I am not a political person.
Sure, I like to talk about issues and candidates and moan about the current state of affairs in the White House. But I have no illusions about one person being able to make the world better, or that politicians are not driven by their own hunger for power, or that all voters truly think deeply about what is really best for them and this country.
But this year, I just can’t help myself.
As a recent American citizen, this will be my very first presidential election and I just can’t shake the feeling that maybe my vote does matter and that maybe the world will be made better – or least a little more pleasant – with the vision of one person. (And no, I am not talking about Barack Obama.)
I have never voted in a “serious” election before. I left my native Hungary just after I turned 18 and was never able to vote there. I lived in the U.S. for more than a decade before becoming a citizen, so in past elections, I was just a spectator. During the last two presidential elections I remember feeling so powerless – not just because the outcomes were so disappointing, but because I didn’t have a say in them. I knew that those elections didn’t hinge on my one lonely vote, but the act of voting would have made the loss a little more bearable. I could have said that “well, at least I tried.”
So, wanting to milk this election experience for all it's worth, I participated in my first- ever caucus on Sunday. My other option for that afternoon was spending time with my husband at the Chocolate Extravaganza in Kennebunk. I passed up chocolate for a stinky, hot gym in Saco. I must be crazy.
I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I got to the Fairfield School early and there were about 30 people milling about in the gym. I was hit up for a couple of signatures for various candidates and tried to figure out who was handing out the Hillary for President stickers.
Soon, the crowds swelled and as the official business of the caucus got underway, I couldn’t help but wonder about how sort of “basic” this all felt. A bunch of people in a gym on a Sunday afternoon get to decide important stuff? Only in America.
The caucus itself was a bit anti-climactic in the end. It consisted of a lot of sitting around and eating doughnuts and my patience was tested while organizers tried to figure out the best way to count the 70 people in my ward without coming up with a different result after each count.
My ward voted right down the middle: 35-35 to Obama and Hillary. As I left there was no sense of real victory, or resolution – and I assume there won’t be for a while until just one candidate is left standing.
In the evening, as I found out that Hillary didn’t win the Maine caucuses, I did feel disappointed. I might have even been a little miffed at my fellow caucus-goers.
I didn’t want to belong to the losing team. But the fact that I did belong somewhere, that I had a voice, that I took the time and was there, that I dared to put my political bitterness aside and believe that change is possible, made all the difference.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Monday, October 29, 2007
The stuff of childhood
Finally, all of my parents' boxes have arrived. They are stacked neatly in their basement, smaller boxes on top of taller ones, with cryptic signage on the outside, like L/R for living room and "mixed" for well... Mixed stuff.
There are also a bunch of boxes that belong to me. Or rather, they belong to the me that used to live in an apartment in Budapest more than a decade ago. As my parents opened the boxes and my stuff surfaced, they handed things to me as if I should know what to do with it all.
I am grateful, that they brought all my childhood belongings, because let's admit it, the stuff needs to be dealt with at some point in life.
But I am still trying to digest the fact that my parents are here and what that all means in my life, so Barbie dolls and diaries and letters and grandma's evening purse that I used play dress-up with are a bit too much.
I think my parents feel the same way about their kitchen utensils and towels and bedding and picture frames: this stuff doesn't belong in a new life, but yet here they are, taking up space, asking to be dealt with. Things that had a place and purpose in their lives just a few short weeks ago, are now out of place, too clumsy and big for cabinets, not to mention for their non-existing furniture. Nothing has a place - or not enough space - and things that once seemed absolutely necessary for normalcy, for a real life, now seem like a waste of space.
I feel their pain. But as much as I want to help them, I can't. This is their and their stuff's journey. I realize that I was lucky: I had to rearrange the stuff of my life when I was 18, when it all still fit into two suitcases, when it was still easy to leave the stuff behind. Nothing seems important or sentimental when you are 18.
So I am not sure why, but I am certain that despite the depressing sight of all that cardboard in the basement, everything will find its place. Maybe this is just youthful optimism, but stuff just has a way of doing that - flowing in an out of boxes, finding meaning that wasn't there before, and finding hidden nooks and crannies and hidden closet space as time goes on. It just does.
Until then, I think I will help my parents by removing my things from their apartment and making space in my life for my childhood stuff again. For all these years, I've had the luxury if knowing that they were safely tucked away with my parents, so it's time to take them back and take responsibility for them.
I am not sure yet, where my things will all fit, but I am certain that they will.
There are also a bunch of boxes that belong to me. Or rather, they belong to the me that used to live in an apartment in Budapest more than a decade ago. As my parents opened the boxes and my stuff surfaced, they handed things to me as if I should know what to do with it all.
I am grateful, that they brought all my childhood belongings, because let's admit it, the stuff needs to be dealt with at some point in life.
But I am still trying to digest the fact that my parents are here and what that all means in my life, so Barbie dolls and diaries and letters and grandma's evening purse that I used play dress-up with are a bit too much.
I think my parents feel the same way about their kitchen utensils and towels and bedding and picture frames: this stuff doesn't belong in a new life, but yet here they are, taking up space, asking to be dealt with. Things that had a place and purpose in their lives just a few short weeks ago, are now out of place, too clumsy and big for cabinets, not to mention for their non-existing furniture. Nothing has a place - or not enough space - and things that once seemed absolutely necessary for normalcy, for a real life, now seem like a waste of space.
I feel their pain. But as much as I want to help them, I can't. This is their and their stuff's journey. I realize that I was lucky: I had to rearrange the stuff of my life when I was 18, when it all still fit into two suitcases, when it was still easy to leave the stuff behind. Nothing seems important or sentimental when you are 18.
So I am not sure why, but I am certain that despite the depressing sight of all that cardboard in the basement, everything will find its place. Maybe this is just youthful optimism, but stuff just has a way of doing that - flowing in an out of boxes, finding meaning that wasn't there before, and finding hidden nooks and crannies and hidden closet space as time goes on. It just does.
Until then, I think I will help my parents by removing my things from their apartment and making space in my life for my childhood stuff again. For all these years, I've had the luxury if knowing that they were safely tucked away with my parents, so it's time to take them back and take responsibility for them.
I am not sure yet, where my things will all fit, but I am certain that they will.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Budapest
I like to stand at the foot of the bed and throw myself on the bouncy mattress. My hair splashes around my face like water and I pretend that I am a weightless, powerless body, made out of straw. I turn my palms toward the sky and play dead.
That's what I was doing as he packed his suitcase. The big bed in the hotel room was wide and flexible, so I bounced for a long time. He neatly folded his clothes and placed them in his bag with care. He tucked his Christmas gift under a sweater and even folded my clothes that I left on the floor the night before.
He finally sat down next to me. I knew he wanted me to leave, but I was clinging to every minute with him. He said he'd rather see me leave, than watch me wave as he got on the airport shuttle bus by himself.
He didn't know what to say. He lay next to me and put his head on my shoulder. I touched his hair - so painfully soft- and cried.
"Please tell me that it's going to be all right," I sobbed.
"I can't promise you that; I can't promise you anything," he almost laughed.
"No, not just us - in general."
"Yeah, in general, everything will be all right."
That was the last time I saw him.
That's what I was doing as he packed his suitcase. The big bed in the hotel room was wide and flexible, so I bounced for a long time. He neatly folded his clothes and placed them in his bag with care. He tucked his Christmas gift under a sweater and even folded my clothes that I left on the floor the night before.
He finally sat down next to me. I knew he wanted me to leave, but I was clinging to every minute with him. He said he'd rather see me leave, than watch me wave as he got on the airport shuttle bus by himself.
He didn't know what to say. He lay next to me and put his head on my shoulder. I touched his hair - so painfully soft- and cried.
"Please tell me that it's going to be all right," I sobbed.
"I can't promise you that; I can't promise you anything," he almost laughed.
"No, not just us - in general."
"Yeah, in general, everything will be all right."
That was the last time I saw him.
Monday, August 13, 2007
This is not my home
I've been feeling sorry for myself lately.
My parents are moving to the U.S. soon and while I can't wait to have them close by again, I can't help but think about all the things that I will miss about being able to go home, to Budapest.
I will not miss the expensive plane tickets and the fact that we only see each other once a year. But I will miss the excitement of planning to go home, the nervous wait for our luggage at the Budapest airport, the rush of seeing Mom, Dad, and Grandma waiting in the crowds. I will miss the cramped ride home in my parents' Skoda - my Mom playing with my ear - and I will miss seeing how much things have changed on the streets of Budapest and how things have stayed the same.
I will miss our old, cold, crumbling apartment building. I will miss going into my childhood room - the smell of the curtains that my Dad washed the day before, blowing in the wind and the sound of the trolley cars on the street below. I will miss feeling so big in a room that used to seem much larger when I was little. I will miss my Dad making a celebratory batch of Wiener schnitzel and my Grandma's hands uncovering a plate of apple pie. I will miss the fact that we barely fit into our kitchen and that I have to sit on the little red stool, shoved between my Dad and brother.
In the larger scheme of life, all of this seems petty of course. I know that. But as I am getting ready to make great, new memories with my parents here, in Maine, I can't help but finally grieve for what I've left behind. Even though I left Budapest more than 12 years ago now, this is the first time that I realize the magnitude of that step. And it sucks.
When I tell Drew that I want to go home, he always says "but this is your home," meaning our little apartment where we've made our nest for the past four years.
But he is wrong.
It's a house, it's a life, it might even be happiness. But this is not my home.
My parents are moving to the U.S. soon and while I can't wait to have them close by again, I can't help but think about all the things that I will miss about being able to go home, to Budapest.
I will not miss the expensive plane tickets and the fact that we only see each other once a year. But I will miss the excitement of planning to go home, the nervous wait for our luggage at the Budapest airport, the rush of seeing Mom, Dad, and Grandma waiting in the crowds. I will miss the cramped ride home in my parents' Skoda - my Mom playing with my ear - and I will miss seeing how much things have changed on the streets of Budapest and how things have stayed the same.
I will miss our old, cold, crumbling apartment building. I will miss going into my childhood room - the smell of the curtains that my Dad washed the day before, blowing in the wind and the sound of the trolley cars on the street below. I will miss feeling so big in a room that used to seem much larger when I was little. I will miss my Dad making a celebratory batch of Wiener schnitzel and my Grandma's hands uncovering a plate of apple pie. I will miss the fact that we barely fit into our kitchen and that I have to sit on the little red stool, shoved between my Dad and brother.
In the larger scheme of life, all of this seems petty of course. I know that. But as I am getting ready to make great, new memories with my parents here, in Maine, I can't help but finally grieve for what I've left behind. Even though I left Budapest more than 12 years ago now, this is the first time that I realize the magnitude of that step. And it sucks.
When I tell Drew that I want to go home, he always says "but this is your home," meaning our little apartment where we've made our nest for the past four years.
But he is wrong.
It's a house, it's a life, it might even be happiness. But this is not my home.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
My inheritance
There is an ongoing joke in my family about what my brother and I have inherited from our parents – all the “bad” stuff. I got my Mom’s big, crooked nose and big belly and butt, and my Dad’s thin hair. My brother also got the thin hair – along with thinning hair – and some of the indecisiveness that is prevalent in my family. Although he takes it to whole new levels – but that is another story.
My parents often say that when they die, we will not inherit a house, or cash, or valuable antiques. So we should appreciate the nose and the belly and the hair.
Growing up, I was not grateful for this sort of inheritance – I wanted a graceful, small nose, a slender figure and lush hair. I had a boyfriend who would tell me that I could never be his wife if I ended up looking like my Mom in my old age.
He need not worry about that.
What I worried about as a teenager was becoming like my Mom on the inside – she was strict and no-nonsense and she had a weird talent of knowing exactly what I was thinking and doing at all times. By the time I came home from school, she already knew that I bombed on my history exam. It was all very uncool.
But of course, life has its funny ways, and I find myself becoming more and more like my parents. I cry during commercials, I tell Drew to put his hat and gloves on when it’s cold outside, and I always cook way too much food. I can only imagine what else I will say and do when I have kids that will make me stop in my tracks and realize that I am just like my Mom.
The nose, the butt, and the belly are still in place but I have a friendlier relationship with them these days. Looking at some old family photos recently, I noticed a picture of my great-grandmother as a young woman wearing a fabulous hat, and she had the exact same profile as mine and my Mom’s. My Mom’s soft hug makes me hopeful that one day my curves will provide the same comfort.
I am more aware of other resemblances too and I treasure them more than I used to. I have my Dad’s warm, melancholic eyes, his sarcastic humor, his long fingers – so does my brother. I also inherited my Mom’s go–getter attitude and strength and ability to do 20 things at the same time. I also have her impatience and my Dad’s ability to laugh at the same impatience.
I can just look in the mirror and know exactly where I came from. In the end, that’s a pretty good inheritance.
My parents often say that when they die, we will not inherit a house, or cash, or valuable antiques. So we should appreciate the nose and the belly and the hair.
Growing up, I was not grateful for this sort of inheritance – I wanted a graceful, small nose, a slender figure and lush hair. I had a boyfriend who would tell me that I could never be his wife if I ended up looking like my Mom in my old age.
He need not worry about that.
What I worried about as a teenager was becoming like my Mom on the inside – she was strict and no-nonsense and she had a weird talent of knowing exactly what I was thinking and doing at all times. By the time I came home from school, she already knew that I bombed on my history exam. It was all very uncool.
But of course, life has its funny ways, and I find myself becoming more and more like my parents. I cry during commercials, I tell Drew to put his hat and gloves on when it’s cold outside, and I always cook way too much food. I can only imagine what else I will say and do when I have kids that will make me stop in my tracks and realize that I am just like my Mom.
The nose, the butt, and the belly are still in place but I have a friendlier relationship with them these days. Looking at some old family photos recently, I noticed a picture of my great-grandmother as a young woman wearing a fabulous hat, and she had the exact same profile as mine and my Mom’s. My Mom’s soft hug makes me hopeful that one day my curves will provide the same comfort.
I am more aware of other resemblances too and I treasure them more than I used to. I have my Dad’s warm, melancholic eyes, his sarcastic humor, his long fingers – so does my brother. I also inherited my Mom’s go–getter attitude and strength and ability to do 20 things at the same time. I also have her impatience and my Dad’s ability to laugh at the same impatience.
I can just look in the mirror and know exactly where I came from. In the end, that’s a pretty good inheritance.
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