Keeping My Heart and Mind

There is a quote my father likes to haul out at the end of nearly every argument. Like a trophy in no need of dusting, he presents it as if its fake gold sheen is proof of its infallibility. His satisfied smile always signifies a stalemate. He first began using this quote, as his closing argument, when I came home from fifth grade all riled up about the injustices revealed to me through a combination of history lessons and the reading of The Witch of Blackbird Pond. Filled with the passionate indignation young people possess when they realize for the first time that the world is not as it should be, I railed on about women's rights, religious freedom, Native Americans, and, most likely, the horrors of war (although, not in those exact terms). In an effort to calm me down, my father employed the quote, which basically states that those who aren't liberal in youth lack heart and those who don't become conservative with age lack brains. I would later discover that the quote's original owner was Winston Churchill, who apparently put it on permanent loan to my father and a few other fathers judging by the amount of blogs on the subject.

Although it shut me up, the quote achieved the opposite affect of my father's intention; it terrified me. I feared its logic was inevitable. Would my brain, without my consent, grow to override my horror for the exploitation of others, my passion for artistic freedom, and my love for a life of nature-loving, simplicity? Would I cease to cry at the thought of animals being tormented or people being crushed by misunderstanding and fear as long as a significant explanation of social necessity could be provided? I lie in bed at night envisioning becoming a complacent robot chugging along in time to a predetermined beat.

As I grew and my passionate indignation took on greater scope and sophistication, I regularly took the temperature of my idealism, checking for early symptoms of transformation. I cursed myself for demonstrating a desire for convenience over values when chucking unwashed cans into the trash instead of the recycling. I scolded myself for daydreaming about an elaborate, trendy wardrobe despite the surrender to consumerism the fulfillment of that desire would require. Racial stereotypes stung me when they whispered into my thoughts, provoked out of the dark caves in my memory by an external stimuli. I was convinced that a hardwired part of my mind might one day override the whole, leaving me with all the values of the white, middle-class, Christian, suburban girl, who I was on paper but not in spirit. My only hope was that my father's other favorite quote had competing power; in other words, that my teachers and, later, my college professors would succeed in brainwashing me. I chose a small, liberal arts college with just such a hope in mind.

Yet, now the post-college world is upon me and I fear that my introductory dose of higher learning and creative action will not succeed in sustaining me for a lifetime. I can feel foggy complacency creeping over my mental landscape as worries about money, career, and family stoke survival instincts. Worse, I find myself right back were I started. In the nightmare of most college students, I have returned to my hometown, which may as well be named Suburbia USA – complete with a Walmart megastore, a McDonald's on every corner, and enough fundamentalist churches to successfully relaunch the crusades. At this point, my brother would like to interject his favorite quote: “poor little rich girl, is your wallet too full and do your golden shoes pinch?” I acknowledge that to the majority of people living in the depths of poverty or genocide or starvation or all of the above, suburbia appears to be a heaven walled in stucco and street lamp safety, gorged in foods from every nation, and decorated with emerald lawns and neon ads. Although, the very fact that we live this way while others suffer (in many cases, to preserve our way of life) indicates a troubling crack in this convenience-saturated illusion. Yet, here I am, until I can sign-up with the peace crops or get a grant for graduate school in the city or join a co-op in Washington or the mother ship takes me home (if you keep reading this blog, you may not rule out the last option). So self-pity aside, it occurs to me that there must be others like me, trying to hold onto their hearts and minds as they struggle to survive in a disturbing world. After all, my quick-to-quote father removed the backyard lawn to grow an organic vegetable garden when I decided to become vegan after my latest cancer recurrence. He also takes my leftover curry soup and meatless jambalaya to work for lunch, braving the comments of his fellow retired Marines. Perhaps, this is evidence that time has not completely vanquished the rebellious youth who attended Buddhist meetings, dreamed of joining a nudist colony and, as his mother would say, Lord knows what else.

With the faith that there are others like me, hidden ranks of believers in the human spirit and the ability of activism and art to continue to chip away at fear and hatred and blind capitalism, I have begun to look for a space. I catch myself peering into empty storefronts with for rent signs plastered in their windows. There is a plethora of these buildings around as the economic recession takes its toll. I don't know exactly what I am longing for when I look into the depths of these gutted stores but I see a half-materializing vision of graffiti-covered walls, a makeshift gallery, a corner stage for poetry readings, lectures, small plays, and couches for class and meetings. Maybe there is even room for a cooking range and small cafe. A place where people can gather to eat, share ideas, launch their demonstration, and practice their art. The full purpose of this space is still hazy: a kind of work haven for displaced college friends – brilliant minds lost in the maze of cubicles and unemployment – where they can recharge and regroup; a recruiting center for the ever-morphing social revolution's umpteenth wave surging up once again to call for lifestyles that celebrate life in all its forms; a recovery center for disillusioned suburbanites; a safe space for aspiring artists and activists; or a nontraditional school for young seekers tired of over-testing and hungry for outlets for the counter-culture urges (come oh, ye masses of black tutu wearing, underground music listening, bored and restless youth). Perhaps, it is just my niche in the multitude of movements that are regaining their energy, tended these last prosperous years by those who knew our consumeristic ways would eventual drive us to disaster.

At this point, dear reader, you may be wondering what exactly I am proposing or supporting. You may also be one of those flame-tenders – eager for open ears and willing hands – frustrated that I am still searching and musing when your own cause needs converts now. You have been taking up protest signs, staging radical plays, building houses out of wreckage, and giving countless, thankless hours of aid. I hear you and even now my hands are making their way off this keyboard and out into the world. While I wait for my physical space to manifest and make my tentative attempts at social change in a suburban environ, I encourage you to join me in this written space. I have made the decision to navigate the coming years with both my mind and heart. Perhaps, this is not enough. The possession of heart or mind or both means nothing if they are not used. In that vein, may we help each other regain the use of our whole selves in this quest to heal our broken world.