Yesterday, I returned to the city I called home for ten years. I left for the Bay Area in the summer of 2005, making a profound personal change. I found that I was ready for far more change than I could ever have imagined.
And now I am back, carrying something heavier than the overpacked suitcases, and holding something more precious than the embossed tickets. I’ve got Hope. Now I’m really in trouble.
Like many people, I had a bad reaction to the election of 2004. At the time, I was living in Washington, DC, with my husband, my young son and my baby daughter. Three years after 9/11, we were living in a city in lockdown, surrounded by metal detectors and concrete barriers. We were living under a government that treated the Constitution as disposable, the economy as private playground for the rich and powerful, and the world as beneath contempt. And in November of 2004, I knew it would not change any time soon.
I escaped with my family to California. I entered the ivory tower. I left the world of politics and policy behind – it was nothing but failure and disappointment.
And my new life was beautiful. I walked in the sunshine, read the work of important scholars, drank incredible coffee, and played with my kids. But Hope came to find me, and refused to take no for an answer.
Many people underestimate this simple four-letter word. "Hope" seems soft, aspirational, nice. It sounds overly simple, if not downright naïve. An unrealized, unrealizable, vague wisp of a wish. The refuge of the very young and the ungrounded idealists of all ages. Smart people will tell you: don’t waste your money on Hope. You will be left with nothing but your wasted energies and shattered dreams.
Hope is not for everyone. It is only for those strong enough -- or desperate enough -- to embrace it. It is cruel, harsh and demanding. Belief in change will break your heart almost every time. Hope won’t let you sit on the sidelines. You can’t take the easy way out. The disillusioned can safely withdraw. The Hopeful are driven to engage.
Dreams? Don’t get me started. A clear picture of the world as a better place is a painful mirror reflecting the failures and limitations of the world as it is. To have a dream is to accept the fact it may not come to pass in one’s lifetime.
Here’s the kicker: Hope is what makes change possible. In my time out here in the ivory tower I have been reading the work of social movement scholars, and research on what draws everyday individuals to fight tough battles against the status quo. It seems very likely that Hope is an essential ingredient. Unless you believe things can be better, you cannot sustain the sacrifices required to make that happen.
You don’t need to be an expert to see this. Leaders who inspire us to act can offer righteous anger, and devastating critiques. But the greatest offer Hope as well -- not just as a rhetorical flourish, but as an active demand that we step up, supported by the reassurance that our efforts will not be wasted.
Watching Milk a couple of weeks ago, I was struck by one fact I didn’t know. I didn’t know how many elections Harvey Milk lost before he won. I remember the part of the movie where he is ready to give up. Yet he perseveres. One more campaign. He Hopes once again, despite knowing how tough the fight will be. He opens himself up to the heartbreak of losing in order to win.
Almost exactly two years ago, I sat listening to an online video of a speech by a most unusual politician. I heard someone explain how a collective American sense of hopelessness, cynicism and despair is what allowed a government of fraud, waste and abuse to continue unchecked. And I heard him say two things. He said it didn’t have to be this way. And he said that we have the power to change it.
That man and his damned Hope ruined my life. Changed it forever. Drove me right out of my comfortable existence toward sacrifices I hardly knew I had in me. Did it to thousands of others, too. And together we convinced millions more to take the terrifying step of voting for Hope, at one of our nation’s darkest hours.
Now we’ve done it. We have made big promises that will be terribly hard work to deliver. Our new President has given everyday people a taste of power they will never forget, and we aren’t going anywhere. Right here in California, thousands of new Community Organizers are already taking what they learned through the campaign and applying it to their communities.
Hope means that Tuesday begins a new chapter that we have to help write. It means that next time I get disappointed I can’t just turn away and let someone else pick up the slack. It means that my belief in change must come with a commitment to act.
So I am ready. I know all about Hope. Hope is a four-letter word.