This I believe.........

[lorin]

Always Go to the Funeral
Deirdre Sullivan - Brooklyn, New York
August 8, 2005

I believe in always going to the funeral. My father taught me that.

The first time he said it directly to me, I was 16 and trying to get out of going to calling hours for Miss Emerson, my old fifth grade math teacher. I did not want to go. My father was unequivocal. “Dee,” he said, “you’re going. Always go to the funeral. Do it for the family.”

So my dad waited outside while I went in. It was worse than I thought it would be: I was the only kid there. When the condolence line deposited me in front of Miss Emerson’s shell-shocked parents, I stammered out, “Sorry about all this,” and stalked away. But, for that deeply weird expression of sympathy delivered 20 years ago, Miss Emerson’s mother still remembers my name and always says hello with tearing eyes.

That was the first time I went un-chaperoned, but my parents had been taking us kids to funerals and calling hours as a matter of course for years. By the time I was 16, I had been to five or six funerals. I remember two things from the funeral circuit: bottomless dishes of free mints and my father saying on the ride home, “You can’t come in without going out, kids. Always go to the funeral.”

Sounds simple — when someone dies, get in your car and go to calling hours or the funeral. That, I can do. But I think a personal philosophy of going to funerals means more than that.

“Always go to the funeral” means that I have to do the right thing when I really, really don’t feel like it. I have to remind myself of it when I could make some small gesture, but I don’t really have to and I definitely don’t want to. I’m talking about those things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully under-attended birthday party. The hospital visit during happy hour. The Shiva call for one of my ex’s uncles. In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn’t been good versus evil. It’s hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.

In going to funerals, I’ve come to believe that while I wait to make a grand heroic gesture, I should just stick to the small inconveniences that let me share in life’s inevitable, occasional calamity.

On a cold April night three years ago, my father died a quiet death from cancer. His funeral was on a Wednesday, middle of the workweek. I had been numb for days when, for some reason, during the funeral, I turned and looked back at the folks in the church. The memory of it still takes my breath away. The most human, powerful and humbling thing I’ve ever seen was a church at 3:00 on a Wednesday full of inconvenienced people who believe in going to the funeral.

[lorin]

There Is No God
Penn Jillette - Las Vegas, Nevada
As half of the magic act Penn and Teller, Penn Jillette enjoys challenging his audiences with the unconventional. In stating his personal credo, Jillette finds liberation in believing there is no God.

I believe that there is no God. I’m beyond atheism. Atheism is not believing in God. Not believing in God is easy — you can’t prove a negative, so there’s no work to do. You can’t prove that there isn’t an elephant inside the trunk of my car. You sure? How about now? Maybe he was just hiding before. Check again. Did I mention that my personal heartfelt definition of the word “elephant” includes mystery, order, goodness, love and a spare tire?

So, anyone with a love for truth outside of herself has to start with no belief in God and then look for evidence of God. She needs to search for some objective evidence of a supernatural power. All the people I write e-mails to often are still stuck at this searching stage. The atheism part is easy.

But, this “This I Believe” thing seems to demand something more personal, some leap of faith that helps one see life’s big picture, some rules to live by. So, I’m saying, “This I believe: I believe there is no God.”

Having taken that step, it informs every moment of my life. I’m not greedy. I have love, blue skies, rainbows and Hallmark cards, and that has to be enough. It has to be enough, but it’s everything in the world and everything in the world is plenty for me. It seems just rude to beg the invisible for more. Just the love of my family that raised me and the family I’m raising now is enough that I don’t need heaven. I won the huge genetic lottery and I get joy every day.

Believing there’s no God means I can’t really be forgiven except by kindness and faulty memories. That’s good; it makes me want to be more thoughtful. I have to try to treat people right the first time around.

Believing there’s no God stops me from being solipsistic. I can read ideas from all different people from all different cultures. Without God, we can agree on reality, and I can keep learning where I’m wrong. We can all keep adjusting, so we can really communicate. I don’t travel in circles where people say, “I have faith, I believe this in my heart and nothing you can say or do can shake my faith.” That’s just a long-winded religious way to say, “shut up,” or another two words that the FCC likes less. But all obscenity is less insulting than, “How I was brought up and my imaginary friend means more to me than anything you can ever say or do.” So, believing there is no God lets me be proven wrong and that’s always fun. It means I’m learning something.

Believing there is no God means the suffering I’ve seen in my family, and indeed all the suffering in the world, isn’t caused by an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent force that isn’t bothered to help or is just testing us, but rather something we all may be able to help others with in the future. No God means the possibility of less suffering in the future.

Believing there is no God gives me more room for belief in family, people, love, truth, beauty, sex, Jell-O and all the other things I can prove and that make this life the best life I will ever have.

[Avatar]

I like it.

--A

[lorin]

This I Believe
Meg - New York, New York
Entered on April 9, 2005


I believe the chicken before the egg

though I believe in the egg. I believe

eating is a form of touch carried

to the bitter end; I believe chocolate

is good for you; I believe I’m a lefty

in a right-handed world, which does not

make me gauche, or abnormal, or sinister.

I believe “normal” is just a cycle on

the washing machine; I believe the touch

of hands has the power to heal, though

nothing will ever fill this immeasurable

hole in the center of my chest. I believe

in kissing; I believe in mail; I believe

in salt over the shoulder, a watched

pot never boils, and if I sit by my

mailbox waiting for the letter I want

it will never arrive — not because of

superstition, but because that’s not

how life works. I believe in work:

phone calls, typing, multiplying,

black coffee, write write write, dig

dig dig, sweep sweep. I believe in

a slow, tortuous sweep of tongue

down the lover’s belly; I believe I’ve

been swept off my feet more than once

and it’s a good idea not to name names.

Digging for names is part of my work,

but that’s a different poem. I believe

there’s a difference between men and

women and I thank God for it. I believe

in God, and if you hold the door

and carry my books, I’ll be sure to ask

for your name. What is your name? Do

you believe in ghosts? I believe

the morning my father died I heard him

whistling “Danny Boy” in the bathroom,

and a week later saw him standing in

the living room with a suitcase in his

hand. We never got to say good-bye, he

said, and I said I don’t believe in

good-byes. I believe that’s why I have

this hole in my chest; sometimes it’s

rabid; sometimes it’s incoherent. I

believe I’ll survive. I believe that

“early to bed and early to rise” is

a boring way to live. I believe good

poets borrow, great poets steal, and

if only we’d stop trying to be happy

we could have a pretty good time. I

believe time doesn’t heal all wounds;

I believe in getting flowers for no

reason; I believe “Give a Hoot, Don’t

Pollute,” “Reading is Fundamental,”

Yankee Stadium belongs in the Bronx,

and the best bagels in New York are

baked on the corner of First

and 21st. I believe in Santa

Claus, Jimmy Stewart, Zuzu’s petals,

Arbor Day, and that ugly baby I keep

dreaming about — she lives inside me,

opening and closing her wide mouth.

I believe she will never taste her

mother’s milk; she will never be

beautiful; she will always wonder what

it’s like to be born; and if you hold

your hand right here — touch me right

here, as if this is all that matters,

this is all you ever wanted, I believe

something might move inside me,

and it would be more than I could stand.

[lorin]

The Learning Curve of Gratitude
Mary Chapin Carpenter - Charlottesville, Virginia

I believe in what I learned at the grocery store.

Eight weeks ago I was released from the hospital after suffering a pulmonary embolism. I had just finished a tour and a week after returning home, severe chest pain and terrible breathlessness landed me in the ER. A scan revealed blood clots in my lungs.

Everyone told me how lucky I was. A pulmonary embolism can take your life in an instant. I was familiar enough with the medical term, but not familiar with the pain, the fear and the depression that followed.

Everything I had been looking forward to came to a screeching halt. I had to cancel my upcoming tour. I had to let my musicians and crewmembers go. The record company, the booking agency: I felt that I had let everyone down.

But there was nothing to do but get out of the hospital, go home and get well.

I tried hard to see my unexpected time off as a gift, but I would open a novel and couldn’t concentrate. I would turn on the radio, then shut if off. Familiar clouds gathered above my head, and I couldn’t make them go away with a pill or a movie or a walk. This unexpected time was becoming a curse, filling me with anxiety, fear and self-loathing. All of the ingredients of the darkness that is depression.

Sometimes, it’s the smile of a stranger that helps. Sometimes it’s a phone call from a long absent friend, checking on you. I found my lifeline at the grocery store.

One morning, the young man who rang up my groceries and asked me if I wanted paper or plastic also told me to enjoy the rest of my day. I looked at him and I knew he meant it. It stopped me in my tracks. I went out and I sat in my car and cried.

What I want, more than ever, is to appreciate that I have this day, and tomorrow and hopefully days beyond that. I am experiencing the learning curve of gratitude.

I don’t want to say “have a nice day” like a robot. I don’t want to get mad at the elderly driver in front of me. I don’t want to go crazy when my Internet access is messed up. I don’t want to be jealous of someone else’s success. You could say that this litany of sins indicates that I don’t want to be human. The learning curve of gratitude, however, is showing me exactly how human I am.

I don’t know if my doctors will ever be able to give me the precise reason why I had a life-threatening illness. I do know that the young man in the grocery store reminded me that every day is all there is, and that is my belief.

Tonight I will cook dinner, tell my husband how much I love him, curl up with the dogs, watch the sun go down over the mountains and climb into bed. I will think about how uncomplicated it all is. I will wonder at how it took me my entire life to appreciate just one day.

Mary Chapin Carpenter is a five-time Grammy Award winning singer-songwriter. She has produced 11 albums in her 20-year career, including “The Calling," released in 2007. Carpenter and her husband live near Charlottesville, Va

[lorin]

The Light of a Brighter Day
Helen Keller - Easton, Connecticut


It is Helen Keller who salutes you. You are not familiar with my voice, but my friend Polly Thomson will interpret the belief I have written from my soul.

I choose for my subject, faith wrought into life apart from creed or dogma. By faith, I mean a vision of good one cherishes and the enthusiasm that pushes one to seek its fulfillment, regardless of obstacles. Faith is a dynamic power that breaks the chain of routine, and gives a new, fine turn to old commonplaces. Faith reinvigorates the will, enriches the affections, and awakens a sense of creativeness. Active faith knows no fear, and it is a safeguard to me against cynicism and despair.

After all, faith is not one thing or two or three things. It is an indivisible totality of beliefs that inspire me: Belief in God as infinite goodwill and all-seeing Wisdom, whose everlasting arms sustain me walking on the sea of life. Trust in my fellow men, wonder at their fundamental goodness, and confidence that after this night of sorrow and oppression, they will rise up strong and beautiful in the glory of morning. Reverence for the beauty and preciousness of the earth, and a sense of responsibility to do what I can to make it a habitation of health and plenty for all men. Faith in immortality because it renders less bitter the separation from those I have loved and lost, and because it will free me from unnatural limitations, and unfold still more faculties I have in joyous activity.

Even if my vital spark should be blown out, I believe that I should behave with courageous dignity in the presence of fate, and strive to be a worthy companion of the beautiful, the good, and the true. But fate has its master in the faith of those who surmount it, and limitation has its limits for those who, though disillusioned, live greatly.

It was a terrible blow to my faith when I learned that millions of my fellow creatures must labor all their days for food and shelter, bear the most crushing burdens, and die without having known the joy of living. My security vanished forever, and I have never regained the radiant belief of my young years that earth is a happy home and hearth for the majority of mankind. But faith is a state of mind. The believer is not soon disheartened. If he is turned out of his shelter, he builds up a house that the winds of the earth cannot destroy.

When I think of the suffering and famine, and the continued slaughter of men, my spirit bleeds. But the thought comes to me that, like the little deaf, dumb, and blind child I once was, mankind is growing out of the darkness of ignorance and hate into the light of a brighter day.

As an infant, Helen Keller was struck by a fever that left her deaf and blind. But with the guidance of her teacher Anne Sullivan, she learned to communicate through the eyes and ears of others. After graduating from Radcliffe College, Keller became a renowned author, activist and lecturer.

[lorin]

J. Christopher - Allentown, Pennsylvania
Entered on June 14, 2005

Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I have diarrhea and a fever, and I am now wishing that I had stayed in bed this day. I have been in Port-au-Prince for less than a month. I am making my way to P=rtail LeogGne, an area around the National Cemetery where I know a handful of the capital’s most destitute and desperate street kids congregate throughout the day.

The city is at its worst here. The smell of garbage and charcoal smoke and shit and diesel exhaust is overwhelming. I am walking through raw sewage. I watch as a boy in his teens, naked to his waist, splashes grayish water from the gutter across his chest. He is bathing in waste.

It is midday but rats scurry about, impervious to foot traffic. Scores of them are foraging a massive pile of garbage heaped in an intersection. They screech and fight over rotting mango peels, stalks of sugar cane, chicken bones. I step over the carcass of a dead dog, tread over hundreds of times long after it was first struck. I vomit right there in the street. A fruit vendor takes notice of me, and then goes back to her business. I sit down in the filthy gutter and feel tears pressing up. I am scared. I am disoriented. I am absolutely drenched in tropical sweat. I am sick. I am alone.

The feeling is passing now. I stand up and I walk. I walk into P=rtail LeogGne.

I walk past the entrance to the National Cemetery. Men sit around the gate, smoking cigarettes and joking. One of them, the Cemetery guard, holds an old bolt-action rifle. They stare at me blankly as I pass by. Rotting garbage, flies, and puddles of cloudy brown water are everywhere. No one here is smiling.

I come to a corner at the cemetery. As I turn it, I can hear the familiar voices of some of the street boys I have come here to see. There is a gaggle of six or seven of them, from ten to seventeen years of age. They are all sniffing glue from plastic juice bottles that they stir with sticks to agitate the vapor. All of them are hopeless addicts. They show the physical signs of a long-term habit – scabs form a halo around their mouths and noses where the skin has been blistered by the caustic vapor. They are emaciated and filthy because the glue takes away their ambition to work and to feed themselves, as well as their motivation to keep their bodies clean.

I speak with a shirtless boy of around thirteen named Michel whom I know from my last visit. He is glassy-eyed and his speech is slurred, but he his lucid enough to recognize me and make small conversation. We speak of nothing of any consequence to either one of us. I sit with him for a while and continue chatting. We talk about the heat. He tells me he is hungry. I reach into my pocket and I give him a handful of Haitian gourde notes, enough for him to eat a few scant meals.

I notice a very young boy I hadn’t seen when I sat down with Michel. He is curled up sleeping alone in a shaded corner against the cemetery. I ask Michel if he knows him.

“Yes, for a few days,” Michel says. “He is very sick.”

I walk over to the boy. He is small and young and like the others, skinny and filthy. He is motionless. I touch his bare arm. It is cold.

I am feeling dizzy. I am unsure what to do. I look to Michel and say to him stupidly, “He is not sick now.”

The boys realize what has happened and stir panicked from their gluey haze. The death of this boy, whatever the incidental cause, could mean trouble. Some run away immediately, others like Michel move quickly but without anxiety. Michel gathers his t-shirt and the cigarettes I have given him and walks away. As I leave P=rtail LeogGne today, I will tell a policeman directing traffic nearby that there is a dead child near the Cemetery. He will nod and write down information. He will take care of it.

Right now I simply stand here and look at the dead child curled against the wall at my feet.

I shout after Michel, “What is his name?”

Michel turns back. “Tinene,” he answers, and then walks away.

I believe that every death merits a name. I believe that every child merits a voice. Even if we simply utter their name.

thisibelieve.org/essay/3541/

[lorin]

We Are All Stardust
Kimberly Woodbury - New Haven, Connecticut
Entered on December 9, 2007

I remember an article about a group of astrophysicists who sent a probe deep into space. They sent it to a place so far away that you would expect only bottomless silence. And instead they found waves — sound waves that they traced all the way back to the Big Bang.

I believe that those sound waves carry the borning cry of the cosmos. That a whisper from God’s lips created all that is and all that was and all that will be, and that that whisper set it into motion in a cataclysm so great that 14-billion years later those sound waves still echoes through a world without end.

My father used to tell me that I was stardust. It wasn’t until I was grown that I learned that he stole the line from Joni Mitchell. But it’s still true. Every molecule, every atom, every subatomic particle that ever was came into being with that whispered word of God. And they are all still here, circulating through the universe and binding us to each other through all of time and space.

I believe that I will, during my lifetime, inhale seven of the very same molecules of air that were exhaled by the incarnate Christ. I believe this because I did the math. I really did.

It’s where the energy came from, too –- from God’s great cataclysm. All of the energy born at the dawn of creation still dances through the universe. Energy, traveling on different wavelengths, changing from gamma rays to x rays, to heat and to light. We say that God is light, and imagine celestial illumination — a ray of light, a ray of hope, the eye-light of a newborn savior, carrying God’s love directly into human hearts. I do believe that this is so.

But I also believe that God is a like a single photon, a particle of light so mysterious that it makes me think of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle: We can never know exactly both its position and its composition. If we try to hold onto a photon, to slow it down enough so that we can really see it, we find that we have, in our grasping, lost the very thing we sought to hold. I think I do this to God when I try to make Her small enough to understand.

I believe that those sound waves are a siren call of invitation. Invitation to remember that we are all stardust and that we are all connected, each to each. Invitation to let go and to follow a dancing wave to the edge of mystery, where the God who is among us waits in bottomless silence.

Kim Woodbury wrote this essay for colloquium at Yale Divinity School, where she is working towards her masters. She enjoys exploring the space between science and faith

[lorin]

I Believe in Chaos
Elise - Los Angeles, California
Entered on March 10, 2008

A professor once explained the Chaos Theory like this:

“Imagine your bedroom. It can be messy a million different ways, but it can only be clean one way. The reason life is so messy is because statistically speaking, it’s just more likely.”

When our daughter Addie was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis and then a seizure disorder, I questioned “why.” It’s natural to feel there is a reason for suffering, a greater purpose for the pain we experience. And I’ve never truly made peace with it all. But the chaos theory gives me a kind of comfort that more conventional methods of dealing with “why bad stuff happens to good people” do not. For some reason, the randomness of it all, the complete powerlessness, the “no rhyme or reason” mentality makes me feel like, it’s nothing personal. It’s not God picking on us, or making our family an example like Job, it’s just the chaotic way of things. It is simply more likely that things goes wrong, than right.

I don’t believe that we were chosen to be Addie’s parents, or that Addie chose us as Mom and Dad. I don’t believe that God has a plan for us. I don’t believe that, because if I did, I would also have to believe that children choose crackheads and sadists as their parents, that God places babies with tweekers and prostitutes to make a point. I don’t believe in Karma or reincarnation, or the idea that my husband and I are paying for our past life mistakes. I definitely do not believe that Addie has willed this disease into her life because of negative thinking or as lesson for her soul to grow. I don’t believe that I am being tested, or that Addie has entered our lives because of divine intervention to teach us selfless love.

I have considered all of these possibilities. But have come to the conclusion that my husband and I are carriers of a CF gene that we passed onto our child. She had a one in four chance of being born with our recessive gene, and unfortunately, she was. I think she has a seizure disorder because she fell on her forehead and suffered damage to her frontal lobe. I happen to believe that all of these things happened because they didn’t “not” happen. It is life happening to us. And how we deal with it is our choice.

I understand that people need to find a reason or purpose for “bad things” but I simultaneously question why we don’t feel the need to find purpose behind the positive. Why are we worthy of only good, and horrified with the negative? Why do we say, “why me God?” as if others are somehow deserving of our pain.

I don’t doubt that we have grown for having Addie in our lives, that because of adversity, we are living a rich, joyful life that will challenge us in ways we never thought possible. And I believe that God smiles every time we turn sorrow into meaningful joy. But I believe in a hands-off God, who empathizes, without orchestrating. He’s like a therapist who sits there and says, “And how does that make you feel?” But to say he chooses our circumstances would suggest that he picks favorites. And that seems more like Jr. High than divinity.

I believe that we are better for having Addie in our lives, for embracing the chaos that naturally comes with parenthood. It’s a risk, a beautiful, scary, sad and lovely risk. It’s life. And I guess I’m okay with that.

[aliantha]

Good one, lorin.

[lorin]

i put two up

[aliantha]

i put two up

Clearly I'm paying attention. I did read them both, but I liked the second one best.

[Fist and Faith]

Some great, great stuff in many of these.

[Menolly]

i put two up

Clearly I'm paying attention. I did read them both, but I liked the second one best.

ah...
Whereas I am drawn more to the first of tonight's essays.
But I appreciate both of them tonight.

[lorin]

these essays have helped me to sort out quite a bit of the mess in my life right now. I especially appreciate the I Believe in Loss essay.

I hope people are getting something out of them. Pretty soon I think I will attempt my own submission.

[lorin]

New Possibilities And New Realities
Jonathan - Warwick, New York
Entered on April 5, 2005


As a painter who has faced blank canvases for more than 35 years, I have come to believe that whether or not we write, paint, draw, sculpt, dance, act, sing, or play music, we are all the artists of our own lives. Our blank canvases are the hours of our days, our paints are our thoughts and feelings, and our energy is our inspiration.

Sometimes we choose our own colors and sometimes circumstances choose our colors for us. Sometimes we use our artistry to serve those around us and sometimes we use it to preserve ourselves. Sometimes our efforts bring us fame and fortune and sometimes our creativity goes unrecognized except by those close to us, those we love and those who love us. And yes, sometimes we work in complete isolation. This is the way it is for artists.

Years ago, standing behind the great painter Norman Rockwell as he painted a picture of the general store in Menemsha, Massachusetts, a picture which appeared, not long afterwards, on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post magazine, I learned that being an artist involves the ability to create a private space for one’s self where one can focus intently and work at one’s own pace even when one is surrounded by others. This is a skill we can all use in today’s complex and sometimes overwhelming world.

Years ago, observing artist Alexander Calder, the inventor of the mobile, interact with a group of students, I learned that being an artist involves being engaged with one’s community and the individuals in it in a natural and unpretentious way. This, too, is a talent we can all use in today’s world, a world in which the modalities of our interactions with others are often defined by the media stream rather than by our own best instincts.

Years ago, watching my mother gaze longingly at the paintings she had done before she “gave up art” to raise a family, I learned that denying one’s creative impulses can lead to sadness and depression. This is also something useful to remember in times like these when the lessons of the past threaten to destroy our hopes for the future.

Being an artist is about imagining new possibilities and creating new realities. I believe that the nature of tomorrow’s reality, balanced as it is on the fulcrum of history, will depend on whether or not each of us responds artfully and creatively to the challenges we face today. I believe that the more we exercise our personal and social artistry, the more likely it is that we will enjoy a fully realized future.

[lorin]

This I Believe
Daniel - Alma, Arkansas
Entered on April 27, 2005


I believe in the power of garlic to heal. I’m not speaking of the purported medicinal uses of the pungent bulb but rather of the way I feel when I cut into it. When I slice into a bulb of garlic and see that lusciously green inner circle the world is in complete harmony.

I chop up other vegetables and put them into the pan to sautT and everything begins to smell better. Life takes on a splendid aroma that had worn off since last cooking, since I last picked up the raw materials for a dinner and transformed them into a consumable feast using a process that only alchemists can understand.

I don’t really know how to cook. I am a social anthropologist by training. I enjoy cooking and many claim to enjoy the results of it, but I don’t really know how to cook. What I know how to do is to improvise, to let the fact that I don’t know how cook go, to leave it at the door and look in my cupboards with all the excitement of a child looking at her first bicycle and marvel at all the possible directions she could go with what lay before her.

Making something out of nothing is a glorious affair. To be the producer of an item instead of the consumer is what I am talking about.

Something else I do not know how to do is play guitar. This doesn’t prevent me though from playing it and inflicting whatever tune I’m working on at the moment on my friends, family, and the unsuspecting passerby. I don’t know how to sing either but I accompany myself nonetheless. When I play and sing with my guitar my inner being is filled with the same substance as when I cook in my kitchen. I am at peace and the world is a good place to be in because I am making a contribution to it. I am not a passive consumer of things produced by machines and focus groups. I am a producer of things that would not exist were it not for my hands.

Other things I do not know how to do include being a father, a friend and a teacher. I muddle through though. I take my cue from those models that inspired me and I contribute my own twist to each role and step into the unknown and breath life into what was ether. When I do my part I can locate myself in the world and others can locate me too and we can get together and partake of a good meal and then afterwards lounge about throughout the evening playing music and sharing life.

Yes, I believe in the healing properties of making a good meal, of playing a tune on my guitar, of growing peppers in my garden, of being an active agent in the production process of life, in doing things that I cannot do.

[Beorn]

Hi guys! It's Beorn!

Mom, (Menolly) told me about this thread and suggested I post here. I don't really want to, but she is insisting you might be helpful.

You see, school ends on Friday. We already had our final exams a few weeks ago because the program I am in is giving us some of our Cambridge papers this week. However, my English teacher gave us one last assignment that is due on Friday.

She has shown us several samples of essays from the "This I Believe" radio program. Our assignment is to write one as if we were going to submit it to the program. Mom wants me to make sure you understand I do not want you to do my homework for me! My essay is done, and both mom and dad have looked it over and think it is OK as is.

But mom also thinks some of you might have suggestions to make it even better. It has to be under 500 words in length, or able to be read out loud in three minutes or less.

So, here it is. Do you feel it is in the style of the previous entries?

I believe in the power of friendship to overcome differences between people and benefit them. The clichés of the rich person befriending a poor person, or the 'jock' befriending a 'geek' are both possible, and may very well carry the benefits that the stories about such friendships suggest. No matter what apparent differences may stand in the way of a friendship, starting one between, say, a teacher and a student, or people of different races, is no more difficult than the traditional friendship between two classmates of the same background.

One person I consider a friend is my physics teacher, Mr. Watts. It may seem bizarre to be friends with my teacher, but all it really took to become friends with him was our shared interest in the same video games, just as it could have started a friendship between two people the same age. The ‘age difference’ that is supposed to make it difficult for such friendships to continue is hardly as powerful as it is supposed to be. In fact my friend sounds just like my classmates, albeit absent slang, when discussing games, books, television shows, food, or anything else we share an interest in.

Being friends with a teacher, or anyone else with some sort of significant difference from yourself, has significant advantages even for people like me, who never try to take unfair advantage of the friendship. A friendship with a teacher can lead to a better understanding of academic subjects as a whole, and these benefits hold true no matter what the terms are. A friendship between a jock and a geek may lead to the latter realizing the benefits of exercise and actually doing some, while the former may learn enough to avoid being confused by technology or advanced subjects in school. Even if these possible benefits do not occur, at least they will understand, emotionally, that stereotypes are never accurate, and that people are people, relatable and similar, no matter what differences they are supposed to have. Similarly, when people of different races become friends, even if it is only one person on each side, the benefits are enormous. This simple gesture between friends helps reduce the remaining racism in the world, removes the cloud of racism from their individual world-views, and enables the individuals who became friends to experience aspects of culture foreign to them, widening their horizons and potential.

Friendship can overcome many differences between two people, will benefit them tremendously in doing so, and will also make the world as a whole a brighter place each time it defeats barriers society puts in its path. This is the power of friendship. This I believe.

Thanks.

[lorin]

Hi guys! It's Beorn!

Mom, (Menolly) told me about this thread and suggested I post here. I don't really want to, but she is insisting you might be helpful.

You see, school ends on Friday. We already had our final exams a few weeks ago because the program I am in is giving us some of our Cambridge papers this week. However, my English teacher gave us one last assignment that is due on Friday.

She has shown us several samples of essays from the "This I Believe" radio program. Our assignment is to write one as if we were going to submit it to the program. Mom wants me to make sure you understand I do not want you to do my homework for me! My essay is done, and both mom and dad have looked it over and think it is OK as is.

But mom also thinks some of you might have suggestions to make it even better. It has to be under 500 words in length, or able to be read out loud in three minutes or less.

So, here it is. Do you feel it is in the style of the previous entries?

I believe in the power of friendship to overcome differences between people and benefit them. The clichés of the rich person befriending a poor person, or the 'jock' befriending a 'geek' are both possible, and may very well carry the benefits that the stories about such friendships suggest. No matter what apparent differences may stand in the way of a friendship, starting one between, say, a teacher and a student, or people of different races, is no more difficult than the traditional friendship between two classmates of the same background.

One person I consider a friend is my physics teacher, Mr. Watts. It may seem bizarre to be friends with my teacher, but all it really took to become friends with him was our shared interest in the same video games, just as it could have started a friendship between two people the same age. The ‘age difference’ that is supposed to make it difficult for such friendships to continue is hardly as powerful as it is supposed to be. In fact my friend sounds just like my classmates, albeit absent slang, when discussing games, books, television shows, food, or anything else we share an interest in.

Being friends with a teacher, or anyone else with some sort of significant difference from yourself, has significant advantages even for people like me, who never try to take unfair advantage of the friendship. A friendship with a teacher can lead to a better understanding of academic subjects as a whole, and these benefits hold true no matter what the terms are. A friendship between a jock and a geek may lead to the latter realizing the benefits of exercise and actually doing some, while the former may learn enough to avoid being confused by technology or advanced subjects in school. Even if these possible benefits do not occur, at least they will understand, emotionally, that stereotypes are never accurate, and that people are people, relatable and similar, no matter what differences they are supposed to have. Similarly, when people of different races become friends, even if it is only one person on each side, the benefits are enormous. This simple gesture between friends helps reduce the remaining racism in the world, removes the cloud of racism from their individual world-views, and enables the individuals who became friends to experience aspects of culture foreign to them, widening their horizons and potential.

Friendship can overcome many differences between two people, will benefit them tremendously in doing so, and will also make the world as a whole a brighter place each time it defeats barriers society puts in its path. This is the power of friendship. This I believe.

Thanks.

Hi Beorn, it is really great to meet you finally. You get really great press. I think this is a well written essay with some really good points, I remember how much I valued my friendships with my profs. The were very empowering and made me feel that maybe what I had to say was of some value. One thing I would suggest is that you place yourself into the essay. You've made this a third party essay, simply using the term "people" instead of "I or me". that has a tendency to depersonalize any writing project. This assignment is about what YOU believe and how it affects YOU , Course I am often wrong to take my feedback with a grain of salt.

good luck!!

[Savor Dam]

Thanks for sharing your "This I Believe" essay, Beorn!

Yes, what you have written is solidly in the style of the NPR radio series...at least to my ear. (edit: having read Lorin's comment and re-read the prior posts in the thread, I agree that more first person would be more authentic to the spirit of the series. Consider some revisions along those lines if you have time and the inclination.)

I could quibble about some wording choices -- "albeit absent slang" for instance -- but on reflection I think my objection is not so much that it is inappropriate usage or not the right style for a "This I Believe"; it just sounds too literate and well-written for a high school assignment...and that is a good thing!

Bravo, and again thank you for sharing this with us.