For some reason, my procrastination led me back to my 2007 blog postings, and I discovered that this Saturday will mark the two-year anniversary of my waitlisting at Ross. In response to the impending limbo, I wrote the following:
There is always an element of sadness in celebration.
We cannot celebrate without alluding to it, because there
are people on this earth of ours who are not celebrating,
who are despairing, anguished, starving and mourning.
That is why all celebration should end with a silence in
which we remember before God all those who cannot
celebrate and who are in pain today. — Jean Vanier
This morning, I reminded myself why I’m going through this:
It’s not for the conversation centerpiece.
It’s not for the networking.
It’s not for my parents.
It’s not for the money.
It’s for the three-year old child that went without food for the second straight day.
It’s for the mother who can’t afford to buy malaria nets for her babies.
It’s for the talking heads who need — who deserve — a challenge in how they do business.
It’s for the screaming voice in my head that reminds me of the need for justice.
It’s for fulfilling the purposes I believe God has set forth in my life.
It’s for taking probably the easiest step of what will become an arduous, yet exciting, journey.
It’s for realizing the journey has already begun.
It’s for knowing, without a doubt, that no school, institution, or program is allowed to tell me what I can’t do with my life.
It’s for giving those without hope a reason to celebrate. And it’s for realizing how small, how miniscule, of a role I play in that.
What an odd blog inscription to read, halfway through the first step of this “exciting, arduous journey”. I’m not sure whether or not I’m better conditioned, more cynical, or what it is…but I feel far less apprehensive and timid about the future than I did on March 15th, 2007.
Where has that voice that once screamed for justice? It’s been replaced, although not necessarily tempered, by the methodical, yet effective, discussions between professors, classmates, and self. The seething, unbridled cries for equality have been addressed, or at least appeased, by the daily crush of coursework, readings, and seminars. I’ve yet to see if such a change is more effective.
I have certainly discovered this, however: my role is still miniscule, even more than I considered back then. And I’m content with such a light burden, because it’s a collective struggle. I now know hundreds of capable, passionate young minds who dare not fight this fight alone. And perhaps together, we will give hope to the hopeless, simply by the churning of our minds and the breaking of our hearts.