Tuesday, November 2nd, 2004 was going to be the day that I helped change the world. The possibility of that change flooded my thoughts and adrenaline my heart at the knowledge of what goodness the day would bring. I was unable to sleep. Rolling fitfully in my bed, my eyes wide open, my thoughts so clear and infused with optimism.

How do you sleep the night before you change the world?

I gave up on sleep in the middle of the night. I read news articles on the internet. I tried to watch SportsCenter, but found that I could not focus on the scores. I returned to my computer and read more news articles. I showered, I dressed, and I arrived at my polling place 45 minutes before it opened, because I could think of no place else to go.

I felt change.

They say to “write what you know.” They seem to be on to something. So from now on, I am going to write what I know, beginning with this brief list:

I know the quadratic equation.
I know the words to all the theme songs from the Disney Afternoon.
I know by heart the delivery phone number for Yummy House.
I know how to connect anyone to Kevin Bacon in no more than six steps.
I know how to program the clock on the VCR.
I know verses by Shakespeare, Thoreau, and Dr. Dre.
I know what subtext is.
I know the entire cast lists of Saved by the Bell and every incarnation of Star Trek. Except “Enterprise.”
I know how to bullshit a five paragraph essay the morning that it’s due and
I know how to get an A on it.
I know that this information will be of no more help to me in my life, ever.
I know every phone number that I learned before 2001, but none since because
I know how to use the phone book on my cellular.
I know the New Testament like the back of my hand and I know why it’s wrong like the back of my other hand.
I know that my disease with religion rests somewhere between reasonable and overly harsh.
I know how to tie a tie in about three tries.
I know how to cook pasta on a stove.
I know the difference between “your” and “you’re.”
I know how to use an apostrophe and
I know you hate it when I tell you that you misused it, but
I also know for sure that you’re going to have to deal with it until you learn.

I know that this life is far, far too short and
I know that that is both unfair and wonderful.

I know what the world looks like from the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, and 38,000 feet.
I know that a surefire sign of youth is being either too optimistic or too cynical, and I can feel myself vacillating between the two extremes with very little regard for the middle ground.
I know what hope feels like.
I know what it felt like to cast my vote on that cold, dark morning and
I know the joy I felt because I was going to do more than just vote. The shame I would feel at the end of the day for not doing enough. I loaded into a rental car packed with people. I listened to NPR and discussed how much we would win by. How tomorrow the world would forgive us. How these four fast friends and I would take Philadelphia by storm. How we would change the world, together.

We waved signs and sent shouts skyward, responding to car horns of acclamation and jeers from the opposition. I walked miles through a city I did not know, ringing doorbells and begging people to claim their constitutional right to make their voice heard. A man in a business suit saw our signs and spit on us, and we did not know how to react. An old woman smiled at us, and saluted us, and told us that she could not wait for us all to get drafted so that we could go to Iraq and die. My stomach reacted violently to a sleepless night, ten cups of coffee, and no food at all. I struggled through the pain, following winding suburban streets to knock on the doors of strangers. I told myself that there was no possible way the Republicans were as disorganized as my party was, with our mish-mash lists and uncertain leaders. I felt pride at doing my part for change. I felt cocky for supposing to go to a neighboring state to tell them what to do. I felt elation at victory achieved in Pennsylvania. Then I felt sickness as I finally collapsed into bed, unable to even comprehend what had happened.

So I want to write what I know. But I also want to write hope, and right now I fear that the two are incompatible. I want to write that knowledge is power, and I want to write that I live in a world of compassion, and in a country of wisdom and goodness. I want to write that a few young, scrappy people can affect social change and I don’t want to be made to feel childish for believing that.

I want to sing, and I want to dance, and I want to say that this is worth it, and that his matters. I want to learn and love, and I want to come to the end of my meager allotment of days knowing that I have lived.

I want to stand in a high, open place and scream how wonderful it all is, how wonderful and strange.

I want to know joy.

I want to write these things, but these are things I hope and want. These are not things that I know. What I know feels too useless and cheap, too old and too weak. Too hopeless. Too cynical. Like Fox Mulder’s poster, I want to believe. I want to write boldly and speak loudly.

I want to know these things I hope. More than I can say.

So forget it. Forget the maxim and the teaching and the common wisdom. I am going to write what I do not know. I am going to write what I hope unwaveringly. Because knowledge springs from hope, and if that’s not true then it ought to be.

So sing and dance and shout from a high, open place. Don’t let one day or four years or eight years decide the way you’ll see the world. Sing loudly. Dance boldly. Shout with all you possess. Our ignorance will become our strength, and our words will change this world.

And if you say to me that this is the naiveté of youth, then I say “Fuck you, and fuck getting older, because I believe in a world of hope!”

Or, at the very least, I believe in a world where I can hope for hope.

I think that’s what I’ll be writing from now on.