This I Believe
Today I gave my last speech in my presentation speech class. The “This I Believe” speech, inspired by Edward R. Murrow’s radio show beginning in 1951, asks us to speak about our foundational perspectives that influence the way and reason we walk through life. Below is the transcript of the speech I gave today: my attempt at articulating one of my current beliefs.
I encourage you to think about what you believe, beyond a spiritual or religious context. What makes you the way you are? What beyond all else is why you continue on through another day? What makes life worth it? Think positively of what is rather than what isn’t. And if you write it, I would love to hear what you believe in the comments of this post. “This I Believe” is as much about what we personally believe, as it is understanding why other people think they do.
This I Believe
I believe in the broken. I believe in the mismatched unconventional things that the binoculars often looking at the greener grass on the other side often overlook. I believe in the seed that can grow from the most tarnished of soils and become a grand yellow tulip.
I guess I believe this way because I believe I was that seed and still am. When I was three years old my parents divorced. I don’t remember it really happening. Since I was so young, it just was. But the hatred between them never ceased to exist. My father then remarried… and divorced.
And From all of this, I learned to put myself to sleep. I remember sitting on the stairs awaiting my father to put me to bed as a young girl, but hearing the shouts and doors slam, I knew he wouldn’t come for a very long time.
I still remember the darkened hallway and the pure fluorescence of light pushing through the doorway from my room. The light attracted me, a magnet pulling me out of the darkness of the stairwell and into the light. I pulled the pink fleece up all on my own and drifted off to sleep.
The fighting, as terrible as its existence is, gives me a reason to think beyond my physical reality. I was given a choice. As an only child, my imagination became that light that took me out of that dark hallway and became my best friend.
If my physical reality couldn’t provide it, my mind would. My hands would. My perseverance would. And regardless of whether my young self processed this concept or not, I began. I found myself in classical guitar, committing myself to the repetitions of beats. I found art. I was quite terrible in the beginning, but a child’s innocence towards lines kept me moving forward.
Flash forward to this past year. The fighting got worse, my dreams for the future were a disgrace to some of my family, I made mistakes, and death struck my family and the world. And yet, I created some of my proudest work. Writing that appreciates the complexity of written word. Videos that remind me of the beautiful days, and my favorite paintings that behind each stroke hold a passion to thoughts that only ever were allowed to exist in my mind.
This dichotomy between my physical reality and my mind is best described by a phrase from one of my favorite songs: “100 bad days made 100 good stories.” The phrase is not about seeking to make mistakes (I tried that—it’s not a particularly good idea), but accepting them as they pass and making the most from that experience.
I believe that the most broken of things can be turned into one of those 100 good stories. My family is a wreck— not the worst, but certainly not the easiest. But without it, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to become self-driven, creative, and so entranced by my imagination. Behind each stroke of my paintbrush and each strum of my guitar is my story: a story that has opened a scene of both destruction and me putting the pieces back together—shards of glass arranged into a beautiful mosaic.
I am not a product of my circumstances, I believe, but rather I am a product of my response to my circumstances and finding the light shimmering through the broken glass.
Thank you
