A Broken World in Need of Fixing

She’s here again today. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone sit so silently for such a long time, and I’d spent my fair share of time at the library even before I began to work here. I walk past her as she sits in the large cozy chair hidden behind the corner on my way to reshelve some books. She doesn’t even look up. I’m not surprised though; she never looks up. On my way back to the front desk, I notice that her hands are clenching the book as if it were her only lifeline. Something exciting must be happening. I stoop to “tie my shoes” so I can get a better look at what she’s reading. Ah yes, Pride and Prejudice, a favorite of hers. As I finish my journey to the front desk, I muse about how all I know about this girl is which books she likes, and yet I feel as though she were a good friend of mine.

“You’re crazy,” I mumble to myself as I refill my cart with books to put back. “You don’t even know her name. You’ve never even heard her speak!”

I quickly glance around to make sure no one heard my ramblings. Phew. No one’s around. I hastily finish piling my cart full of returns and set out again. Without thinking, I glance over at her. Her hands have relaxed their grip on the hardback. I wish once again that her hair was not hanging down like a curtain around her face so I could see what her eyes were saying. Almost as if she had heard my thoughts, she suddenly looks up, seemingly right at me. Startled, I almost drop a stack of books. She hurriedly shoves the book in her bag and begins to walk towards the door. I remember that the library’s clock would be right above my head from her perspective. I push back the disappointment as I return to shelving books. Maybe I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Or not.

A few hours later my shift ends. I punch out and head west to meet my friend at his favorite coffee shop for a poetry slam. I’m not all that excited, but he was so hopeful when he asked me that I couldn’t say no.

I arrive a few minutes late and quickly find my friend at his table.

“Thanks for coming,” he grins, turning towards me. “I know this isn’t really your thing. But I do think you’ll like this next girl. She really has a passion for…”

Before he can finish, the emcee announces that the next poem will be called “The Silent Suffering.” I cannot believe my eyes as the girl from the library walks up onto the stage. Her eyes betray her nervousness, but she sets her jaw and begins to speak. And speak she does, about many things. How women almost always get paid less than men for the same job. How Mexican-Americans face taunts and jeers every day about how they are illegal immigrants. How rape victims feel that they must live their lives without telling anyone about their assault. How African-Americans are turned down for jobs because they aren’t considered capable, even when they have the exact qualifications. How the world is a broken place in need of fixing. She has a small quaver in her voice, but her eyes are vibrant and fiery. When she is done, the snaps are copious. She shakes her head a little, as if she were returning to reality. Flashing a quick smile, she rushes off the stage. Before I even know what I’m doing, I am out of my chair and following her. I find her backstage in a small alcove. She turns to me, a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“Hi,” I stammer. “That poem was really great. You’re really good at… um… saying words.” Wow, smooth. “You go to the library pretty often don’t you? I work there. But you probably noticed that, since you’re there all the time. Not to say that you’ve been watching me.” Get to the point, man. “So… um… I was wondering… What’s your name?”

The girl looks up at me, smiles, and says, “Hannah.”

**Disclaimer: This is not even remotely a true story. It's more like a metaphor than anything else.**

A Revelation Born of Sorrow

As I stood in the middle of a raging storm, I could not tell which drops on my face were rain and which were tears. The hundreds of gravestones surrounding me began to blur as I fully realized the horrors that had occurred nearby on an ordinary beach in France. However, my heavyhearted melancholy did not begin there. It truly started a few days prior, very soon after I had arrived in Germany for a school trip. Exhausted from my 14 hour flight and feeling the cold nip of snow around me, I was not prepared for what I was about to see and feel. Shivering from the frozen air, I took in the sight of the rigid steel gate with a terrible lie forged into it: ARBEIT MACHT FREI, work makes you free. The Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, the very first stop on my trip to Europe to study World War II, was one of the first camps built in Germany during the war, and was mostly used for political prisoners. I was unable to speak as the tour guide took us around the camp turned memorial and explained the suffering of its prisoners. Snow gently drifted down onto the massive and ugly remains of the crematorium, and, as I looked upon the mountain of ashes that was all that remained of the murdered, I realized that my emotions were just as numb from shock as my hands were from the cold. A few days later, my group arrived at the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial in the midst of powerful wind and pounding rain. I could not believe how many graves there were. I could not believe how many people had died because of just one campaign of many in the war. How many sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends, war buddies never got to see their loved ones again. My mind was an infinite loop of “You were a person. A person who had family and friends. Family and friends who never got to say a final goodbye.” I felt like my heart was being torn into pieces, especially when I saw how many of the stones had only the inscription “Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God.” My emotions churned as wildly as the storm around me. 

I have always been the one who listens to peoples’ problems in order to try to make them feel better in any way possible. I absolutely love being able to put myself into another person’s shoes to help him or her carry the burden of his or her troubles. If necessary, I will make myself look foolish or feel intense anguish, or whatever it takes to help another person. Although I will not ever meet the people who were directly affected by these specific atrocities, I felt in these moments a gut-wrenching desire to give each and every one of them a hug. Every victim of hate and murder. Every widow. Every fatherless child. Every sonless mother. Every war comrade who lived to watch his friend die. Every single one of them I wanted to comfort and help in any way that I could, even though the occasion had long since passed. In those moments of absolute despair, I realized that what I want to do with my life is keep as many people from suffering as I possibly can. I do not know exactly how I will do it, but I know that my path in life is to bring happiness to those who need it most.