An Open Letter to the Man Who Invented the Bell Curve

Thank you very, very much.

This is Obama Country

I watched the election results while eating pizza with my Georgetown classmates on O street. We cheered wildly when Pennsylvania turned blue. We rooted for our Virginia neighbors to push Obama over the edge. Ohio caused another round of celebration. We counted down to 11 PM when the West Coast polls closed: ...5...4...3...2...1...and the West coast lit up blue. Barack Obama is the next President of the United States of America.

It was explosive. There were tears and shouts and champagne. By the time the acceptance speech happened at midnight, the room had emptied a little ( I guess some people wanted to do homework on that night. Whatever.) Those of us who stayed through the speech felt so moved...that we had to, well, move. We went out into the drizzle and watched people pouring out of their houses at the same time, flooding into the streets. We collectively, instinctively pointed ourselves toward the White House.

When we reached M Street, Georgetown's main thoroughfare, the celebration escalated. Bus drivers were beaming. Taxi drivers were honking. A large white man in suspenders was standing triumphantly out of his car sun roof, arms above his head, screaming. A black waiter came out of a restaurant, hugged some of us, strangers, and went back to his shift. Everyone high-fived each other as we walked toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Everyone grinned. Everyone danced. People walked down the middle of the street and waved. People waved their Obama T-shirts in the air. DC votes 95% Democrat every election, which means that there were approximately 3 people here who voted for McCain--that we were all Obama supporters was a sure bet.

What striked me most was that it wasn't vengeful or bitter, despite the chants of "na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, good byyyye" outside the White House. It was joyful. It was hopeful. Until I saw so many people in the same spontaneous celebration, pulled out to Pennsylvania Ave just because it was the most obvious place to go, I hadn't really bought the Hope/Change premise. Hope in what? Change in what? To what? I like hope and change just fine, but I hadn't understood how much we need it, how much we have invested in this vague idea. Hope. But what was in the streets wasn't hope to replace Bush. It was hope that we can be better than we are. That we can be a more perfect union. That you really can, if you work hard, do whatever you want in America. You can be a biracial man with a distant father, far removed from aristocracy, and get to the white house with nothing but merit, maturity, and ambition. We can't change the past, but was can mold the future. It's hard, but you can do it. Yes, we can. Yes, you can.

All of a sudden, we can talk about race. We talked about it before, but that conversation was tired; this is like adrenaline. The African-Americans that I see every day on the street as I go to class, now they are beaming. I hear black students being interviewed on the radio: "I realized that I can be anything I want! I am going to study hard, like Obama." My friend Lori teaches 6th grade: her students have a new role model. Stories abound of black great-grandmothers who have seen segregation, separate-but-equal, civil rights, Martin Luther King, Jr. They can vote now. They are represented. NPR did a story about a woman who is 109, saying, "Jones is the living link between the time when black men were owned as property and the time when a black man has been elected president of the United States." Another one, a 95 year old black woman with 13 children, finally inspired, voting for the first time in her Sunday best. This is incredible, no matter what you think about Obama's policies or politics.

This is what we celebrated in front of the White House: the fact that we can change. The fact that we can hope, even if the finish line is past the horizon. Without a vision, the people perish, and we have sorely lacked any sort of vision over the past 8 years. No matter who you voted for, this is cause to celebrate. We get another chance. We were thirsty, and now we know there is a stream. I love America.

Maybe Obama will be a totally mediocre president; it's possible. But what a thrill it is to think that he might not be, that he might be great. Whether he's great or not, the people have been reinvigorated, and democracy is about the people. We forgot that under Bush, but president-elect Obama reminded us. Let's not forget again.

An open letter to Mr. Obama

Dear Barack Obama,

I have enjoyed getting to know you-albeit via the media, and not face to face- over the past--how long has it been? 21 months? Wow. It's been a while! I feel like we could be best friends now! You are on my radio every night, and your pictures is everywhere, even on my neighbor's jack-o-lantern. That is how you know you have arrived. When you are the subject of a carved pumpkin. Congratulations!

Barack and Joe, I am glad that you are doing well in the polls and that you are trying to offer people hope and change. I love hope and change! But do you know what I don't love? Spam.

I do hope that you beat McCain/Palin on November 4. Unfortunately, I am not available, nor do I intend to be available, to call people in swing states, plaster DC with OBAMA posters, e-mail my friends, begin Facebook political debates, or donate money. Especially donate money. But your e-mails to me revolve around this topic! You mention hope and change a little, but mostly, youp lead with me to part with the money I just earned by watching a 3-year old for 4 hours. This constitutes a large sacrifice on my part.

Barack, I am a student. I do not have money except for beans, books, and coffee. I'm afraid that no matter how many e-mails you send me - nay, even if you up your quota to 3 e-mails per day! - I will not donate to your campaign. I'm sorry. Joe, if you send me e-mails, I will not donate. I will not donate no matter who sends me e-mails; I do not have any money.

I heard that you are in the millions of dollars now, and could even afford a 30-minute commercial during prime time the other day! How nice! I didn't get to see it, since I don't have a TV. But I'm pretty sure that this is a good indication that you don't need my $25, which will instead be spent on the previously mentioned beans and coffee.

Therefore, I have to ask you to stop sending me e-mails, Barack and Joe and David Plouffe and David Axelrod and Mrs. Obama (although I do like you, Mrs. Obama, and I think you have excellent taste in sheaths.) I will be watching you on election night, and I hope that you do well and that a victory does not make you stupid and that a loss does not make you depressed. I think you have done a good job over the past two years, and a lot of my friends feel the same. Hope is not as important as money, I know, but it is the mainstay of your campaign, so please accept my hope for your success instead of my $25.

Thank you, and say hi to Michelle for me!

Catherine

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

When I was a freshman or sophomore in college, I went to my dear (now-soon-to-be-a-mom!) friend Anne's house for Thanksgiving. Her mother had a personality test that we took for curiosity's sake. I buzzed through it and checked in heavily as an ISTJ: Intuitive, Sensing, Thinking, Judging. What does that mean? Well, in the explanation of this personality type, there were many useful nuggets. For instance:

ISTJs have tremendous respect for facts. They hold a tremendous store of facts within themselves, which they have gathered through their Sensing preference. They may have difficulty understanding a theory or idea which is different from their own perspective. However, if they are shown the importance or relevance of the idea to someone who they respect or care about, the idea becomes a fact, which the ISTJ will internalize and support.

So true! And this:

ISTJs tend to believe in laws and traditions, and expect the same from others. They're not comfortable with breaking laws or going against the rules. If they are able to see a good reason for stepping outside of the established mode of doing things, the ISTJ will support that effort. However, ISTJs more often tend to believe that things should be done according to procedures and plans. If an ISTJ has not developed their Intuitive side sufficiently, they may become overly obsessed with structure, and insist on doing everything "by the book".

Reading these descriptions assured me that I was not alone and in fact fit comfortably into a box, which was wonderful. I love boxes! More importantly, though, it taught me that...get ready...not everyone thinks like I do. I know. This was a revelation. I always thought that other people didn't follow rules and traditions just because they were, I don't know, rebellious. Or stupid. Or something. It never occurred to me that their relationship with rules and tradition was entirely different from mine. It, for instance, makes me extremely uncomfortable to vary from tradition, whether that means not celebrating Christmas the same way every year or not filling out the correct paperwork on time or using correct grammar. (Granted, this tendency has been mitigated by spending time in the Middle East where "by the book" has different...interpretations and consequences. Sometimes there is no book, and sometimes the book is flat out inefficient. I can appreciate that.)

This is perhaps one reason I have such a love for old things. I majored in history. I like old poetry with rhyme, meter, and patterns. I think old furniture is better made and prettier than that new stuff. I am always tut-tutting when I hear newfangled ideas. I am hopeful about progress but also believe that there is nothing new under the sun. Progress is a misleading idea. I prefer to think of this perspective as "realistic." Some prefer the word "pessimistic." Whatever.

So when I run across instances when history repeats itself or comments on our current struggles, I feel somehow vindicated, as if I could legitimately say, "I told you so!" Even though I didn't actually tell anybody so.

Here is an old thing which makes me feel particularly vindicated. It's another Kipling. And needless to say, I believe in the usefulness of copy book headings.

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Cities and Thrones and Powers

Cities and Thrones and Powers
 Stand  in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
 Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
 To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth
 The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,
 She never hears
What change, what chance, what chill,
 Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
 And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance,
 To be perpetual.

So Time that is o'er-kind
 To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind,
 As bold as she:
That in our very death,
 And  burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,
 "See how our works endure!"


Rudyard Kipling