Met Nicholas Kristof? I can.
About a month ago, I was doing my nightly laps between the cupboards and the refrigerator in my never-ending and desperate search for something sweet to eat, when my mom said—while still looking at her computer screen— "Hey Meg, guess who's coming to speak at my school?"
"I don't know, tell me." I replied, thinking that it couldn't be anyone important enough for me to take a legitimate break from my scavenging for sweets.
"Nicholas Kristof," she said. She knew she didn't need to say another word.
At first, I thought it was a joke. I thought that my mom had spit out his name just to grab my attention so she could tell me who would
really be coming—someone, I imagined, much less exciting. I immediately stopped my pacing and looked over at her with a disbelieving half smirk. The kind that seems to beg the question:
Are you telling the truth or are you setting me up for a good joke?
"No seriously, " she said. "And if I give a presentation about writing as a form of activism, I can meet him."
I choked on the imaginary sweets I was eating (which is code for I choked on my own spit but that's just too embarrassing to mention) and stared at her.
"Let me get this straight," pause. "You're telling me that
you," I said as I waved a pointing finger at her. "
You could meet
Nicholas Kristof—THE
Nicholas Kristof —if you give a presentation on activism?"
"That's what I'm saying."
"We must be thinking of different Nicholas Kristofs," I said.
"I'm talking about the op-ed writer of the New York Times, who are you talking about?" she replied.
I couldn't believe it. What business would an intelligent, forward-thinking, passionate activist like himself have in the Salt Lake Valley? (So I was being a wee tough on the state of Utah at the moment but it was what I was thinking. I can't help it) But it was true, she wasn't bluffing. Had she been, I was prepared to congratulate her for a joke well played.
"Are you going to do it?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said. Followed by a million reasons why she shouldn't or couldn't do it.
I don't know what I would present. I'm not a good writer. What if I submit a proposal and it doesn't get accepted? Etc., etc. This continued for awhile.
"I think you should do it" I interrupted.
"I'll think about it," she replied. And we all know what
that means.
But wouldn't you know, she decided to give it a shot and submit a proposal. And you know what happened next? ...
She was picked to be a presenter at the conference. She would be presenting. She would be meeting someone I view as a superhero. This is typically the moment where one would celebrate—not my mom. She beat herself up for weeks. She stressed about it 24/7. She came up with every reason, under the moon, as to why it wasn't going to work out. But despite her attempts to sabotage any amount of confidence she had left, she did it. She cultivated a beautiful and creative idea, she presented and shared it at the conference, and she lived through it.
I'm so glad she did it because not only did she get to meet one of the greatest human beings on this planet, but she created something wonderful that inspired a lot of people, myself included.
A quote from her presentation that stands out to me:
"If you think you're too small to make a difference, you haven't spent the night in bed with a mosquito."
My mom, looking her fears in the eyes and telling them to take a hike, is what's right in the world. My mom looking Nicholas Kristof in the eyes isn't too bad either.
