To Die Would Be An Awfully Big Adventure. Maybe A Little Too Big...

There was a feeling. I felt it each time I passed, sweeping me aside like a powerful, rocky-shored wave on the ocean. A breath of wind that turns abruptly into an awful gale. 

Subtle, and for weeks I never noticed. I walked, and I passed the clear glass window with the gold lettering. I passed the table with fliers and keychains, the people behind desks with pens and computers. I was unaware. I looked on these people as I always had. A little too ordered. A little too scary. Not for me. 

But something had taken hold in me. Every time I went to class, passing that window, that table, I felt it. After awhile, I noticed it, too. The feeling was subtle, and slowly grew until one day all that I knew when I passed the table was the longing and I stopped. My feet no longer functioned. I stared at the table and tried to decipher what had happened. I was not supposed to feel this way. 

I have never been a person who would join the United States Armed Forces. ROTC... Anything. But the table, the window, the bulletin boards, the people hiding behind desks, camouflaged, this is what they represented. I did not understand. I walked on, hurrying, because I could not be a part of this. I was not that person. I never have been. I am not a camouflage type of girl.

...

After I got out of class that day, I called my dad. I told him what I wanted. I wanted to join. I did. I had seen the table once (I mean really seen it), I had not talked to a single person about any program, and I wanted to join. "Why?" He asked me, voice faltering. 

"I don't know..."

I told him about the feeling. The longing. How I did not know what was happening, why I felt when I never had felt before. 

"You are a citizen, now. You feel patriotic. You feel the need to serve your country. It's pride, and it's respect. You feel this patriotic duty pulling on you and you want to follow."

And I think he was right. I wanted to join. I was going to join. This feeling... it was strong enough to stop me in my tracks. 

I ignored it. 

I have plans. 

I cannot dump my future because of a feeling. I cannot afford to be that spontaneous. I will have a family one day, when my future comes. And I know that I am being self-centered. I have been a risk taker, though, and I have to think. 

But I feel that tug, that pull, that pride, every time I walk past the table. And I take a deep breath and ignore it, walk on. And it gets easier to do every time. It gets easier not to open the door and say, "I am ready." 

I do not know if I am ready. Maybe later. 

The Fence

There was a moment today, walking across the bridge between two buildings on campus, when I saw a flower. I was looking down at the alley in-between the buildings on ground level. Trash blows around in the breeze created by the funnel of the buildings. Concrete dominates the ground. It comes as close to an abandoned city as small-town college campus alley's can come. A few cars park in the alley during the day, but mostly the focal point of the negative space between the red brick walls is a dumpster. The large receptacle sits directly behind a high, solid fence, hidden from all eyes but those walking across the bridge, and I have a feeling that most people look the other way.

On the other side of this fence is an entirely different scene. The campus lies in ivy covered glory, each patch of unpaved ground covered in lush grasses, small trees, and flowers. Even directly against the fence there is a small flower garden, and it was this particular place that caught my attention. A strand of bright, green vine crawls up the rough wood of the high fence, and three purple flowers bloom. 

The contrast those three, simply flowers create against the ugliness of the alley makes the entire scene beautiful. It's a cold day and they might not be there tomorrow.

The Full Recycling Bin

As a freshman, I suppose I cannot expect all of my classmates to be interested in the mandatory classes we all have to take. I certainly am not interested in my math class to any degree. There are some classes, however, that I feel people should be taking an interest in. 

Maybe it is simply because I am considering Political Science as my major, but there is a sinking feeling I get every time I step out the door of my American Government class. It is not because I have to go to another, less interesting or meaningful class. And usually, that feeling only comes after I pass the recycling bin. Let me explain.

Our professor made it clear in the first few days of class that he wanted his students to read the newspaper, to be well informed. I had never really took an interest in reading the newspaper before, and after only a few weeks of class, I have begun reading the New York Times daily. Looking or biases in the printed press, or simply reading up on the latest Stock Market drama; it is fun for me. I find these matters interesting. I know that they matter, both to my personal life and my life as an American citizen. 

So here's where I get that sink, that feeling of utter helplessness. Every day as I walked up the stairs to the classroom, I see four or five or my classmates grab the first paper they see, tucking the bulky print under their arms as they race up to the door. Every day as I leave class, I see those same students drop unread newspaper into the nearest recycling bins without a second guilty glance. 

I cannot help but feel angry. These people, who often are just coming into their rights to vote, simply do not care. Forget the dying soldiers in Iraq. Forget the thousands losing their jobs because of our struggling economy. Obama and McCain? Who cares. Let's go to lunch. It makes me sick. 

I do not know what I believe. I have always tried to believe in the good of people. I grew up as a strong democrat, and as I listen to Obama and McCain's policies, and my beliefs become more and more muddled. Who is right? Are either of the candidates really wrong? How am I supposed to know?

I read the newspaper to become informed, as much as I can be. But every other day, watching papers fluttering lifelessly into tall blue bins, I want to scream. I suppose it is not all that bad. They could be throwing the papers into the trash-cans.