhere in the world to whom she owes a debt of gratitude for giving her the life—and the family—she has. “Tell me the story of me, Momma,” my daughter always asks when we snuggle into my great-grandmother’s rocking chair at the end of the day. “The first time I saw your beautiful face, it was nearly covered by a floppy blue-and-white hat, surrounded by a pale blue blanket. All I could see were two chubby cheeks and a teeeeeeny little nose.” “And I looked like a tiny fairy baby?” she asks on a yawn. “You did, and you weren’t bigger than a minute,” I always answer. “The nurse handed a tiny little girl to me, and I was so surprised because you felt so light. I thought that if I unwound the blankets, I’d find no baby there at all, only air.” In that instant, I became a mother. I was all alone in a cold room with a stone floor, four thousand miles from home. There was no sterile hospital room, no crying husband—just the two of us. But that moment was just as special, just as magical as if she’d come from my body directly into my arms. From that moment, she was my daughter in every way that mattered. It’s easy sometimes to forget there’s another mother out there with whom I share my title, since it seems as though my life began only when I first held my daughter’s tiny body close to mine. But my little girl has a history that involved another. Although I might always be a bit sad that I didn’t have the privilege to grow Sophie under my heart, I must give thanks to the one who did. I owe my life to a woman I’ve never met, who lives half a world away. Her sacrifice gave me all I could ever ask for, and I never forget for a moment that it was her difficult decision—her tears and her pain—that is the foundation on which I’ve built this life I love. When my daughter asks to hear her story, I tell her of the floppy hat, the drafty room, and the blue blanket full of air. But as she grows, she will understand that sometimes life is a relay, and you never know who in this world will hand you your baton. It could be someone you’ve never met, someone who lives a world away, someone you will never be able to repay for giving you the life you always wanted but never dared to imagine you’d have. I believe the true gifts of our lives come from the most unlikely of sources. If we venture forth with our hearts open, we will always be in the right place to receive them. This I Believe, Inc. clean 48550 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/67901/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/67901/#comments Fri, 03 May 2013 16:20:03 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/67901/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/67901/feed/ 0 When a close friend was diagnosed with cancer, Kim Trevisani thought of all the little things her friend would miss while in the hospital. Today, Kim has come to appreciate the little moments of her daily routine, My friend Pam died of cancer last December. She was thirty-five, happily married with two young children. The illness spread quickly, poisoning her body but never her spirit. Although cancer robbed my friend of her life, it taught me to appreciate the little moments of my own. One fall day, Pam talked about her seven-year-old daughter, who had just learned to ride her bicycle without training wheels. Her face fell when she said, “I missed it.” The silence in the hospital room spoke volumes. I didn’t need her to say any more. As a mother, I instantly understood the complexity of her simple, poignant statement. What she said struck a chord within me so deep that it still resonates today. “I missed it because I’m in here. I can’t be a mom anymore. I won’t see my children grow. I’m going to miss so much more.” This spring, my son rode his bike for the first time. As I watched his clumsy initial attempts transform into confidence, tears welled in my eyes. I stopped jogging alongside him and watched the distance between us grow. All I could think of were Pam’s words. I tried to burn his image into my mind to make sure I wouldn’t forget what he looked like. And I cried. I cried for my friend and all that she will never witness. I cried for her daughter and son, who didn’t have a mom waiting at the end of the road. I cried for her husband, who will experience these moments alone. As my son turned the corner and came back to me, a funny thing happened. I wiped my tears away and smiled. I needed to enjoy this moment because Pam was never able to. She would want me to cheer him on and wave my arms like a lunatic as he looped around the block. I needed to remember it for her, not despite her. How often do I get caught up in the small things in life? Packing lunches, making doctor’s appointments, and folding laundry. Some call them chores, but now I believe they are what make a life. These small details used to seem endless and overwhelming, but now it’s okay. I want to be there to give my kids a bath after a day of playing outside in the mud. I want to scrub the grass stains out of their worn-out, threadbare jeans. I want to rush through the aisles of a grocery store looking for a last-minute dinner ingredient. I want to cram a haircut in between soccer games and kissing a scraped knee. I want to scramble for a babysitter so that my husband and I can finally have a “date night.” I appreciate my chaos because it’s mine. These details are the pieces of me that make up my life. My moments. I don’t want to miss them.   This I Believe, Inc. clean 67901 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7580/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7580/#comments Fri, 26 Apr 2013 04:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7580/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7580/feed/ 0 When writer Patty Dann learned her husband was terminally ill, she struggled with what to tell her young son. A wise nurse showed her a way to talk to him about his father's impending death. One April evening, when I came home from teaching, the refrigerator door was wide open, and my husband was sitting at his desk staring at the pen in his hand. My husband, who spoke six languages and was so meticulous that I called him Dr. Footnote, said very slowly, “I know what this does, but I don’t know the name for it." When we learned that Willem had glioblastoma, the worst kind of brain cancer, I immediately called our pediatrician. “I was just told my husband is going to die. My son is three-and-a-half years old. I don’t know how to tell him—what words to use.” “Call Sallie Sanborn,” he said. “I worked with her at Bellevue. She knows this stuff.” The next wild year, Sallie guided us through a new chapter of our lives, a simple one of a family being tapped by the Grim Reaper. Sallie said, “One: name the disease. Tell the truth about the prognosis. Two: reassure the children that they didn’t cause it. Three: tell them everything the doctors are doing to help. Four: don’t hide anything. After growing up on the wisdom “Don’t tell the children” when anything bad happened, I now believe in the importance of telling them. One day, early in Willem’s treatment, a cheerful visiting nurse named Glenn arrived at the house just as I was trying to get our son, Jake, to bed. When Glenn took out a syringe, I held up my hand to stop him, and practically threw Jake into his bedroom so that he wouldn’t see what Glenn was doing. The next night when Glenn arrived, he said, "This time I suggest another way." "Come," he said to Jake, and Jake took his hand. Jake stood right next to his dad, patting the big scar on his head. Glenn steered Jake's little hand, and they gave the injection together. My son grew up too quickly. Everybody who loses a parent says that happens, but Sallie helped us find the words to describe that “losing.” Not that she took away the pain, but she helped us learn the words to say what it was. And I learned from Glenn how hiding the truth was more upsetting than seeing what was going on. My son is now nine years old. This year when a dear friend was diagnosed with brain cancer, Jake said to me, “You can talk to the mom. I’ll handle the kid.” Jake didn't skip a beat. This was something he knew how to do, just like he'd help tie a younger child's shoe. Last night we were dancing in the kitchen to the Beach Boys while I made dinner. The phone rang and Jake answered it. “No,” I heard him say, “No he’s not, he died. But my mom and I are here.” It took me a second to realize he was talking to a telemarketer. We're on a strange journey, my son and I, but it's one we all are on. And I believe, now more than ever, in the importance of being honest with children. This I Believe, Inc. clean 7580 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12426/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12426/#comments Fri, 19 Apr 2013 04:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12426/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/12426/feed/ 0 Lisa Tucker McElroy says she didn't really know much before she became a mother. But now that she has children, she's learning everything she needs to know about life. I never really knew much until I became a mother. I have learned more from my kids than they have from me. For instance: 1. There really are monsters under the bed. Maybe they’re not hairy monsters, or big monsters, or green monsters. But monsters exist for all of us, and the essence of kidness is admitting that there are monsters right there in the room and finding ways to get rid of them. Closing the closet door? Arranging the pillows just right? Laying a monster trap? I’ve found that red monster juice and peanut butter placed strategically near the door are guaranteed to snag even the most reticent monster. Oh, yes, and a Sesame Street CD featuring singing monsters will scare away nonsinging ones. Just. Like. That. Would that my monsters could be lured away just so easily. But my kids have taught me that acknowledging the monsters, then coming up with a plan, is the first step toward banishing them for good. 2. Even the littlest thing is reason for wonder. You just have to get down low and look at it. A caterpillar in the driveway is a mystery to be solved. How did he get into the driveway? Where are his mommy and daddy? Why can’t we keep him inside the house? What kind of butterfly will he be? And how can we save him from that oh-so-terrible fate: being squished by Daddy’s car? A caterpillar transplanted from the driveway into a flower bed by determined little hands teaches me to protect, to prioritize, to place value on the simplest acts and the simplest creatures. 3. Warm milk is good. So are macaroni and cheese, Band-Aids on boo-boos, and twenty-leven trips down the same slide. If you like something, do it, eat it, stick to it. A lot. Why not? Why not nap when you feel like it and fit in other things around that, instead of the other way around? Hugs are good. Why hold them back? Unconditional love is good, if you’re lucky enough to have it. Depending totally on someone else is good, because it offers comfort to the dependent person, because it expresses value to the person depended on. 4. A goal is the reason for growth, not the result of it. Kids don’t create artificial objectives and try to reach them; everything they try to do derives from a real necessity to get the job done. My older daughter first rolled over long after the mommy go-to guides said she would, only because she had to get to a spotted octopus toy on the other side of the room. She’s reading now, driven by her suspicion for the past six years that I was editing stories as I read them to her—she had to find out for herself which good parts I left out. Me, on the other hand? I had goals for my kids for when they grew up: they’d be cabinet secretaries, ballet dancers, museum curators. I wanted to work toward those goals. My kids? They just want to work toward growing up. What if I hadn’t become a mother? Well, I wouldn’t be downstairs before bedtime making monster juice, that’s for sure. But I’d still have artificial goals, I’d still be ignoring the monsters in the hopes that they’d go away on their own, and I’d still be backing out of the driveway without checking first for caterpillars. As for right now? I have to stop writing. Hug time—someone’s got a boo-boo that really needs a Band-Aid and a kiss. This I Believe, Inc. clean 12426 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/105932/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/105932/#comments Fri, 12 Apr 2013 04:20:01 +0000 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/105932/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/105932/feed/ 0 As a young boy in France, Jay Frankston witnessed the rise of Hitler’s anti-Semitism leading up to the war and the Holocaust. The experience of watching so many people stand by and do nothing affirmed his belief in speaking up against wrongs, In the late 1930s, Hitler’s anti-Semitism had spread to France. I was nine years old. On the notebooks I brought home from school, scribbled in children’s handwriting, were the words “DEATH TO JEWS” and “HANG THEM ALL.” My name then was Frankenstein, something other children could make fun of, but also something which labeled me as a Jew. So I ran from the horde of misguided children to avoid a black eye or a bloody nose and took refuge in the isolation of my room. Then the war came and the beginning of the Holocaust. Fifteen percent of the French people actively collaborated with the Germans, joining the militia and participating in raids to round up Jews for deportation to concentration camps, even taking children when the Nazis hadn’t asked them to do so, and denouncing Jews who were in hiding. My wife Monique’s parents were among those who were denounced and were deported. They died in Auschwitz. I have no feelings for those 15 percent who collaborated. They are like dead to me. But 80 percent of the French people did nothing. They just stood by while their friends and neighbors were carted off to their deaths in the ovens of the devil. They are the ones I hold accountable. And I can’t help wondering what would have happened if people had spoken up? The Danes spoke up. When the Nazis came out with an order that all Jews would have to wear the yellow star, the King and the Queen came out wearing the yellow star and many Danes followed suit. Then they took the Jews at night in their fishing boats and ferried them across to Sweden where they were safe and survived the war. So only a few thousand Danish Jews died in the Holocaust. Fifty percent of the German people were Catholics. What if the Pope had come out with an encyclical that Catholics shall not participate in the Nazi atrocities under penalty of excommunication? How different things might have turned out. And where are we today when so many things are happening in the world, in our country, in our cities, and in our neighborhoods? And what are we doing about it? I give Holocaust lectures at the middle school and at this point students point to Rwanda or Nigeria. “No,” I say. “Here! Right here!” And I tell them this story: I was sitting in my car at a red light. In back of me was a huge truck and I saw the truck driver throw a lit cigarette out of the cab. I could think it terrible and do nothing but I got out of my car, picked up the lit cigarette and threw it back into the truck and said, “You lost something.” The truck driver was a big man and he could have flattened me, but I had to do it. I believe in speaking up against wrongs no matter how small. We can all do that. This I Believe, Inc. clean 105932 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/59702/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/59702/#comments Tue, 09 Apr 2013 16:20:04 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/59702/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/59702/feed/ 0 I believe in “This I Believe.” In the several years that I have been listening, I have heard other people express their beliefs with clarity, insight, eloquence, humor and even forcefulness. Each of my experiences with this weekly sharing, I believe in “This I Believe.” In the several years that I have been listening, I have heard other people express their beliefs with clarity, insight, eloquence, humor and even forcefulness. Each of my experiences with this weekly sharing, this exercise in which a person finds the right words to state a single belief from his or her core, is equally an exercise for me. On a weekly basis, I have been privileged to look into someone else’s experience and then respond to it. Do I feel the same way? Have I had any of the same experiences, reached the same conclusions? Have I come through them with a similar outlook? Over and over again, I have been moved by someone else’s belief. Yet I have struggled to find those beliefs that I myself hold so dear that I could summarize them and present them to my own family, much less a larger audience. I toyed with numerous ideas. I kept a list of possible topics. I have started multiple essays and discarded all of them, feeling that not one was of sufficient passion to merit sharing. In the end, they were simply personal and their reach was limited. I have come to the realization that listening to the revealed beliefs of so many has helped me examine and crystallize my own beliefs. It has been a weekly exercise in personal values clarification, as the values of these people were internalized and digested, then either discarded or used to shape my own views of the world. They provided me with perspective I could not possibly get from more casual day-to-day interactions. Where I typically fly at 500 feet, “This I Believe” allows me to fly at higher altitudes, however briefly. I am always better for the experience. I disagree with Edward R. Murrow’s original comment when he stated, "Never has the need for personal philosophies of this kind been so urgent." The need is always present and will never lessen. I believe that sharing one’s beliefs brings clarity and focus to the person sharing, but I also believe that the listener has the opportunity to sharpen his own world view. And for that, I am grateful. This I Believe, Inc. clean 59702 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4823/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4823/#comments Mon, 08 Apr 2013 16:30:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4823/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4823/feed/ 0 When Sherry Medwin gave her 12th grade honors students the This I Believe essay assignment, she was met with a classroom full of bewildered students, unsure of how to write about belief. Ms. Medwin has come to believe that students should be given the ... When I asked students in my 12th grade writing class to submit an essay to this program, they shifted uneasily in their seats. "What if I don't believe in anything?" Charlie asked with genuine concern. He wasn't the type to manufacture a bratty excuse to evade an assignment. Others echoed his apprehension as they struggled to generate ideas. As they left class, several students asked—without a hint of irony—if I could suggest a topic to them. Although I did consider dispensing one of my beliefs du jour, plugging a favorite cause or two, I was too unsettled to act even in my self-interest. If my honors-level high school seniors are typical nonbelievers, then the power to believe is in danger of extinction. More frightening is my Orwellian nightmare that schools may be leading the charge to vaporize belief. Like most cognitive skills, the development of a belief—what Virginia Woolf calls the "fierce attachment to an idea"—requires careful cultivation. It needs a rich soil and ample space to extend its young shoots. It needs a network of roots to sustain it through inclement weather. How can a belief breathe in the tight spaces of Scan-Tron forms? In the formulaic five paragraph essay? In the mad rush through exercises that race to the top and leave no child behind? How can it cleave its way through misconceptions if students are never asked what they think? Invariably, the first question adolescent writers ask when they begin a writing assignment is whether first person pronouns are permitted. After all, most style manuals discourage the use of "I" in academic writing, insisting on third person, on objectivity, on detachment. But isn't detaching students from a topic tantamount to denying their right to believe? Removing the "I" from "This I Believe" leads not to neutrality but to tyranny. John Stuart Mill said that "one person with a belief is equal to a force of 99 with only interests." Surely, he never had a college counselor advising him to build a resume of extracurricular interests instead of contemplating his beliefs. Were Socrates teaching in today's schools, would his students, too, ask whether their pursuit of wisdom would shine on their school transcript? Given some time to mull over the assignment, my students eventually unearthed a cache of wonderful beliefs buried under years of schooling. They believed in magic and science, in God and poetry, in friendship and true love—even in the Chicago Cubs. Liberated by the freedom to express their values, they were also terrified of their peers' disapproval, for once they attached an "I" to a claim, they could neither hide behind impersonal generalizations nor string together a clothesline of quotes from other sources. As they went around the room sharing their beliefs, they felt their power surge. The prospect of finding myself in a room of believers would not have appealed to me 20 years ago, but now I say bring on the credos, the manifestos, and the philosophies—the more, the merrier. Imagine an academic resume that highlights candidates' beliefs instead of test scores and activities. This, I believe, could trigger a new era of education—and maybe even a revolution. This I Believe, Inc. clean 4823 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92254/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92254/#comments Fri, 05 Apr 2013 16:20:01 +0000 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92254/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92254/feed/ 0 When Emily Vutech got a job in a gay bar, her friends and family had lots of questions. Ms. Vutech says she took the job to be in a vibrant environment, but she has come to believe that everyone could benefit from exploring worlds different from their ... “Wait, so you’re straight?” I got used to answering this question pretty quickly after I started to work as a hostess at a gay bar. What seemed to be such an obvious part of how I thought of myself (a girl, and straight) suddenly became what defined me. When I started work, reactions from my friends and family were mixed. Some respected and were even jealous that I was working in such a vibrant part of town and with so many unique people. Others wondered if I ever felt uncomfortable, and were curious about what the environment itself was really like. I found myself defending where I worked, and more important, the people I worked with. Others' constant questioning led me to realize that people in my society, even people I know and love, struggle to accept those they are not familiar with. One Saturday night, I sat a middle-aged lesbian couple at a table outside. After I gave them their menus, I told them their server would be with them shortly. One of the women stopped me and said, “Excuse me, but I have to ask, what made you decide to work here?” This was another question I received all the time, but for some reason the way she asked was different. I could tell she was genuinely interested, and even confused. I answered the first thing that came to my mind, that I enjoyed getting to meet new, fun people and that I liked the exciting and unpredictable atmosphere. Her response changed the way I thought about my job. She thanked me and said, “We need young people from outside the gay community to help bridge the gap.” This response got me thinking. To me, I was just going to work at a place where I loved both the work and the people I worked with. From all the questions I received about my job, it was clear that the core of the confusion was far bigger than just me. After hearing that all it takes is “bridging the gap,” it seems pretty simple. I believe by exposing ourselves to new people and environments, we can increase our understanding and therefore our acceptance of people, places, and situations that are beyond our familiar experiences. I, by no means, think that by working at a gay restaurant I am doing humanity some enormous favor. I do believe, however, that if each of us can individually explore worlds different than our own and than we are expected to, we can start to break down identities of “straight girl” and terms like “gay bar.” These surface labels only define us in ways that make us seem different. When really, we are all just people, gay and straight, going to work, learning and growing from one another. This I Believe, Inc. clean 92254 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92252/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92252/#comments Fri, 29 Mar 2013 12:20:01 +0000 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92252/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/92252/feed/ 0 As a young immigrant to the United States, Yasmina Shaush feels the weight of several generations who have high expectations for her. Ms. Shaush has come to believe that the beauty of America is the opportunity for success through hard work and determi... In the opening scenes of Titanic, Jack Dawson and his Italian friend, Fabrizio, win tickets to travel aboard the ill-fated ship in an auspicious game of poker, and Fabrizio exuberantly yells, “We go-a to America!” Drawing inspiration from real life, Fabrizio exuded the hope and belief that immigrants throughout the world have regarded for America. For over two hundred years, America has served as a beacon of opportunity. America truly is the "Land of Opportunity," a land where the self-made man is found on every corner; a land that serves as a litmus test to all other lands; a land where wealth and social status do not inhibit one’s potential. I believe that in America, anything is possible. Every day I am reminded of this possibility. I am an immigrant. To discern me from the crowd of purebred, made-in-Americans is impossible. I speak with no accent and dress no differently. I am American, through and through. The true distinction is found in my perspective. Each morning as I sleepily trudge off to school, my mother reminds me, “I brought you to this country, now do something with it.” The weight of that statement propels me through my myriad of classes: history, government, and especially math. With each class and homework assignment I complete, I feel the pressure of not only grades and deadlines, but the even more immense pressure of expectation—three generations of Ukrainian relatives. Instead of shying away from this prospect, I face it full-on. Regardless of birthplace, 310 million Americans face the same expectation. To be born in America is a gift, one that should never be wasted. Even through today’s pessimistic climate, I find it easy to be optimistic, simply because of where I live. While my mother grew up in the shadows of communism, I was raised in the light of freedom and democracy. Anything is possible in America, anything. The United States is one of a few countries that can boast the successful by-products of hard work. Abraham Lincoln was born in a log cabin and received no formal judicial education, yet rose to prominence as a lawyer, and later became Commander in Chief. Oprah Winfrey grew up in abject poverty, only to become one of the richest women in the world. And even Madeleine Albright emigrated from Czechoslovakia to become the first female Secretary of State. The true beauty of America lies not in its fruited plains or purple mountain majesties, but in the determination of its people. In lieu of the 9/11 attacks news outlets report that hatred for the United States is common. This is simply a fallacy. Countless people travel across oceans, jump across fences, and float in small boats to seek amnesty in America’s gilded doors. Just as millions of people sought refuge in the U.S. during the great migrations of the late 19th century, today that zeal to live in America still exists. The United States is a land of opportunity, and hard work and determination are vehicles for success. This, I truly believe. This I Believe, Inc. clean 92252