Commonplace in a Civic Artifact

We Are Penn State, and We Are Atherton. For residents in Atherton hall, fear not! Some anonymous students organized a coalition to calm new arrivals. Their efforts rely on a crucial commonplace in our campus life: no matter our backgrounds, trials, and tribulations, the student body at Penn State is united in our existence as a superorganism working towards knowledge and wisdom as a common goal. In the same way, my residence hall is united in providing a safe environment for all to be at their most vulnerable. My hall, like all others, is where students sleep, engage in personal discourse, and study for their future careers as successful, educated adults.
This inclusivity, coupled with ‘love’ and the handprint accented in the center, personifies the message. The sign is not just a robotic message, an advertised slogan coming from a sterile executive board room, it’s an organic movement independent of the university establishment that intimidates so many of us during our first year. The print is blue, our collective colors as a university, and doesn’t reveal the hand’s race, gender, nationality, or sexual orientation. It’s just a hand, a helping hand.
There’s an underlying assumption accompanying the handprint. The viewer HAS to interpret the print as a sign of humanity. So many grassroots organizations use the handprint to signify a personal connection to the message, not just barking orders to repeat a cold mantra. From newborn foot- and handprint records to elementary school Thanksgiving turkey art projects to families dedicating new porches and patios with unset cement, our instruments of dexterity show our prosperity in hard times.

What Makes Me, Me?

My passion is, simply, making others happier. Raising someone’s standard of living, in whatever definition or context, somehow completes me. I must admit: I’m selfish. MY ideas are the ones that just HAVE to be followed, implemented; after all, who’s the one that’s analyzed countless political scandals, issues, and secrets? In addition to those national headliners, I’ve also evolved into a therapist, one accessible any time of day, night, holidays, weekends, birthdays.

In my perpetual selfishness, I HAVE to see others experience progress, and I’d travel to any lengths to ensure it.

I’m addicted to improving the lives of people I’ve never met because I can’t readily be the first line of defense between an impoverished, manic depressive teenage boy from Tallahassee and razor blades; but I can rally support to have his anti-depression medications easily available, and for his parents to work for more than starvation wages under attack by unfair tax burdens. Likewise, I’m also motivated to brighten up the darkest days of those I hold dearest because I can’t simply overcome political corruption to better influence national or state politicians and ensure that they support policies that benefit the huddled masses; but I certainly can visit a friend at three in the morning. Their breath reeking of alcohol and painkillers, I’m usually capable of convincing them to vomit up the bottles of brandy and Vicodin they swallowed, or therapeutically write on their legs instead of destroying them with sharp edges that have consequences.

In every waking hour of mine, my mind puts all experience in policy debate to weigh the best options for the country, and every ounce of wisdom I’ve procured from the first ‘dangerous’ situation thrust upon me to my friend’s issues that we’re discussing on the phone as I’m writing the draft of this blog post on a whiteboard in Atherton. Something drives me to put background knowledge to work. It strives for real solutions, and I’ve found my niche.

Two ideas in this post stuck out to me for my passion blog: politics and how it relates to the everyday, and stories or updates on the multitudes I’ve talked through hard times.

Or, maybe, a combination, like the main part of this post. I just need to hear feedback to decide.