WHAT CAN BE

As I consider decades long since past, I'm finding memories I had forgotten were there -- inspiring, hopeful, renewing memories. What's more, I find they all have a motif, a theme, a golden tether that gathers them together. Hope from heroism.

In junior high Biology, we were supposed to prepare a lesson and give a presentation on anything remotely scientific. Mine *was remotely* scientific, but others really took a shot at delivering quality. When Maria's day came, she did something extraordinary and brave. She brought her mother to class. The subject? Alcoholism. I can't forget when Maria and her mom stood before our Biology class talking about what alcoholism can do to a body and a family, and yet how it can be dealt with and overcome. I felt privileged -- the duo delivered the science and shared the sensitive vulnerability of dealing with addiction. I can't help but think they did a Good thing -- Good with a capital G, beyond exposing alcoholism. A fellow 9th grader showed me it was possible to befriend a parent (I didn't know), and that courage wasn't something only found in stories -- she was courageous, therefore maybe I could be courageous.

Irish Rebecca in 11th grade English had been quiet the five or so years I had known her. Her beautiful curly red hair and fair complexion made most of us certain she was Irish-ancestried. She was graceful as could be, and none of us would have offended lovely Irish Rebecca for the world. When Ms. Cunningham made us present an essay for a grade, most of us either goofed off or did only what was necessary to get the grade -- snickety band that we were, one-by-one refining and distilling idiocy in its purest form. But then Irish Rebecca arose to the podium -- quiet, thoughtful, lovely Irish Rebecca, and even we hushed a little because we knew quality was about to speak. Her subject? She delivered an eloquent and riveting thesis on Racism. All those Mexican jokes told in her presence bothered Irish Rebecca -- not just the jokes themselves, but even the fact that people laughed at such jokes and found them entertaining. And then she shared a fact that shamed us all. It turns out Irish Rebecca wasn't Irish at all. Bonnie Irish Rebecca, was and is Hispanic. I had no idea -- none of us did. We were dumbfounded. As she returned to her chair, none of us said a word. Whether we had told a disrespectful joke or laughed at one or even failed to walk away from one, we were ashamed, and more importantly we were changed. I hadn't known integrity was possess-able until Hispanic Rebecca showed me some -- well if she had some, maybe I could get some too.

Clay and Andy and Eric and Beth and Michael and Marc and Pedro and Erin and Sonya and Laura and others were students like me. I guess I never knew that songs on the radio or art in a museum could be made by people like me -- I didn't know how they got made, but I was pretty sure they were not accessible to me. And then they played or they sung or they made. They produced art from the core of what makes us human, or so it would seem to me. It was better than radio and better than museum! I had no idea people like me could make art like that -- not caring who was was paying attention, expressing feelings some of us didn't know how to express, and helping us notice our own spirits. They were doing it. I had no idea it could be done, but there they were, doing it, and if they could do it, that meant that maybe I could to. It was is if I didn't know my own soul until I saw others giving flight to theirs.

When my four year old decided to give a Christmas gift to a charity for children who would otherwise not get gifts, he chose a shiny red fire truck -- one that he wanted -- and he paid for it and we dropped it off to the charity's corporate headquarters because we were too late to leave it at drop-off locations around town. The lady said to him, "I know a boy who is your age who will just love this -- his name is Bradley." My son stood shocked -- who can know the caring emotions that rolled in my four year old's heart? -- he was a bigger man leaving that office. A year later, my FIVE year old decided to do the same thing -- he picked out a construction play set he would have liked and bought it with his own money to give. THE SAME WOMAN who took his gift the year before CALLED HIM BY NAME, gave him a big hug and then said, "Bradley LOVED the fire truck you gave last year." Emotions swelled up in both of us. My five year old wanted to take care of Bradley. I had no idea. It really is more blessed and more fun to give than to receive and I knew that for certain when I watched a four year old give.

Many of you reading this have shown me that what I thought was on an unattainable high mountain IS available, even to me. You make the world a better place by reaching high places, because people like me who are watching are taking notes. Thanks for showing me what can be.

+Joseph