For ten years of my life I lived in a small town in South Central Pennsylvania, just a hop-skip-and-a-jump from the Appalachian Trail and Michaux State Forest. I have grown up walking through those woods, smelling those flowers and playing in those leaves. I have jumped in those puddles, squished my way through that mud, hopped and danced and climbed in and over and around those trails, those rocks, those trees. In just ten short days I will hop on a plane to take me back to Penn’s Woods for the summer, where I will rejoice in the rain and the mountain laurel and the fireflies once more. But today I am thinking of my tulip poplar and lilies and dogwood tree not because I will get to see them so soon, but because today is a day reserved specially for that line of thought. On every April 22, we are asked to take a day—one measly little day—to consider our Earth and all that makes it glorious.
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In one of the many societies I created in elementary school, I decided that not only would there be no laws, there would be no crime. And I meant this not as “well of course there’s no crime if there are no laws to break,” but rather as “there are no laws because no one needs them to know the difference between right and wrong.” There were to be no killings. No non-consensual transfer of property. No thwarting of people’s pure identities—only acceptance and love. There were to be no weapons, no human rights violations, and although I doubt I knew it existed at the time, no rape. I remember wishing that that was how my actual society was, too (after all, that was the whole point of creating new ones), and wondering how it wasn’t. Wondering how people could kill each other, how people could steal, how people could flaunt weaponry and words with the intent to harm. Of course, at that age I knew very little of human nature. I knew about the fallibility of human bodies, to an extent I still can’t quite imagine. I knew love, I knew apathy, I knew hurt. But I did not know the causes, or to what extent they could influence actions. Sometimes when I think about things that happened to me when I was quite young, I don't think of myself as being so. I know that, objectively, I was considerably younger and less educated than I am now, but I still consider myself to be just as capable, and roughly just as large. And then I piece together the two unavoidable facts of my age at those times and my brother's age on Friday, and I am shaken to my core. There are things that I did and things that happened to me -- things that so many of us did or that happened to us -- at those ages that may actually kill me if my brother had to go through them. How are children, so fragile and innocent and naive and pure and formative, also so resilient? How is it possible that perfectly capable, confident, and strong people such as myself could come from things so terrible? I go to college at a university owned by my church. Naturally, the university is pretty conservative. It may come as a surprise to anyone who was in my AP Comparative Government class that my top choice school is a conservative one, but it's the truth. Of course, the political leanings of the students was not the primary factor in my decision, but that's beside the point. The point is that my Hillary Clinton poster and the Hillary logo in the window of my friends' dorm are generally looked down upon, and most of my peers would sooner vote for Trump than for Hillary. Of course, when they find out which candidate I selected on my absentee ballot, they always question it. I rarely answer, mostly because I'm not prepared to get into a fight. The truth is that I'm not particularly vocally articulate, and so I prefer to put my thoughts into writing. So, to anyone who has ever asked (or wanted to ask): This is for you.
There is no reason to hold back on being profound.
There is no reason to hold back on saying something deep. There is no reason to hold back from saying something you find remarkable, whether or not it's something you came up with on your own. There is no reason to tread lightly on saying something that could change whole world views because you are afraid someone will not agree. You cannot afford to limit your world and your discussions because doing so would go against something that someone once told you. We all have quotes and sayings and thoughts that we hold dear, we all have heard something once that changed how we see the world. Whoever it was the originally said that thing was brave enough to say it, to write it, to whisper it in someone's ear or shout it from the rooftops. If you have something to say, say it. Don't hold back on a moment that will change the world because the person to your left might disagree with your statement. No one tells stories about bland discussions on topics already understood. No one remembers the speeches or lessons that followed the book exactly or restated long-known ideas. Branch out. Tell a new story. Reinterpret something. Don't leave that to the "professionals," be a great mind yourself. The professionals didn't become professional without trying something new themselves. I am so tired of people deciding they don't need original thought. I am so tired of people telling me only what they've heard others say before. Do not be afraid of analyzing and criticizing and reimagining. Do not be afraid of doing or saying something remarkable. Do not ever shut people down because you read once in a textbook that their idea is impossible. Let them be philosophical. Let them wonder, and ponder, and think for themselves. And let yourself do so too. Not just for yourself, but for everyone listening. |
I'm Audrey, a college student and existential rambler.
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