“For
there is always light, if only we're brave enough to see it.”[i]
Sometimes,
my fears and anxieties about working in the public sector are crippling.
I
think about how common it is to experience burnout in the nonprofit arena. I
think about the constant struggles for funding and other resources and the
problems that never get fixed and sometimes even intensify. I imagine the hard
conversations and disagreements I could have as a manager with the highest
stakes possible—human health and success. And I think that maybe I’m chasing
the wrong career.
My
doubts are usually fleeting, because I remember the flashbulb moments in my
life that steered me towards the public sector. One of my pivotal experiences
happened when I was 22 years old. I was far away from home, spending my
semester studying at Brigham Young University’s London Centre.
On
a fall afternoon I was wandering through an exhibit in the Museum of London—what
we called homework that semester. I remember stopping to read some words
printed on one of the museum walls. It was a poem called The London Breed
by Benjamin Zephaniah.
Zephaniah’s
words captivated me. They flowed into my soul. I could hear and smell and taste
the poem, almost like it was a 4D exhibit. Since I was with a group of friends,
I took a low-quality iPhone picture of the wall, planning to re-read the poem
when I had more time. I couldn’t stop thinking about the words for the rest of
the day, and during the nearly five years since that moment in the museum, the
poem’s message has come to my mind often.
Now,
I look back and try to remember why Zephaniah’s poem resonated with me so
instantly and deeply and why his words keep visiting me, but I can’t exactly
explain it. All I know is that the poem beautifully celebrates the mixing of
cultures and peoples that defines the history of London. It honors a breed of
people whose very identity and life is tied to the multiplicity of foods,
religions, music styles, traditions, and languages that ebb and flow in London.
Zephaniah
illustrates the chaos and the constant creation of an ever-evolving culture
that accompanies the tides of people arriving and putting down roots in London,
nurturing a growing number of members of the London Breed.
I
think this poem has stayed with me through the years because it articulates a
worldview that I had never considered before when I first read it, but found
unifying, hopeful, and accepting of change and new ideas. It changed me because
it enhanced my perspective on not only Londoners, but also all of humankind.
Zephaniah’s
love letter to London helped me be brave enough to see the potential for joy
and light in scary and complicated and wild places and situations. It taught me
that differences and change and newness can be celebrated, honored, and
encouraged to grow. The sentiments in the poem fostered in me a deeper and more
complex love for the communities and societies I belong to; it encouraged my
desire to contribute to making the places I love function and thrive and
realize their potential.
Since
that day in the museum, I’ve heard and read other words from academics,
activists, classmates, colleagues, leaders, family, and friends that have lifted
and changed me and encouraged my journey in the public sector. Words have
steered me to understanding and action countless times.
I
continue to learn over and over again that the messages we send and receive have
very real power. Benjamin Zephaniah couldn’t have known that his poem would encourage
a young American college student to immerse herself further in her communities.
We can’t know how we affect the work, service, and beliefs of the people our words
touch.
We
must be brave enough to see the light and to speak it. The messages we send can
transform our relationships and communities. I know this because on January 20th
of this year, another poem struck my core and enlightened my heart and mind.
This time, I, along with millions of others, witnessed a young poet named
Amanda Gorman recite her message live.
Gorman
helped me more fully realize my identity when she shared the words she had
carefully crafted. She taught me about my history, my struggles, and my legacy
as an American. Her words were a balm for the fears and anxieties I’ve felt as
I’ve begun immersing myself in the public sector during the last few years.
And, I realized that as her words reached millions of other households along
with mine, her message would multiply, and she would never know the extent of her
impact. She encouraged improvement and progress and hope in me, and, I venture
to say, in millions of others.
The
struggles and disagreements will continue. The problems will perpetuate. The fight
for resources will be exhausting. Violence and injustice and bad policies and
corruption won’t dissipate overnight. But, being a public administrator means
being a servant and caregiver of a 244-year-old institution that is continually
progressing and reconciling with its past mistakes and shortcomings and inching
closer to stewarding its people the way it should.
Being
a public servant means that I can choose to nourish the good, share messages that
encourage and enlighten, and speak this truth to power:
“For
there is always light, […] if only we’re brave enough to be it.”[ii]
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