A few years ago, I came across a two-page essay I had written in my junior-year history class. The grade was an A, but the comment was something to the effect of, 'Surely, Julie, this is too cynical, even for you. You can't really believe this, do you?' And a few years ago I looked at that with some blushing and thought, 'Wow. I was pretty cheeky/sassy/full of it.'
But now, I think that perspective, the one I wrote so long ago while, so full of unfounded (in that I had had little first-hand experience) cynicism may have had the right idea. I still blush to think about the strictly negative view I took at that time -- I have since come to appreciate small victories in a way that was foreign at that moment -- but I have also come full-circle, through up-close and personal experience, to think that I was not so far off the mark. But now instead of feeling smart, as I did then, I feel tired. I do not want to think that I am so often right about the things I know so much about now, from academic study and personal experience. I take no comfort in my correct assessment.
So I now do the best I can, waiting for a moment to make a difference. And while things are not at all bad, I am awful enough to wish for more. But even more often, I wish I could write more.
