At 23 years old, I have a lot to learn. But this summer I’ve learned some life lessons well beyond my age.
When I finished my undergraduate degree last May from a small liberal arts college, I didn’t feel prepared enough to enter into the field of journalism. I decided to further my education through a Master’s of Journalism program at a Big Ten University. I thought an M.A. would give me an advantage and perhaps earn me more money. I decided to tackle this degree in one year for a couple reasons- I was slightly burnt out from going to school for the past 19 years consecutively and my student loans were really beginning to pile up.
At the time my one year decision seemed wise, but when I finished the program in June, I realized what horrible timing I had. I began my job search when the unemployment rate was around 9.5% and I was entering into a supposedly dying industry.
I continued to work at my minimum wage retail job (which is a whole other story of how I survived and went to school on minimum wage) and began putting out resumes. After the frustration of online job searching set in, I took a roadtrip to Columbus, Cleveland, Washington, D.C. and Charlotte, N.C. I physically handed in my resume and clips to any magazine, newspaper and television station that I could find. I even handed my packets in to companies that had PR departments or for any administrative assistant openings. Even if the company wasn’t hiring-they got my resume. I stopped counting after 124.
On my way back from my job hunt, I stopped at my parent’s house in West Salem. As tears of anger and frustration ran down my face, my parents attempted words of encouragement. My mom read me an e-mail about a friend’s daughter who started work with AmeriCorps, essentially like the PeaceCorps, but volunteers work to help strengthen communities in the U.S.
I looked into the program and applied for a couple positions. That was on a Monday evening. By Wednesday at 5 p.m. I had a position. Although, I will be living off of wages just above poverty level, part of the experience of bringing families out of poverty is to experience it yourself; I have health insurance and an education bonus at the end of my one year commitment. So much for my M.A. making me more money. However, I will be in a media position using my skills and better yet, I’ll be helping people.
As I explained the program to some fellow graduate students, they decided to look into AmeriCorps as well. They are struggling to find jobs just like I was, and I knew exactly how they felt. Throughout my search, I became very angry that I’d worked so hard for my degrees only to be greeted with closed doors. I became worried that my entire generation was feeling the same way. We were all told to go to college in order to get a good job, but unemployment is affecting everyone- old, young, college educated or not. We’re all struggling. But here my generation will be- educated, angry and jobless.
However, I’m beginning to have a little bit of hope. I hope that through the frustration and desperation, people my age will be willing to take jobs that may not pay well, but they make a difference. I hope that my generation is learning that money is not everything, and that money can disappear when things we have no control over go awry. I hope my generation begins to try jobs that do some good. I hope my generation can stop focusing on itself to look around and see how other people are doing. I hope we can lend a hand. I hope that my commitment to AmeriCorps can help families that are going through these same hard times. And I really hope I continue to learn and that I’ll continue to survive on poverty wages and a Master’s degree.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Single Mom
“I’m about to ruin your life.” That’s what Amanda first uttered to her on again, off again boyfriend, Paul when she found out the news.
We’re standing in her kitchen making “mushy peas” as Amanda fills me in on the whole story. She opens the canned organic peas, dumps them in the food processor and lets it rip until the round peas turn to a thick soup-like mixture. Over the grinding of the processor she pushes up her thick, red glasses with one hand, the other hand holding onto the lid of the machine. She loudly explains, “He knew right away what I meant. He asked me ‘What, are you pregnant?’ I said ‘Yeah’ and he said ‘That won’t ruin my life, that will give my life a purpose.’”
The grinding stops and Amanda scoops the green mush into a silver strainer-like gadget that separates the pea skins from the mush. Her thick burgundy hair is pulled back into a clip but some loose strands fall in her face. She uses the back of her hand to wipe away the strays, sure not to get any peas in her shining, fiery hair. Amanda uses her fingers to clean out the skin gunk and flings it into the sink. I grimace. She doesn’t even flinch. “That was Paul’s one shining moment,” she says looking down into the sink.
The skin-free green pea goop is then spooned into ice cube trays and frozen for later. “Peas are Noah’s favorite,” she explains. Noah who has just had his fill of her homemade green goodness is fast asleep on the couch with pillows lined around him to ensure he doesn’t roll off. We finally get a couple minutes alone to talk. For the first time all morning we don’t have to watch that Noah doesn’t bump his head on the furniture, put something non-organic in his mouth, or crawl to an off-limits place.
Amanda’s rinses out the dishes she used and then quickly wipes the counter. Her loose jeans are splattered with bits of green and spots of water and her baggy green t-shirt is also speckled with water spots—or baby spit, I’m not sure. “When he was born he was so pure and perfect. I couldn’t stand to put anything imperfect in him,” she explains after stating that several people don’t understand why she makes her own organic baby food. “His first non-organic food will be cake for his first birthday,” she says with a slight frown. In just four months, Noah will get to taste artificial flavorings.
As she continues to clean up she shares more of her story. “I knew I was pregnant when I was walking through the Education building and I smelled Big Macs. I hate Big Macs, but that day I was craving them…like every part of my body wanted a burger. My toes wanted that Big Mac.” Sure enough, her cravings didn’t lie.
While her parents, her dad especially, continued to be excited for her and support her, Amanda’s relationship with Paul deteriorated. The two had been dating off and on for the past two years, even when Paul was stationed in Iraq. “I stopped talking to him five months into my pregnancy. I had to cut all ties. Paul came back from Iraq totally different, but by the time I realized it, I was already pregnant…The last time I talked to him was the day of my ultrasound to find out if I was having a boy or girl. I called Paul [before the appointment] and he started yelling and said ‘Don’t even talk to me. I don’t even care anymore.’” She told Paul she was having a boy through e-mail. He wasn’t there for parenting classes, he wasn’t there to put his hand on her stomach, he wasn’t there to feel the baby kick, he wasn’t there for the birth.
We walk from the kitchen back to the living room. Amanda’s motherly sense of timing is dead on. Noah wakes just as we sit on the two long white couches, both covered with cream blankets. Amanda sits on the couch Noah has just woken up on. I take my place on the opposite one, far enough away from any crying that may take place. “I’ve never told Paul he can’t see Noah,” she explains. He lives in Illinois, so he sees Noah whenever he makes an effort. “Sometimes I wish Noah had a different dad, but then he wouldn’t be Noah,” Amanda says as Noah sits up without a sound.
The mother and son share more than a small room in Amanda’s mom’s house. They share the same deep red hair, the same small, sharp nose and the same pale, pure skin. Amanda cradles Noah for a bit, but he’s eager to get down on the brown shag, carpeted floor. It’s an adventure land for a baby whose toys are littered about- the peek-a-boo trucks, a plastic strawberry that lightly vibrates when teethed on, a large cardboard box that’s perfect for sitting in when you’re miniature size and two silver pots accompanied by a wooden spoon—ideal for loud noises.
Noah rapidly crawls from truck to pot to box in his green onezie with tiny blue and green dinosaurs printed on it. The red mark above his eye has faded from a fall against the wooden edge of the TV center. The center is now surrounded by pillows and stuffed animals to ensure no sharp edges are exposed.
Another half hour passes of amusing an eight month old in high pitched voices asking him random questions. “You want to play drums on the pots?” and “You want to go get mommy?”
It’s an endless, exhausting, consuming routine. Eat, Sleep, Play, Eat, Sleep, Play. Eat, Sleep, Play. All day long. The hardest part of being a mom is time. “Having enough time to do anything. Trying to balance being a mom and being my own person. To do anything, I’m totally dependent on my parents. My dad understands I need time out. He’s huge. If I didn’t have him, I’d go crazy,” Amanda says as Noah grabs at her glasses. She continues, “I think it still hasn’t hit me. Sometimes I have moments of clarity like ‘oh my god I have a child. I’m a single mom.’ But that’s life. I definitely wouldn’t go back.”
And although it’s hard, there’s a light in her now. She has the purpose Paul once said his life would have. She still has plans to go back to school to either finish the 30 credits left for her education degree or to get a general studies degree, whichever is least time consuming. But that’s the future. For now Noah is happy as he sucks on his bottle filled with organic milk, and when Noah’s happy, Amanda’s happy. Yet another bond only mother and son can share. A mother and son who take on the world alone. “This is what we do everyday. It’s just one adventure after another.”
We’re standing in her kitchen making “mushy peas” as Amanda fills me in on the whole story. She opens the canned organic peas, dumps them in the food processor and lets it rip until the round peas turn to a thick soup-like mixture. Over the grinding of the processor she pushes up her thick, red glasses with one hand, the other hand holding onto the lid of the machine. She loudly explains, “He knew right away what I meant. He asked me ‘What, are you pregnant?’ I said ‘Yeah’ and he said ‘That won’t ruin my life, that will give my life a purpose.’”
The grinding stops and Amanda scoops the green mush into a silver strainer-like gadget that separates the pea skins from the mush. Her thick burgundy hair is pulled back into a clip but some loose strands fall in her face. She uses the back of her hand to wipe away the strays, sure not to get any peas in her shining, fiery hair. Amanda uses her fingers to clean out the skin gunk and flings it into the sink. I grimace. She doesn’t even flinch. “That was Paul’s one shining moment,” she says looking down into the sink.
The skin-free green pea goop is then spooned into ice cube trays and frozen for later. “Peas are Noah’s favorite,” she explains. Noah who has just had his fill of her homemade green goodness is fast asleep on the couch with pillows lined around him to ensure he doesn’t roll off. We finally get a couple minutes alone to talk. For the first time all morning we don’t have to watch that Noah doesn’t bump his head on the furniture, put something non-organic in his mouth, or crawl to an off-limits place.
Amanda’s rinses out the dishes she used and then quickly wipes the counter. Her loose jeans are splattered with bits of green and spots of water and her baggy green t-shirt is also speckled with water spots—or baby spit, I’m not sure. “When he was born he was so pure and perfect. I couldn’t stand to put anything imperfect in him,” she explains after stating that several people don’t understand why she makes her own organic baby food. “His first non-organic food will be cake for his first birthday,” she says with a slight frown. In just four months, Noah will get to taste artificial flavorings.
As she continues to clean up she shares more of her story. “I knew I was pregnant when I was walking through the Education building and I smelled Big Macs. I hate Big Macs, but that day I was craving them…like every part of my body wanted a burger. My toes wanted that Big Mac.” Sure enough, her cravings didn’t lie.
While her parents, her dad especially, continued to be excited for her and support her, Amanda’s relationship with Paul deteriorated. The two had been dating off and on for the past two years, even when Paul was stationed in Iraq. “I stopped talking to him five months into my pregnancy. I had to cut all ties. Paul came back from Iraq totally different, but by the time I realized it, I was already pregnant…The last time I talked to him was the day of my ultrasound to find out if I was having a boy or girl. I called Paul [before the appointment] and he started yelling and said ‘Don’t even talk to me. I don’t even care anymore.’” She told Paul she was having a boy through e-mail. He wasn’t there for parenting classes, he wasn’t there to put his hand on her stomach, he wasn’t there to feel the baby kick, he wasn’t there for the birth.
We walk from the kitchen back to the living room. Amanda’s motherly sense of timing is dead on. Noah wakes just as we sit on the two long white couches, both covered with cream blankets. Amanda sits on the couch Noah has just woken up on. I take my place on the opposite one, far enough away from any crying that may take place. “I’ve never told Paul he can’t see Noah,” she explains. He lives in Illinois, so he sees Noah whenever he makes an effort. “Sometimes I wish Noah had a different dad, but then he wouldn’t be Noah,” Amanda says as Noah sits up without a sound.
The mother and son share more than a small room in Amanda’s mom’s house. They share the same deep red hair, the same small, sharp nose and the same pale, pure skin. Amanda cradles Noah for a bit, but he’s eager to get down on the brown shag, carpeted floor. It’s an adventure land for a baby whose toys are littered about- the peek-a-boo trucks, a plastic strawberry that lightly vibrates when teethed on, a large cardboard box that’s perfect for sitting in when you’re miniature size and two silver pots accompanied by a wooden spoon—ideal for loud noises.
Noah rapidly crawls from truck to pot to box in his green onezie with tiny blue and green dinosaurs printed on it. The red mark above his eye has faded from a fall against the wooden edge of the TV center. The center is now surrounded by pillows and stuffed animals to ensure no sharp edges are exposed.
Another half hour passes of amusing an eight month old in high pitched voices asking him random questions. “You want to play drums on the pots?” and “You want to go get mommy?”
It’s an endless, exhausting, consuming routine. Eat, Sleep, Play, Eat, Sleep, Play. Eat, Sleep, Play. All day long. The hardest part of being a mom is time. “Having enough time to do anything. Trying to balance being a mom and being my own person. To do anything, I’m totally dependent on my parents. My dad understands I need time out. He’s huge. If I didn’t have him, I’d go crazy,” Amanda says as Noah grabs at her glasses. She continues, “I think it still hasn’t hit me. Sometimes I have moments of clarity like ‘oh my god I have a child. I’m a single mom.’ But that’s life. I definitely wouldn’t go back.”
And although it’s hard, there’s a light in her now. She has the purpose Paul once said his life would have. She still has plans to go back to school to either finish the 30 credits left for her education degree or to get a general studies degree, whichever is least time consuming. But that’s the future. For now Noah is happy as he sucks on his bottle filled with organic milk, and when Noah’s happy, Amanda’s happy. Yet another bond only mother and son can share. A mother and son who take on the world alone. “This is what we do everyday. It’s just one adventure after another.”
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Buyers and The Sellers
This article may sound slightly different in comparison to my other articles. It is for a literary journalism class that I am taking this summer. I'm struggling to find a narrative voice and to get past the facts of journalism that I've been learning thus far in order to expand my mind and take up this new art form. Here's my first try.
On a gray, soggy Saturday morning while most of the town remains asleep, a group of searchers flock to an open blacktop parking lot. They enter carrying empty baskets and “go green” reusable bags in hopes of filling them with fresh, locally grown goods.
Despite the hanging clouds and misty air, fathers carry young daughters on their shoulders, mothers push their sons in strollers, friends walk at a leisurely pace as do the elderly couples that shuffle side by side. All of them with content smiles and friendly hellos. These are the buyers.
Four rows of tall green pillars supporting plexi glass awnings shelter the local goods. The two outside rows allow drivers in their large white vans, rusty pick up trucks and small steel trailers to back in and unload their treasures onto the old wooden tables covered with multicolored fabric, tarps or worn out tablecloths. The middle rows are for the smaller displays showcased on makeshift tables made from stacking milk crates and laying a piece of plywood across. It doesn’t matter what the presentation looks like anyways, it’s what’s being displayed that truly matters. These are the sellers.
The buyers and the sellers almost always interact in the same manner at every booth down every row. The seller automatically says, “Hi there! How are you doing this morning?!” as soon as any buyer walks up to his or her booth. The buyer then replies, “Just fine thank you. How are you?” They make small talk about the rhubarb or the honey or the petunias until the buyer decides to give in and make the purchase or walk away and look for better, cheaper cabbage or eggs or radishes.
The chit-chat creates a low, steady, even cadence that remains constant throughout the small market. The kettle corn popping like a hundreds tiny firecrackers occasionally accompanies the tone.
The earthy smell of dirt and herbs compete with the sweet buttery scent of the kettle corn near the entrance. The sellers of the beloved sweet treat dress their role. A chubby, short woman with thick curly hair wears a long black dress with tiny yellow and red flowers printed on it and a red apron that has faded to a pink. Her partner and the stirrer of the kettle wears a white linen shirt, brown leather vest topped with cowboy hat with a feather stuck on the side.
Their period dress looks ironically similar to the Amish family that sits quietly at their booth on the opposite end of the market. Two young boys wearing similar hand stitched black pants and gray shirts, both with identical black hats stand quietly guarding the onions for sale, “2:00 for a bunch.” Their older sister, a shy, small framed girl draped in a long pink dress and her long golden hair tucked under a white bonnet stands amidst the radishes, also “2:00 for a bunch.” The bearded father and grandfather in straw hats leave, without saying a word to the children, to walk and converse with some interested buyers. The children continue to stand watch over their small selection of vegetables laid upon the wooden table with rusted metal legs.
At this end of the rows the earthy scent mixes with the aroma of brewing coffee and stench of cooking sauerkraut. A man nearby interrupts the monotonous symphony of the marketplace as he loudly exclaims, “DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT CARBON CAP AND TRADE AND HOW MUCH CARBON DIOXIDE CAN BE CUT DOWN!” The buyers and the sellers seem not to notice and go about their usual business.
The rows become a blur of the sellers and their products. Carnations blend with marigolds that blend with cabbage and beans and mushrooms and peppers and lettuce and cheese and eggs. The buyers start to look the same. The brunette moms, long hair loosely pulled back into a pony tail, wear no makeup and tote their children around with their now half full baskets. The khaki dads wearing plain t-shirts and sandals take their kids to get a dollar bag of kettle corn.
An occasional buyer or seller interrupts this blur. Like the boisterous black women in a lime green skirt with matching jacket and white high heels. Or like the bee women that sells every imaginable product that can be made from bees. Her table is crammed with beeswax lip gloss, soap, candles, honey sticks, honey comb and one gallon, half gallon, jars or plastic bears full of honey. Or the old Amish man that sells twelve different kinds of tomatoes including brown berry, Cherokee purple, yellow pear and black krim. Or the chili lady with her hair in braided pigtails and pajama bottoms printed with red, yellow and green chili peppers who sells strings of red chilies hanging from a large wooden fixture made for that specific purpose.
These slight interruptions are accompanied by upbeat music from a band that recently set up their instruments and speakers. An older hippie man with a scraggly beard and long brown hair strums his acoustic guitar. His playing, however, is drowned out by the younger geeky kid’s accordion. A lanky women dictates to the contra dancers, that have come with the band, over the microphone. “Put-her-on-the-right-we’ll-do-the-dance-one-more-time-now-do-si-do-and-swing” she staccatos as her voice moves up and down.
Soon enough the band and dancers become a blend of the market as well. They are sucked into the low, even tempo of the rows, the goods, the green, the buyers and the sellers.
An hour slowly moseys by and the sun occasionally peaks from the behind the clouds to play, but is quickly tucked away again. The buyers bags and baskets have been filled with the locally grown peppers, personally roasted coffee beans and hand made elk patties. The sellers goods are now sparse on their plywood tables. The tall awnings shelter over what is now becoming the empty blacktop parking lot again. The tone starts to fade to silence. But next Saturday the buyers will come to fill their bags and baskets and the sellers will display their produce and the monotonous, earthy, peaceful rhythm will continue.
On a gray, soggy Saturday morning while most of the town remains asleep, a group of searchers flock to an open blacktop parking lot. They enter carrying empty baskets and “go green” reusable bags in hopes of filling them with fresh, locally grown goods.
Despite the hanging clouds and misty air, fathers carry young daughters on their shoulders, mothers push their sons in strollers, friends walk at a leisurely pace as do the elderly couples that shuffle side by side. All of them with content smiles and friendly hellos. These are the buyers.
Four rows of tall green pillars supporting plexi glass awnings shelter the local goods. The two outside rows allow drivers in their large white vans, rusty pick up trucks and small steel trailers to back in and unload their treasures onto the old wooden tables covered with multicolored fabric, tarps or worn out tablecloths. The middle rows are for the smaller displays showcased on makeshift tables made from stacking milk crates and laying a piece of plywood across. It doesn’t matter what the presentation looks like anyways, it’s what’s being displayed that truly matters. These are the sellers.
The buyers and the sellers almost always interact in the same manner at every booth down every row. The seller automatically says, “Hi there! How are you doing this morning?!” as soon as any buyer walks up to his or her booth. The buyer then replies, “Just fine thank you. How are you?” They make small talk about the rhubarb or the honey or the petunias until the buyer decides to give in and make the purchase or walk away and look for better, cheaper cabbage or eggs or radishes.
The chit-chat creates a low, steady, even cadence that remains constant throughout the small market. The kettle corn popping like a hundreds tiny firecrackers occasionally accompanies the tone.
The earthy smell of dirt and herbs compete with the sweet buttery scent of the kettle corn near the entrance. The sellers of the beloved sweet treat dress their role. A chubby, short woman with thick curly hair wears a long black dress with tiny yellow and red flowers printed on it and a red apron that has faded to a pink. Her partner and the stirrer of the kettle wears a white linen shirt, brown leather vest topped with cowboy hat with a feather stuck on the side.
Their period dress looks ironically similar to the Amish family that sits quietly at their booth on the opposite end of the market. Two young boys wearing similar hand stitched black pants and gray shirts, both with identical black hats stand quietly guarding the onions for sale, “2:00 for a bunch.” Their older sister, a shy, small framed girl draped in a long pink dress and her long golden hair tucked under a white bonnet stands amidst the radishes, also “2:00 for a bunch.” The bearded father and grandfather in straw hats leave, without saying a word to the children, to walk and converse with some interested buyers. The children continue to stand watch over their small selection of vegetables laid upon the wooden table with rusted metal legs.
At this end of the rows the earthy scent mixes with the aroma of brewing coffee and stench of cooking sauerkraut. A man nearby interrupts the monotonous symphony of the marketplace as he loudly exclaims, “DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT CARBON CAP AND TRADE AND HOW MUCH CARBON DIOXIDE CAN BE CUT DOWN!” The buyers and the sellers seem not to notice and go about their usual business.
The rows become a blur of the sellers and their products. Carnations blend with marigolds that blend with cabbage and beans and mushrooms and peppers and lettuce and cheese and eggs. The buyers start to look the same. The brunette moms, long hair loosely pulled back into a pony tail, wear no makeup and tote their children around with their now half full baskets. The khaki dads wearing plain t-shirts and sandals take their kids to get a dollar bag of kettle corn.
An occasional buyer or seller interrupts this blur. Like the boisterous black women in a lime green skirt with matching jacket and white high heels. Or like the bee women that sells every imaginable product that can be made from bees. Her table is crammed with beeswax lip gloss, soap, candles, honey sticks, honey comb and one gallon, half gallon, jars or plastic bears full of honey. Or the old Amish man that sells twelve different kinds of tomatoes including brown berry, Cherokee purple, yellow pear and black krim. Or the chili lady with her hair in braided pigtails and pajama bottoms printed with red, yellow and green chili peppers who sells strings of red chilies hanging from a large wooden fixture made for that specific purpose.
These slight interruptions are accompanied by upbeat music from a band that recently set up their instruments and speakers. An older hippie man with a scraggly beard and long brown hair strums his acoustic guitar. His playing, however, is drowned out by the younger geeky kid’s accordion. A lanky women dictates to the contra dancers, that have come with the band, over the microphone. “Put-her-on-the-right-we’ll-do-the-dance-one-more-time-now-do-si-do-and-swing” she staccatos as her voice moves up and down.
Soon enough the band and dancers become a blend of the market as well. They are sucked into the low, even tempo of the rows, the goods, the green, the buyers and the sellers.
An hour slowly moseys by and the sun occasionally peaks from the behind the clouds to play, but is quickly tucked away again. The buyers bags and baskets have been filled with the locally grown peppers, personally roasted coffee beans and hand made elk patties. The sellers goods are now sparse on their plywood tables. The tall awnings shelter over what is now becoming the empty blacktop parking lot again. The tone starts to fade to silence. But next Saturday the buyers will come to fill their bags and baskets and the sellers will display their produce and the monotonous, earthy, peaceful rhythm will continue.
Obama’s European Policy: Change or More of the Same?
Change. It is perhaps the most overused word of the new administration. But, as the President’s first 100 days in office come to a close, the question needs to be asked- has changed really occurred with the new president?
The president’s largest trip in his first days in office was his visit to Europe. This trip, highlighted transatlantic relations as Obama visited five countries, Britain, France, Germany, Czech Republic and Turkey, in eight days last month.
This trip was said to have set the stage for upcoming, changing relations between Western European leaders and the Obama administration. While the stage may have been set during these travels, the change that was supposed to have occurred between the U.S. and European allies was little more than superficial.
U.S.-European relations were tense during the Bush administration, most notably after France’s opposition to the Iraq war in 2003. Although relations warmed, former President Bush remained an unpopular leader in much of Europe.
Therefore, when President Obama came into office, he already had a major advantage to many Europeans- he wasn’t George W. Bush.
The new administration has already seen a change in attitudes of Europeans towards the U.S. James Coady, the Henry Jackson Society’s European Union Section Director explains, “Most have a more positive opinion of America. Obama’s visit indicated that the U.S. is extending the hand of friendship and cooperation to its allies in Europe, a willingness that many feel was lacking during the Bush years.”
President Obama acknowledged these feelings by stating to a crowd in Strasbourg, “We must be honest with ourselves. In recent years, we’ve allowed our alliance to drift.” This statement reaffirmed to many Europeans that Obama is pledging to revive the ties between the U.S. and Europe.
The first step towards rebuilding these relations may already be in place in the attitudes of Europeans. Currently in Europe, there’s a positive feeling towards the U.S. These attitudes are a change in and of themselves and may have the potential to lead to further cooperation by the Europeans. “I think Obama’s popularity will have some positive impact on the U.S.-European relations. We saw at the G20 that Obama could use his power of oration to get the Europeans on his side,” Coady says.
Obama’s influence, persuasive speeches, and openness did lead to an agreement with several European leaders at the G20 summit held in early April in London to dedicate $1.1 trillion to fight the global economic crisis.
But, although the open talks and positive attitudes are good for handshakes and friendly laughs, they are also at surface level. There still remains a deeper resentment towards America in much of Europe.
“Sociological studies show there is still resentment towards the U.S. independent of its political administration. There’s a fair amount of cultural resentment,” explains Michael Werz, a Senior Transatlantic fellow with the German Marshall Fund and Adjunct Professor at Georgetown University‘s BMW Center for German and European Studies. These feelings have possibly hindered Obama’s policy making, especially in regards to the war in Afghanistan, Nato, and Russian relations.
The issue of Afghanistan has become one of Obama’s largest challenges with his transatlantic allies. At the Nato summit, Obama was guaranteed about 5,000 noncombatant troops to help in America’s fight in Afghanistan. The 5,000 troop commitment, in Coady’s belief is, “poor to say the least.” However, he says, “Obama should be commended for his troop surge strategy in that country.”
Obama also spoke with Russian President Dmitry Medvedev to limit the nuclear weapons of both countries. For now, the talks between the U.S. and Russia remain just that- talks.
These agreements and negotiations have little to do with the totality of the U.S.’s European policy. They barely scratch the surface of what needs to be accomplished between the U.S. in Europe. In other words, there has been a lot of talk and little action.
The little action taken is in large part due to the difference of opinions between Americans and Europeans towards the use of military force in the war in the Middle East. “The U.S. and Europeans have fundamentally divergent attitudes to the role of military force in international affairs. While the U.S. perhaps places greater faith in the efficacy of military action, the Europeans are more concerned with diplomacy and soft power,” Coady explains.
These opposing stances towards international affairs caused tension over the Iraq War between the U.S. and France, and may cause further tensions if the U.S. keeps pressing for more troops to send into Afghanistan.
And these tensions won’t be changing anytime soon. “These two different approaches to international affairs will remain the same whoever is in power in the U.S. or Europe,” says Coady. That’s a policy problem that Obama may not have the oratory power to change.
The problems with troop dedication may further lead to problems with Nato. “If the Nato alliance can’t stand together in Afghanistan, that begs the question of what Nato stands for and what it signifies,” Werz says.
“With the exception of allies such as Britain and Canada, America’s allies are not contributing enough in Afghanistan. There was little evidence of a shift in Europe’s approach during the Nato summit,” agrees Coady.
The questions surrounding Nato emphasize the need for improved transatlantic relations. The U.S. and Europe must work together on global issues like Afghanistan if alliances want to be maintained. Europe especially needs to rely on protection from the U.S. as it is more vulnerable to attacks due to it’s closer proximity to the Middle East.
If Nato and transatlantic relations do not strengthen, there arises a problem concerning Russia to both the U.S. and Europe. Russia has the potential to use it’s said “sphere of influence” to ally with eastern and Eurasian countries against Nato.
Coady explains, “It is important we do not isolate the Kremlin by condemning their every move. We should cooperate with the Russians when it is in our interests. Equally, however, we must make it clear that aggression abroad is unacceptable. We should not recognize a Russian ‘sphere of influence’ in Eurasia and we must make it clear to the Russians that they must respect the sovereign status of nation-states such as Georgia.”
These issues of Afghanistan, Nato and Russia are all a part of a European policy that the Obama administration is trying to change and start with a “clean slate.” But the issue of change should not fall solely onto the shoulders of Americans and the American government. Europe needs to be willing to change as well, and this is where the real problem with US-European relations lies.
Europe has taken little action when it comes to international relations, especially transatlantic relations. “I believe it is Europe, not the U.S. who is not giving enough,” exclaims Coady. It has been the U.S. making an effort to visit with European leaders, to start dialogue concerning global issues, to take action in the Middle East and to attempt to improve transatlantic relations, that the European need to now reciprocate these attempts.
In order for transatlantic relations to strengthen and for international issue to be addressed, both the U.S. and Europe need to make more substantial progress. If Europeans want the war in the Middle East to end, then they need to help in the fighting. If the U.S. wants to limit Russia’s nuclear power, then both countries need to actively reduce their weapons. If Europe wants to be protected by Nato, then European leaders must be willing to accept new members and readily communicate and cooperate with them.
So far, the administration’s change has been chalked up to new attitudes in Europe, not in new policies. Obama’s celebrity status has won him admirers, but it hasn’t won him cooperators. “As Obama’s star quality begins to fade abroad, people will realize that there has been little substantive change in U.S. foreign policy and the nature of the transatlantic relationship. Any improvements in U.S.-European relations due to Obama’s popularity will therefore be short term,” Coady says.
Transatlantic relations and policies have remained the same for over 50 years. It’s going to take more than a popular president to change that. Coady explains, “Obama has not rejected the fundamental aim of U.S. foreign policy since 1954: the pursuit of American hegemony. . .These central components of foreign policy under Bush will remain pertinent during the Obama administration. It is therefore unlikely we shall see a fundamental change in U.S.-European relations over the next four years.”
So although there’s a new administration with plenty talk of “change”, until action is taken and substantial change is made, the U.S. and Europe are stuck with more of the same transatlantic relations and policies from the past 50 years. Perhaps “change” is still to come.
The president’s largest trip in his first days in office was his visit to Europe. This trip, highlighted transatlantic relations as Obama visited five countries, Britain, France, Germany, Czech Republic and Turkey, in eight days last month.
This trip was said to have set the stage for upcoming, changing relations between Western European leaders and the Obama administration. While the stage may have been set during these travels, the change that was supposed to have occurred between the U.S. and European allies was little more than superficial.
U.S.-European relations were tense during the Bush administration, most notably after France’s opposition to the Iraq war in 2003. Although relations warmed, former President Bush remained an unpopular leader in much of Europe.
Therefore, when President Obama came into office, he already had a major advantage to many Europeans- he wasn’t George W. Bush.
The new administration has already seen a change in attitudes of Europeans towards the U.S. James Coady, the Henry Jackson Society’s European Union Section Director explains, “Most have a more positive opinion of America. Obama’s visit indicated that the U.S. is extending the hand of friendship and cooperation to its allies in Europe, a willingness that many feel was lacking during the Bush years.”
President Obama acknowledged these feelings by stating to a crowd in Strasbourg, “We must be honest with ourselves. In recent years, we’ve allowed our alliance to drift.” This statement reaffirmed to many Europeans that Obama is pledging to revive the ties between the U.S. and Europe.
The first step towards rebuilding these relations may already be in place in the attitudes of Europeans. Currently in Europe, there’s a positive feeling towards the U.S. These attitudes are a change in and of themselves and may have the potential to lead to further cooperation by the Europeans. “I think Obama’s popularity will have some positive impact on the U.S.-European relations. We saw at the G20 that Obama could use his power of oration to get the Europeans on his side,” Coady says.
Obama’s influence, persuasive speeches, and openness did lead to an agreement with several European leaders at the G20 summit held in early April in London to dedicate $1.1 trillion to fight the global economic crisis.
But, although the open talks and positive attitudes are good for handshakes and friendly laughs, they are also at surface level. There still remains a deeper resentment towards America in much of Europe.
“Sociological studies show there is still resentment towards the U.S. independent of its political administration. There’s a fair amount of cultural resentment,” explains Michael Werz, a Senior Transatlantic fellow with the German Marshall Fund and Adjunct Professor at Georgetown University‘s BMW Center for German and European Studies. These feelings have possibly hindered Obama’s policy making, especially in regards to the war in Afghanistan, Nato, and Russian relations.
The issue of Afghanistan has become one of Obama’s largest challenges with his transatlantic allies. At the Nato summit, Obama was guaranteed about 5,000 noncombatant troops to help in America’s fight in Afghanistan. The 5,000 troop commitment, in Coady’s belief is, “poor to say the least.” However, he says, “Obama should be commended for his troop surge strategy in that country.”
Obama also spoke with Russian President Dmitry Medvedev to limit the nuclear weapons of both countries. For now, the talks between the U.S. and Russia remain just that- talks.
These agreements and negotiations have little to do with the totality of the U.S.’s European policy. They barely scratch the surface of what needs to be accomplished between the U.S. in Europe. In other words, there has been a lot of talk and little action.
The little action taken is in large part due to the difference of opinions between Americans and Europeans towards the use of military force in the war in the Middle East. “The U.S. and Europeans have fundamentally divergent attitudes to the role of military force in international affairs. While the U.S. perhaps places greater faith in the efficacy of military action, the Europeans are more concerned with diplomacy and soft power,” Coady explains.
These opposing stances towards international affairs caused tension over the Iraq War between the U.S. and France, and may cause further tensions if the U.S. keeps pressing for more troops to send into Afghanistan.
And these tensions won’t be changing anytime soon. “These two different approaches to international affairs will remain the same whoever is in power in the U.S. or Europe,” says Coady. That’s a policy problem that Obama may not have the oratory power to change.
The problems with troop dedication may further lead to problems with Nato. “If the Nato alliance can’t stand together in Afghanistan, that begs the question of what Nato stands for and what it signifies,” Werz says.
“With the exception of allies such as Britain and Canada, America’s allies are not contributing enough in Afghanistan. There was little evidence of a shift in Europe’s approach during the Nato summit,” agrees Coady.
The questions surrounding Nato emphasize the need for improved transatlantic relations. The U.S. and Europe must work together on global issues like Afghanistan if alliances want to be maintained. Europe especially needs to rely on protection from the U.S. as it is more vulnerable to attacks due to it’s closer proximity to the Middle East.
If Nato and transatlantic relations do not strengthen, there arises a problem concerning Russia to both the U.S. and Europe. Russia has the potential to use it’s said “sphere of influence” to ally with eastern and Eurasian countries against Nato.
Coady explains, “It is important we do not isolate the Kremlin by condemning their every move. We should cooperate with the Russians when it is in our interests. Equally, however, we must make it clear that aggression abroad is unacceptable. We should not recognize a Russian ‘sphere of influence’ in Eurasia and we must make it clear to the Russians that they must respect the sovereign status of nation-states such as Georgia.”
These issues of Afghanistan, Nato and Russia are all a part of a European policy that the Obama administration is trying to change and start with a “clean slate.” But the issue of change should not fall solely onto the shoulders of Americans and the American government. Europe needs to be willing to change as well, and this is where the real problem with US-European relations lies.
Europe has taken little action when it comes to international relations, especially transatlantic relations. “I believe it is Europe, not the U.S. who is not giving enough,” exclaims Coady. It has been the U.S. making an effort to visit with European leaders, to start dialogue concerning global issues, to take action in the Middle East and to attempt to improve transatlantic relations, that the European need to now reciprocate these attempts.
In order for transatlantic relations to strengthen and for international issue to be addressed, both the U.S. and Europe need to make more substantial progress. If Europeans want the war in the Middle East to end, then they need to help in the fighting. If the U.S. wants to limit Russia’s nuclear power, then both countries need to actively reduce their weapons. If Europe wants to be protected by Nato, then European leaders must be willing to accept new members and readily communicate and cooperate with them.
So far, the administration’s change has been chalked up to new attitudes in Europe, not in new policies. Obama’s celebrity status has won him admirers, but it hasn’t won him cooperators. “As Obama’s star quality begins to fade abroad, people will realize that there has been little substantive change in U.S. foreign policy and the nature of the transatlantic relationship. Any improvements in U.S.-European relations due to Obama’s popularity will therefore be short term,” Coady says.
Transatlantic relations and policies have remained the same for over 50 years. It’s going to take more than a popular president to change that. Coady explains, “Obama has not rejected the fundamental aim of U.S. foreign policy since 1954: the pursuit of American hegemony. . .These central components of foreign policy under Bush will remain pertinent during the Obama administration. It is therefore unlikely we shall see a fundamental change in U.S.-European relations over the next four years.”
So although there’s a new administration with plenty talk of “change”, until action is taken and substantial change is made, the U.S. and Europe are stuck with more of the same transatlantic relations and policies from the past 50 years. Perhaps “change” is still to come.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Where Have All the Cookies Gone?
If you’ve walked down North Walnut St. lately you may have noticed something missing. Although a brightly painted cookie truck still roams the streets of Bloomington, the store location for Insomnia Cookies is vacant.
The cookie shop and late night delivery service used to sit next to Scotty’s Brewhouse at 7th and N. Walnut Streets. Insomnia Cookie allegedly moved out of its shop location after failing to pay rent the last two months of 2008. The two B-town favorite eateries are now battling it out legally.
According to the complaint filed by Scotty’s Brewhouse who sublet the location to the cookie shop, Insomnia Cookie entered into a five year lease contract with Scotty’s until 2012. The cookie shop was required by lease to pay a monthly base rent along with any maintenance fees and possible late charges.
After numerous letters sent to Insomnia Cookie by Scotty’s stating it hadn’t paid rent for November and December 2008 went unanswered, the cookie shop vacated it’s location without any notice.
Currently Scotty’s is suing for an estimated amount of $77,500 for the past due rent, late charges, maintenance repairs and the accelerated base rent for the remaining 3 years of the lease. That estimate does not include additional charges for attorneys fees and other costs for personal damages to the business.
In response the complaint, Insomnia Cookie filed that it was unaware of the 5 year lease date and was also unaware that it had to pay rent for the months remaining in the lease. Insomnia Cookie does not deny that it failed to pay November and December 2008 rent.
While the battle has gone back and forth since January, Insomnia Cookie has yet to find a new location and remains in the cookie delivery truck- still available to answer your late night sweet tooth’s call.
The cookie shop and late night delivery service used to sit next to Scotty’s Brewhouse at 7th and N. Walnut Streets. Insomnia Cookie allegedly moved out of its shop location after failing to pay rent the last two months of 2008. The two B-town favorite eateries are now battling it out legally.
According to the complaint filed by Scotty’s Brewhouse who sublet the location to the cookie shop, Insomnia Cookie entered into a five year lease contract with Scotty’s until 2012. The cookie shop was required by lease to pay a monthly base rent along with any maintenance fees and possible late charges.
After numerous letters sent to Insomnia Cookie by Scotty’s stating it hadn’t paid rent for November and December 2008 went unanswered, the cookie shop vacated it’s location without any notice.
Currently Scotty’s is suing for an estimated amount of $77,500 for the past due rent, late charges, maintenance repairs and the accelerated base rent for the remaining 3 years of the lease. That estimate does not include additional charges for attorneys fees and other costs for personal damages to the business.
In response the complaint, Insomnia Cookie filed that it was unaware of the 5 year lease date and was also unaware that it had to pay rent for the months remaining in the lease. Insomnia Cookie does not deny that it failed to pay November and December 2008 rent.
While the battle has gone back and forth since January, Insomnia Cookie has yet to find a new location and remains in the cookie delivery truck- still available to answer your late night sweet tooth’s call.
An Unromantic Night in the City of Romance
Paris didn’t make the best impression on me. I spent my first night in the city in the most unromantic way possible.
During my stay in London I made friends with two of the girls in our group, January Jones and Kim Chapman. The three of us were enthralled to be in the city of lights and wanted to make the most of our time there. We decided our first night to visit Moulin Rouge.
We noticed the night started to go wrong on our subway route change. While standing on the empty platform, an eerie difference from London’s crowded stations, we heard loud shouts. At the opposite platform a man laid on the ground as another brutally kicked him. The abuser took the grounded man’s coat and continued to yell what I assume were some French obscenities. Our tram car came rolling up and blocked the view of any further events.
As we ascended up the steps to the district we were greeted with the large, red windmill that we’d seen in the movie, Moulin Rouge. The windmill was outlined in bright white lights as were the words underneath it that spelled out the name of the area. We snapped a couple of pictures, at that point the three of us were used to being pegged as tourists and didn’t seem to care anymore.
January, a budding photographer, continued to snap photos as we began to walk the mile long street, outlined with large billboards and bright lights. It was as if a little slice of Las Vegas was cut from it’s location and dropped on this street in Paris. As we walked on, the stores became more and more vulgar, the pictures more and more detailed and the men more and more aggressive. Being three young, respectful women we quickly decided this area was not for us.
The same steps we ascended up in a sense of awe of the giant windmill we hurriedly descended down with a sense of disgust. Apparently the “ignorant American” had gotten the best of us as we found out that scenes in movies are just that- fictional movie scenes and not real life. Moulin Rouge was anything but the glamorous picture portrayed on screen.
Quickly we navigated our way through the subway station and found our way onto a tram that would safely lead us back to our hotel, or so we thought.
After a couple stops on the line, our tram left the XXXX station and went on it’s way when the lights flickered and then the tram car, traveling at a good speed came to a sudden stop. The lights still flickering then completely went out.
There we were, three American girls stuck on a dark subway car underground.
Instantly the heat from the underground tunnel and body heat from 50 or so nervous passengers engulfed the tram car. Everyone was silently waiting and hoping the car would continue on it’s way. Hope was slightly fulfilled when reserve lights came on. Though we were still hot and not moving, at least we could see.
The driver came over a loud speaker and announced something in French. The three of us talked quietly, putting our little knowledge of the language together in attempts to decipher the announcement. In our attempts we must have looked like puzzled Americans because a man sitting behind us asked if we spoke English. The sweet sound and comfort of our language coming from the man’s mouth was like a soft, warm bed. He quickly translated the driver’s message to us. “They think the protestors cut the electrical lines. Or there could have been a suicide and someone fell on the line. The driver is trying to restart us.”
We made small talk with the man while we waited. He was from the south of France only in Paris for a week on business. Our chatting with him was actually more of an attempt drown out the drunk woman sitting next to January. The old, graying lady had no teeth, an open can of beer in her hand and a fake leg in which she insisted on knocking on every couple of minutes. She then proceeded to light up a cigarette, directly under the no smoking sign, and loudly sing a French tune in her scratchy, slurred voice.
Now we were stuck undergound, hot, lost, and smelling cigarette smoke. This is not how we’d pictured Paris.
Finally the police, dressed in their dark blue suits and carrying rather large guns, came aboard our tram and yelled another announcement. Our friend from the south of France explained that we would be evacuating the car and walking back to the station that we’d just departed.
There was a small ladder attached to the tram floor and we were asked to climb down. Luckily our translator friend explained to the police that we were American and didn’t speak French. The police ensured us not to be afraid. They then proceeded to tell us that we must be absolutely sure to not touch either the wall or the tram car and tracks. There were still electrical currents running through them and we wouldn’t want to get electrocuted, would we?
We descended the ladder and stood in a 12” pitch black space between the tram and the wall, that we were not to touch. Kim and I were shaking in fear of electrocution yet trying to hold our bodies as still as possible. January meanwhile, the adventurer of the group, kept a calm demeanor- laughing with the drunk old lady and talking with the police.
As we made our way through the black space, electrical currents whizzing by us, I finally got a glimpse of the romance in Paris. A tall, strong policemen gently grabbed my hand, leading me through the dark, cramped space all the while reassuring me, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.” My dream of a tall, dark Frenchman coming to my rescue had come true.
My dream was quickly awoken when the policeman dropped my hand at the terminal and rushed back to help the next trapped victim. The romance was over.
The three of us rushed up the steps from the subway and hailed the first taxi we came across. We’d just experienced the most unromantic night in Paris.
During my stay in London I made friends with two of the girls in our group, January Jones and Kim Chapman. The three of us were enthralled to be in the city of lights and wanted to make the most of our time there. We decided our first night to visit Moulin Rouge.
We noticed the night started to go wrong on our subway route change. While standing on the empty platform, an eerie difference from London’s crowded stations, we heard loud shouts. At the opposite platform a man laid on the ground as another brutally kicked him. The abuser took the grounded man’s coat and continued to yell what I assume were some French obscenities. Our tram car came rolling up and blocked the view of any further events.
As we ascended up the steps to the district we were greeted with the large, red windmill that we’d seen in the movie, Moulin Rouge. The windmill was outlined in bright white lights as were the words underneath it that spelled out the name of the area. We snapped a couple of pictures, at that point the three of us were used to being pegged as tourists and didn’t seem to care anymore.
January, a budding photographer, continued to snap photos as we began to walk the mile long street, outlined with large billboards and bright lights. It was as if a little slice of Las Vegas was cut from it’s location and dropped on this street in Paris. As we walked on, the stores became more and more vulgar, the pictures more and more detailed and the men more and more aggressive. Being three young, respectful women we quickly decided this area was not for us.
The same steps we ascended up in a sense of awe of the giant windmill we hurriedly descended down with a sense of disgust. Apparently the “ignorant American” had gotten the best of us as we found out that scenes in movies are just that- fictional movie scenes and not real life. Moulin Rouge was anything but the glamorous picture portrayed on screen.
Quickly we navigated our way through the subway station and found our way onto a tram that would safely lead us back to our hotel, or so we thought.
After a couple stops on the line, our tram left the XXXX station and went on it’s way when the lights flickered and then the tram car, traveling at a good speed came to a sudden stop. The lights still flickering then completely went out.
There we were, three American girls stuck on a dark subway car underground.
Instantly the heat from the underground tunnel and body heat from 50 or so nervous passengers engulfed the tram car. Everyone was silently waiting and hoping the car would continue on it’s way. Hope was slightly fulfilled when reserve lights came on. Though we were still hot and not moving, at least we could see.
The driver came over a loud speaker and announced something in French. The three of us talked quietly, putting our little knowledge of the language together in attempts to decipher the announcement. In our attempts we must have looked like puzzled Americans because a man sitting behind us asked if we spoke English. The sweet sound and comfort of our language coming from the man’s mouth was like a soft, warm bed. He quickly translated the driver’s message to us. “They think the protestors cut the electrical lines. Or there could have been a suicide and someone fell on the line. The driver is trying to restart us.”
We made small talk with the man while we waited. He was from the south of France only in Paris for a week on business. Our chatting with him was actually more of an attempt drown out the drunk woman sitting next to January. The old, graying lady had no teeth, an open can of beer in her hand and a fake leg in which she insisted on knocking on every couple of minutes. She then proceeded to light up a cigarette, directly under the no smoking sign, and loudly sing a French tune in her scratchy, slurred voice.
Now we were stuck undergound, hot, lost, and smelling cigarette smoke. This is not how we’d pictured Paris.
Finally the police, dressed in their dark blue suits and carrying rather large guns, came aboard our tram and yelled another announcement. Our friend from the south of France explained that we would be evacuating the car and walking back to the station that we’d just departed.
There was a small ladder attached to the tram floor and we were asked to climb down. Luckily our translator friend explained to the police that we were American and didn’t speak French. The police ensured us not to be afraid. They then proceeded to tell us that we must be absolutely sure to not touch either the wall or the tram car and tracks. There were still electrical currents running through them and we wouldn’t want to get electrocuted, would we?
We descended the ladder and stood in a 12” pitch black space between the tram and the wall, that we were not to touch. Kim and I were shaking in fear of electrocution yet trying to hold our bodies as still as possible. January meanwhile, the adventurer of the group, kept a calm demeanor- laughing with the drunk old lady and talking with the police.
As we made our way through the black space, electrical currents whizzing by us, I finally got a glimpse of the romance in Paris. A tall, strong policemen gently grabbed my hand, leading me through the dark, cramped space all the while reassuring me, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.” My dream of a tall, dark Frenchman coming to my rescue had come true.
My dream was quickly awoken when the policeman dropped my hand at the terminal and rushed back to help the next trapped victim. The romance was over.
The three of us rushed up the steps from the subway and hailed the first taxi we came across. We’d just experienced the most unromantic night in Paris.
White Stone Crosses
Our guide told us that over 9,000 soldiers were buried in the American Cemetery in Normandy. I couldn’t fathom that number until I saw the graves. The rows and rows and rows of white stone crosses. As I walked amongst those crosses, I couldn’t find an end, or beginning point to them. They just seemed to continue on.
It was ironic to me that those crosses should be so evenly lined up and spaced apart, so symmetrical and perfect, when no doubt all of the soldiers buried there were killed in horrific, messy, abrupt ways.
As our guide continued to ramble facts about the cemetery. . . soil shipped from the U.S., American trees planted, sand rubbed into the letters of the graves…I could only half listen. The other half of my thoughts were with those men, and four women, that are buried under those crosses.
The majority of them were about my age. At 23, I can’t imagine seeing the sights they saw, hearing the bomb blasts and gun fire, and fearing for my life at every minute of every hour of every day. At 23, I’m still young. I have a lot to learn, a lot to see and so much to still accomplish. I bet those men felt the same way. And yet they learned a lot and saw a lot and aaccomplished a lot in such a short time that I feel that they would seem so much older than me.
I continued to think about their lives. Where were they born? What was their childhood like? Did they want to go to college? What career did they want to choose? Why did they join the army? Did they want to go to war?
I came across two young men from Ohio. I could imagine them growing up in a small, farming town an hour away from any type of city, just like me. I wrote down their names; Lowell A. Drooled a private of the Infantry 83 Division and John A. Kleep a Captain of the 8 Infantry 4 Division. I tried to research them and search for the answers to my questions. Though, it seems that they are meant to be a mystery and I’m left to continue my questions.
More than I would have expected I came across white stone crosses that read, “Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God.” There were so many unknown soldiers. Didn’t their mothers want to know what happened to their sons? Did a wife go on forever not knowing where her husband was? How can a man with a home, a family and a life go unknown?
There were so many questions that those rows of white crosses brought up in my mind. As I walked into a tiny chapel I read on the wall, “Think not only upon their passing, but remember the glory of their spirit.” My questioning thoughts were silenced for a moment. I just stood silently for a while to apologize and thank all of those soldiers lying under their neat white crosses.
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