I mean, I've worked in Congress, I know that there's probably a <.02 that President Obama, and not a staffer, read this, wrote this, or signed this. But the fact that any of it even exists at all seems like a sign that the country is moving forward. Also, it will make you smile.
No matter your political leanings, the looks on my students' faces this morning would have moved you to tears. I'm so happy to live in a country that everyday, even in darkness, is becoming more equal for them, and for all of us.
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night. A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze, And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows, I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened, Then Baxter and Calabro, Davis and Eberling, names falling into place As droplets fell through the dark. Names printed on the ceiling of the night. Names slipping around a watery bend. Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream. In the morning, I walked out barefoot Among thousands of flowers Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears, And each had a name -- Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins. Names written in the air And stitched into the cloth of the day. A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox. Monogram on a torn shirt, I see you spelled out on storefront windows And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city. I say the syllables as I turn a corner -- Kelly and Lee, Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor. When I peer into the woods, I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden As in a puzzle concocted for children. Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash, Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton, Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple. Names written in the pale sky. Names rising in the updraft amid buildings. Names silent in stone Or cried out behind a door. Names blown over the earth and out to sea. In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows. A boy on a lake lifts his oars. A woman by a window puts a match to a candle, And the names are outlined on the rose clouds -- Vanacore and Wallace, (let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound) Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z. Names etched on the head of a pin. One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel. A blue name needled into the skin. Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers, The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son. Alphabet of names in a green field. Names in the small tracks of birds. Names lifted from a hat Or balanced on the tip of the tongue. Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory. So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart. (Billy Collins, The Names)
By now, you have seen the amazing Gangnam Style video by K-Pop artist, Psy.
If not, drop everything you are doing and watch it now. Right now. Cause this guy is on fire. This guy is in the wolfpack.
Can't understand what is happening? Are you so completely mesmerized by the hip shaking, hot tub drownings, horses and subway romances that you can't at all understand the point of the joyous video? Yea, me too.
According to ABC news, the repetitive chorus is "Oppan Gangnam Style", which means "Girls, your big brother is Gangnam Style."
"Gangnam means, it's like Beverly Hills of Korea," Psy told ABC News last month. "But the guy doesn't look like Beverly Hills. Dance doesn't look like Beverly Hills. ... And the situation in music video doesn't look like Beverly Hills. But he keeps saying, 'I'm Beverly Hills style.' So that's the point. It's sort of a twist."
Ahhhh. It all makes sense now. I'm going to go watch it 72 more times.