Finding a Home for the Holidays

Every year, increasingly as I get older, the holiday season arrives on an emotional roller coaster that doesn't really stop until well after New Year's, with an extension through Valentine's Day. Okay. If I'm truly being honest, I'll probably be moody until the spring thaw. Chalk it up to Seasonal Affective Disorder, family baggage, or just plain hormones, the holiday season never ceases to rev me up to the giddiest highs then without warning plummet me down to the lowest of lows. Is it just me? Am I bipolar? In need of a shrink? Or does everyone else get the same warm, fuzzy heartaches around the holidays?


I hate to sound so curmudgeonly on Thanksgiving. After all, this was one of the best Thanksgivings I've had in years. At least better than last year's, when I was brand new to the city, and spent the whole day working the Thanksgiving banquet at Beacon. In spite of the many trials and tribulations I've been facing in the past year, it suddenly dawned on me yesterday that I have so many things to be thankful for. I generally make a habit of appreciating the many gifts in my life, but you know, sometimes when things are tough it's easy for us to lose sight of how lucky we really are. I may be overworked, underpaid and thoroughly exhasted about ninety-five percent of the time, but the people who matter to me are always there, even when I have so little time to spend with them. And I'm so lucky to find myself in two extremely positive, supportive working environments, where I am embraced and appreciated as an employee. Fight as I may to keep myself emotionally detached from my day jobs, I've found myself in a strange place where my life is composed of nothing but those day jobs...and I'm not entirely miserable. I'm creatively and personally challenged and unfulfilled, yes, but the people I'm working with are largely so generous and accomodating and understanding that I'm finding myself becoming more and more charmed by them and more and more guilty for my own lack of enthusiasm.



On Thanksgiving Eve, I worked my usual Wednesday lunch shift, knowing I would have the night off to cuddle with some tea in bed and watch my usual reality TV shows (currently Top Chef and Stylista.) All week, I'd been hearing about the Tabla tradition of the Thanksgiving family meal, which always occured on the day before Thanksgiving, at 4:15, our usual pm family meal time. Each cook in the restaurant, including the sous chefs, brought in one dish to share with the entire staff, anyone who was working, or who wanted to come in to partake. The managers set the entire upstairs dining room for the staff with festive table decorations and champagne flutes filled with sparkling cider. Ty, the Chef de Cuisine, cooked the turkey to perfection and we all piled into the dining room at 4:15. "It may be the most important meal you have this year" said Eric, one of my favorite bartenders. I was excited because I wasn't sure I'd have another Thanksgiving dinner this year. The food was incredible. There must have been twenty five different dishes, all the classics, and some takes on the classics. Some of my favorites included amazing scalloped sweet potatoes that were sweet and succulent, and sous chef Logan's chile rellano, a Thanksgiving tradition from his family in southern California, which struck a chord in my memory as well. It was over pretty quickly, since we had to clear out in time for the first 5:30 reservations.



As I stumbled out of the restaurant into the early evening darkness, my belly bursting and my heart warmed, I marvelled at how unique this display of community was amongst restaurant people. I mean honestly, and I've worked at all kinds of restaurants, I've never known a restaurant to be so accomodating of its employees. Earlier that week I'd gotten called into the managers' office at the end of my closing dinner shift to sit down with Gretchen and Peter (two of my favorite managers, thank God) and chat about my apparent lack of presence on the floor. "You're pretty brilliant when dealing with your tables. Your guests really respond to you. But you seem to be going through the motions on the floor." I immediately got emotional and had to explain to them that I feel like the exception at a place where almost every single front-of-house employee went to culinary school and plans to have a career in hospitality. Every other place I've ever worked has been a temporary solution for ninety percent of its employees. Even at Morimoto, a restaurant of a similiarly high caliber (maybe higher, if you consider cover count and the exposure of having a celebrity chef) every single server and host has another career, be it modelling, acting, music, makeup artistry, instillation art, teaching yoga, you name it. This doesn't make them bad servers. On the contrary, I think the fact that they have rich lives outside the restaurant contributes to the quality of their service. At Tabla, the service is equally as high, if not higher. It's just a different atmosphere, one where every employee is expected to be better than good; they're expected to be exemplary. I didn't think I had a problem with that expectation. I'll always admit first that I admire the staff's committment to and passion for hospitality. It's totally remarkable, coming from my perspective, which was that everyone who worked in service fucking hated it. I always try to adhere to the highest standards possible in everything that I do...unless I begin to feel that it isn't worth it. When my general manager at Lunetta stopped showing any interest in the well-being of any of my co-workers, I had no desire to try my hardest to do my best. In a dramatic episode that ended my affiliation with Lunetta forever, my GM had a similar conference with me, after which I realized I would never care enough about the restaurant to suck it up and try any harder. There was no point in me staying. I had nothing left to gain, and nothing left to give. But at Tabla, as I sat in the office with tears streaming down my face uncontrollably, I explained to the managers where I was coming from--that I was unhappy in my personal life and trying to save money to help improve my quality of living by funding such things as grad school and an apartment of my own, and also completely creatively unfulfilled, which made everything even harder because I knew that I was supposed to be doing something else with my life something I cared deeply about--and they listened! And they showed great empathy! And I told them sincerely that I wanted to improve my attitude because I respected the way they cared about their jobs and how that translated into how well they did their jobs.


So. I'm thankful for the company I'm in at Tabla. Although my heart still isn't quite in it, and I know it never will be. I'm thankful for the role this job is playing at this juncture in my life.


I waddled to the liquor store last night for a cheap bottle of wine to wash down the amazing family meal when I got home, and as I was on my way, I got a call from my friend Elyse about the details of the Thanksgiving dinner she was hosting the next day. Elated to hear from her, I vowed to be there the next day, flowers and wine in hand, to share the holiday with my estranged college friends and friends from Lunetta (where they all still work.) I went home, DVRd the Macy's parade and fell asleep early in my amazing, snuggly new Victoria's Secret robe that I ordered online while at Morimoto last weekend.


The next day, I awoke at 1:00, and cuddled with a glass of soy egg nog and a Greenmarket blackberry pie for breakfast, and watched the parade commercial-free before dragging my tired lazy ass out of bed and heading to the Upper West Side. It was a divinely perfect morning off.


Our misfit Manhattan Thanksgiving couldn't have been lovelier. As Elyse wrote in her Facebook status, it was a party made up of lesbians, hipsters and gays, with Alee, Elyse and I living somewhere in the middle. When I arrived, Natalya, our manager from Lunetta, and her girlfriend Tammy had slaved all day in the kitchen with masters of the house Adam and Dennis; Elyse, having been banned from her own kitchen, had mostly been drinking all day; our hipster friends Ryan, Thurman and Ulysses, all former Lunetta servers, were lounging around with cheap Mexican beers in hand (the only beer they could get from the very sketchy East Harlem liquor store down the street); Spadoni was her wacky self, emphasized by organic wine from Trader Joe's; and Tammy and Natalya's tiny chihuaua Missy was nervously weaving around everyone's feet. It was so wonderful to see everyone. I spent the remainder of the hor d'oeuvres session catching up, and by the time dinner was properly served (on no-muss no fuss plastic plates), I'd found myself in a yummy wine haze myself. The food was, again incredible. Halfway through, I definitely regretted having eaten so much the day before, as my stomach still seemed to be in recovery, but the more I ate, the more nostalgic I felt: it was a proper, old-fashioned Thanksgiving after all. We all talked about what we were thankful for, as a non-denominational substution for saying grace, and though we're all struggling to find peace of mind, artistic fulfillment, and financial stability, we all found ourselves to be thankful for the struggle and the opportunity to pursure the things that made us happy, supported by each other in the endeavor.


Around 11:00, Spadoni, Ryan, Ulysses and I stumbled onto the 6 train, dying a little from our gluttony, and I started to feel my sleepy contentment give way to melancholy, the same way it always had when I was a kid, on the drive home from whichever relative's home we had visited for Thanksgiving. I remember sitting in the car, my little brothers passed out on either side of me, listening to Christmas music on the radio and feeling sad for no reason, as if having a premonition of my impending adulthood.


I think the reason some of us are prone to holiday depression is because we're mourning our own loss of childhood innocence. The holidays used to be so simple: Thanksgiving meant turkey, Christmas meant presents, and that was that. As adults, there's the terrifying pressure of finding a home for the holidays, when your childhood home no longer exists, or when it's too far away to get to. Home is one of our greatest losses when we grow up, a sense of knowing where you belong, and that there are always people there to take care of you. My childhood was different than many peoples' in that it was jilted, fragmented and constantly chaotic. But the silver lining was always that I had multiple homes, and each one was filled with people who loved me and wanted the best for me. My heart was torn in two, but each piece was always so full. Now, I feel like my heart has been smashed with a hammer, and some of the smaller pieces have been blown away by the wind, never to be found again. They're part of the earth now, and I'll forever be mourning them. The bigger pieces are easier to see and to hang on to--my spread-out, far awar family, my beautiful, caring friends, spread-out as well, New York, Philadelphia, Vista, Toronto...all my various homes that stay with me even as I'm torn from them. It's becoming easy to see how grown-ups put their memories up on pedastals. My memories are starting to feel like pieces of myself that I've lost and can never get back. Even as I make new memories, I can't help mourning the old ones.


I should have felt happy and stuffed and fallen into bed and to sleep instantly upon arriving home. But instead, I entered my empty apartment and felt, for the first time in a long time, lonely. I crave alone time, time to be with my thoughts and try to sort them out, time to decompress from the stimulation of the world outside. My room is my sanctuary, everywhere I go, everywhere I live. I'm usually elated to come home to an empty apartment. But tonight, I wished that Matty wasn't home in Syracuse so we could stay up chatting, or cuddle and watch a movie. I wished my father and stepmother and brother had called me from California to say hi. I wished my friends weren't all working on my birthday next week. I wished I had the strength to put myself out in the world more forcefully, without fear of rejection and ultimate loneliness.


I know these feelings will pass. Ultimately, I've come to realize that the only way I've been able to take any of the risks I've taken in my life, regarding my career and my own personal pursuit of happiness, is through realizing the support of my family and friends. I know I'll always have a place to go for Thanksgiving, now matter where the coming year takes me. I'll wake up tomorrow and I'll realize that and I won't mind working a double at Morimoto. Everything in my life is temporary...except the people who matter.


Damn the holidays. They make me so thankful to be alive, and yet yearn so badly for the things I cannot find.

Pomegrantastic!

This week I bought my first pomegranate. They were on sale at Whole Foods when I did my grocery shopping and I thought, why not?


I used to think that if I were a fruit, I would be an avocado. It's one of my top three favorite foods, it's a native of southern California, it is an excellent addition to all of my favorite easy meals to make for myself: grilled cheese, fajitas, scrambled eggs, salads...


But really, avocados are far too agreeable for me to truly relate to. Their skin is thin and their flesh is smooth, soft, and mild. They have only one big flaw: the pit in the center. The character of the avocado is simple, palatable, excellent for one's hair and skin.


As I broke into my pomegranate this evening, I couldn't help but feel a sense of metaphoric understanding of the challenging fruit. It takes strategy and preparation to open a pomegranate. You really have to commit to the pomegranate. It is not a fruit to be eaten recreationally...it must be taken very seriously.


I held it over the sink as I carefully made shallow incisions into its skin that would allow me to pull it into quarters without breaking too many of the seeds open inside. Tiny flecks of bright red juice splattered my hands and the kitchen counter. My mouth was already watering at the thought of tasting that first juicy kernel as it burst between my teeth.


I imagine if one did not know how delicious a pomegranate tasted, it may not seem worth the time it takes to peel it open. One might think to themselves "Goddam, I hate this motherfucking pomegranate! It's such a phenomenal pain in the ass!" as the juice squirts all over the kitchen. But after one taste of the luscious nectar inside, there would be no turning back. Both quenching and perpetuating thirst, the pomegranate's simultaneous sweetness and tartness always inspires one to want more.


The pomegranate has a thick skin that's ultimately spongy and vulnerable on the inside. It takes a lot of time and effort to crack it open, but once you do, it's insides burst forth onto display. Each seed inside is like a tiny jewel, embedded safely in it's eggy casing. Once cracked open, the work has just begun. You must then take time and care to pry each tiny little jewel from its sedentary state of rest. The pomegranate is very reluctant to be eaten. It wants to stay self-contained. But unlike a coconut, it succumbs to consumption easily once broken open, suggesting that behind its hard, defensive exterior, the pomegranate is really desperate to be consumed, to inspire the tastebuds of whomever has invested the time in opening it up. Unlike the simple avocado, the pomegranate has hundreds of little seeds, and unlike the avocado's blunt, heavy pit, the pomegranate's delicate little seeds are the assets of the fruit. The casing of the seeds is irrelevant, without use...but the seeds themselves are full of rich, luxurious, anti-oxidant filled value. The flaws of the fruit are its treasures as well.


In Armenia, pomegranates are a popular symbol of fertility, abundance and marriage.


In Greek mythology, pomegranates play a key role in the story of Persephone, which offers an explanation of the changing of the seasons. Persephone was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld to be his wife. Her mother Demeter was the goddess of the Harvest and as she mourned the loss of her daughter, all green things ceased to grow. Zeus demanded that Hades return Persephone to the Earth so that the winter would end. Before letting Persephone go, Hades tricked her into eating four pomegranate seeds. The law of the Fates stated that whomever ate food from the underworld would be doomed to stay there for eternity. Because of the four pomegranate seeds she consumed, Persephone was forever doomed to return to the underworld for four months of every year. Each year when her daughter descends into the underworld, Demeter goes into mourning and winter settles over the Earth.


Thriving in tropical climates, robust and curvacious, hard yet delicate, juicy and challenging, complicated, slightly esoteric...


Yes, if I were a fruit, I would definitely be a pomegrante.


If I ever break down entirely and resort to internet dating, that will be the headline of my profile.


Perhaps also the first line of my autobiography.

"I Have a Dream..."

At eleven forty, I got off the subway at New Utrecht Avenue and briskly walked the 6 blocks to my apartment. Fourteen hours had passed since I walked these same blocks in the opposite direction, on my way to the polls before continuing to work a double. The last couple hours at the restaurant we'd all monitered the election results on the internet in the office, and as I left, Obama had maintained his solid lead. Still, my manager Gretchen was tensely huddled in the corner, willing the night to end as quickly as possible so the waiting with bated breath would be over. "We remember the 2000 election," Gretchen and Sara, one of the bartenders, were saying last night. "We voted in 2000. It's not over 'til it's over."


It was over by the time I got off the subway. My cell phone vibrated as I left the train with a text message from my best friend Mark in California:



Mark Hoke: mccain train derailed!



As I walked, my heart racing and my pace quickening, I logged onto Facebook on my phone and scrolled through my cyberfriends' statuses...victory cry after victory cry. Tears sprung to my eyes. When I finally made it to my front door, I raced straight to the TV, just in time to watch the new president of the United States make his acceptance speech.



I knew he would win. I just knew it. And yet, I wept alone in my apartment from the sheer weight of it all. As hopeful and optimistic as I try to be, that cynical little voice in the back of my head is always there. I've turned the volume way down, so low in fact that I can only hear it in the event that things don't work out for the best in the end. Of course, there is no real end to anything...the best we can hope for is a new beginning. And now, after 8 years of residing under a stolen presidency, this country has finally been given a chance at a new beginning that we, it's lowly, floundering little citizens, can actually invest some faith in.


Not that I've ever been one to take things for granted. In my adult life I've always been aware that even at the worst of times, America is still a far better place to live than, say, Afghanistan or Cambodia or Sudan. Our government has never been run by terrorists, and even while it was being run by a Christian fundamentalist fanatic never terrorized it's citizens at gunpoint in the streets, raping and murdering women and burning our houses down. One wouldn't be wrong in stating that, relatively speaking, we've always had it pretty decent. When I moved to New York a year ago, I started to meet people who were so thankful to be in America, even as us natives were bitching about it. Nowhere in the country is the Melting Pot more evident than in New York City. I'm quite sure there are few cities in the world that rival New York's cultural diversity. Morimoto's staff is comprised of immigrants from Japan, Korea, India, Mexico, Sudan and England (ha ha) and every restaurant I've worked in has been a similar mini-melting pot in and of itself. Some of the stories these people have to tell are just amazing.


My favorite examples of the American Dream come from two different Mexican-Americans who both happen to be named Manny. One was a busboy at Beacon, and the other is the head of the cleaning crew at Morimoto.



Last Thanksgiving, being the new girl, I'd been roped into working an 8 hour shift, 3pm to 11pm. It was a long-ass day that miraculously went pretty smoothly...until the final hour and a half stretch. I was the last hostess standing (in blood-filled pumps) around 9pm when a guest collapsed on the landing outside the ladies' restroom. She'd apparently become short of breath and extremely pale. My manager Joe rushed to the host podium and told me to dial 911. My heart was racing--I'd never dialed 911 before, let alone at work--though by the time the paramedics showed up, the guest seemed to be more or less okay. Seeing the ambulance parked outside, another guest got in my face and demanded that her son-in-law be examined by the paramedics as well, since they were there, because he was hyperventilating outside. Both guests were fine in the end--too much turkey and excitement for one day it seems. But then, not forty-five minutes later, Joe appeared again and with the same request. This time, it was Manny, one of the restaurant's hardest working bussers, who had collapsed from chest pains. Manny, I was told, had a heart condition and had had open-heart surgery about ten years earlier. So I called the ambulence for the second time in my life, and Joe let them in the back so they could take care of Manny without alarming the remaining guests. I barely knew who Manny was at that point.


A few weeks later, Manny returned to work. It seemed he had been back in the hospital for a few weeks and the doctor had instructed him to take some time off. He was fine...though his time away from work had set his family back financially a great deal. In need of some extra cash, the general manager had allowed him to pick up some coat check shifts as well. Of all the immigrant employees to whom English was a second language, Manny's English was one of the best. He showed up one evening when I was hosting alone, looking sharp in a sky blue cable-knit sweater and black slacks. It was a slow night, so he ended up spending most of his time up front chatting with me. A sweet little man with a kind disposition, Manny was barely half an inch taller than me on the rare occasions I was able to get away with wearing flats. He told me about his family: he and his wife had been married for 19 years. "I never cheated on my wife in 19 years" he told me. They had two kids, a daughter who was about to start college in the fall and a younger son. "Karen is so smart. She's going to NYU and then she wants to go to medical school. She wants to take care of her daddy's heart. That's what she said when she was a little girl. I had surgery when she was three and she said she would grown up and be a doctor to take care of Daddy's heart. She never changed her mind!" I swooned quietly over Manny. He was such a good person, a loyal and loving father. He reminded me of my own father in the way he'd do anything for his family. He told me about when he was 18 and first came to America. Looking for a job. "There's no money in Mexico. It's better in America. I've been here 20 years!" As the weeks passed, Manny developed a little crush on me. "Are you coming to the Christmas party? I told my wife I wanted to dance with you at the party!" I thought it was sweet.


Manny from Morimoto is even smaller than the other Manny. He's a little older, a little tougher, and much less sentimental. Since the weather's turned cooler he often shows up to work in the wee hours of the morning sporting swanky poly-blend suits to assert his authority over the much younger Mexican boys on the cleaning crew. I have no idea what time they get there in the morning, but by the time I get there for my reservations shift at 9am (well, you know...9:18 or so) they've already scrubbed most of the dining room clean. When the office door is locked, it means that Manny hasn't gotten around to cleaning it yet and I have to find him to unlock it. It's very low on his list of priorities, as it only takes a few minutes to change the trash can liners and windex the manager's desktops. But Manny often takes his time and talks my ear off about his experiences. "Where you from?" he asked me the first morning I came in by myself. "Portuguese? Oh, I see. You in school? I did not go to school." And yet, he came to America and managed to become a business owner, opening a deli that he still owns but no longer operates himself. He told me how his business was in the newspaper, and how President Clinton shook his hand and congratulated him on his success in America. "My mother is still in Mexico. She doesn't come to visit me. She's too old. It's too expensive to fly to Mexico. But I talk to her on the phone. I send her money." Now, every morning I work, Manny greets me: "Como estas, Senorita? I am happy if the senoritas are happy."


The Mannys are what America is all about, aren't they? The right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, no matter what your background or education. American children grow up being brainwashed by "America the beautiful", the land of hope and plenty where anyone who works hard can achieve all their hopes and dreams. A country where the world's less fortunate can take refuge from government and economic oppression...where all men are supposedly equal, as God created them.


I was 14 in 2000 and living in Toronto with my mom. My Canadian friends and I followed the 2000 election closely, and though we all made adolescently flippant comments about what was going to happen to America if George W. Bush was elected, I couldn't help feeling personally affected by the circumstance. I was still an American citizen, after all, even if I was currently living in Canada. In Toronto, I contradicted all the stereotypes about Americans that were posed to me by my little friends. I assured them time and time again that we were not a nation of gun-toting rednecks, that just because I was from Southern California did not mean that I was rich. Then along came this new president who spoke with hideously improper grammar in a dumbed-down Texas drawl, and all the stereotypes became impossible to deflect. I had no idea which country to be loyal to when people I met in each place knew nothing but stereotypes about the other and I came to the decision that the concept of patriotism itself was worthless, like worshipping a false idol created by man to gain power over the masses. American Bible-belt patriotism started to look more and more like a cult and I became nationally indifferent to both of the countries to which I claimed citizenship.


I've felt displaced my whole life, split between two places that I did not choose as my own but were thrust upon me. For many reasons other than national orientation, I've always struggled with defining myself. But one thing I am very thankful for is that my lack of national devotion provided me with a great deal of common sense. I try as often as possible to exercise intellect over emotion, and I think that is what compells me to continually strive to learn more about this complicated world we live in.


I voted for the first time in the 2004 election, an experience that was truly one of the first empowering experiences of my young adult life. I was 18 and so excited at the prospect of change. The people I'd grown up around had all opposed the war in Iraq from the beginning, and though I'd heard my father rant and rave about the corruption of an administration who could wage a war for control over a country's energy resources then lie about their motives to the American people, I was really just starting to open my eyes to the gravity of the situation. I'd gone to a school-sponsered screening of Farenheit 9-11 with my friends, and we'd all sat dumbfounded as Michael Moore spent two hours explaining to us that our country didn't respect us, didn't care about our needs as citizens, and didn't care about the lives of our peers who were being sent overseas to die for their phony cause. I started to feel like an adult that fall, and the prospect of voting against Bush felt like taking matters into my own hands. Of course, Kerry was running a campaign to defeat Bush, not a campaign that was ultimately focused around change for the greater good. Defeating Bush wasn't enough... Kerry lacked the necessary strategies to help guide the country out of its gradual recession. Perhaps most importantly, Kerry lacked the passion that was necessary to guide the American populace.


Maybe we really needed to hit rock bottom before we were collectively ready to make some serious changes. Some of us could see it coming years ago...others evidentally needed more persuasion.


Since casting my vote for the losing candidate in 2004, I've definitely felt a collective downward spiral in morale, one that unfortunately has coincided with my generations transition into adulthood. We've come of age in a time of extreme social despair. I've felt my adolescent hopes and dreams slowly corode into jaded cynicism far beyond my years. Those of us who are still in the early stages of post-academic "real life" have felt the odds rising higher and higher against us over the past couple of years. We're all broke, struggling to keep our heads above water, and barely finding the strength to persevere in the name of our artistic ideals. We are artists because we fundamentally believe in the good of humanity and that the world is a beautiful place that we should strive to take care of. These ideals have been so very difficult to maintain in the face of all the pain and suffering that has been surmouting in the world. I've often felt helpless, trapped between pursuing my dreams in the spirit of American opportunity that was supposedly my birthright, and desperate guilt for not working harder to oppose worldwide injustice and intolerance. I've been weighing my options for a long time, and I know I'll be weighing them longer still. But at this point in my life I've arrived at the conclusion that I do not have to sacrifice my duty as human being to contribute to the betterment of society in the interest of pursuing self-fulfillment, or vice versa. I can do both at the same time. That is what I believe the purpose of art to be. For me, in my life, I am an artist because I know that my artistic talents are my God-given means of reaching out to other human beings. This conclusion has led me to the decision to return to school, to pursure my MFA in Acting, in order to deepen my understanding and practice of my artistic craft, as well as to continue to pursue more diverse means of artistic collaboration. It is important to me in my career to be constantly redefining my ideas of art and its relationship with its audience in an effort to seek out more effective and meaningful means of communication and collaborative expression of the human condition. It is also important to me to pursue teaching as one of the facets of my career, for my teachers have always been my greatest role models, inspiring me endlessly with their selflessness. The gifts of support, inspirtation and encouragement that I've been given are such that I feel strongly about giving back to others.


Fuck. I've been trying to start writing an effective, yet concise personal statement for my application essays for weeks. I think I might have just found the heart of this decision of mine.


For that, and for many other things, I have President Barack Obama to thank.


Seriously, dude. A country that can transition from slavery and civil war to electing an African-American president in less than 200 years can't be all bad. Other countries have been waging the same civil wars for thousands of years. This is a great change... of course, tomorrow morning the world will still look exactly the same as it does today. But already I feel a little lighter, a little more hopeful. I only hope we can all see that Obama is a man who is bound to make some mistakes. It will take a lot of time to pull this country out of it's slide into impending social and economic ruin. Likewise, it will take time to repair our foreign affairs with the nations of the world. However, the first step has been taken. All we can really do is continue to put one foot in front of the other and focus on the future as it becomes the present.



I don't think I've ever felt quite so empowered and humbled at the same time.



What a day.