the audacity to...

I have this drawer in my desk that doesn't close. It rolls a centimeter open and however many times I try to shut it, it rolls right open again. I tell my dad of the annoyance, as if he should be able to fix it. He's equally astounded by the opening drawer. Isn't the fundamental job of a drawer to close?

I hypothesis reasons as to why it refuses to tuck away in its appropriate position. An answer none other than cheap manufacturing of either the house or the desk seems the most logical. The house is a product of booming tract developments and lacks straight edges; the desk a product of Ikea. I presume the builders of neither prided themselves on genuine quality.

It seems a bit ridiculous to complain. I've had this desk for more than a decade, and I've lived in this house for two. The comfort in having a home is a luxury I know many don't enjoy. Yesterday I was soaking in my tub after a ridiculous day of teaching kindergarteners, thinking of how long I've claimed my bathroom as my own.

I've been thinking a lot lately about Obama's campaign theme the "Audacity to Hope." It's intriguing how such a powerful slogan translates amid the average day's exposures. It is without a doubt that in our country we are at the point of desperation for a savior: a person who courageously defies the corrupt trellises that have made our country a palimpsest of shame. Yet the thing I fear is the word itself--audacity.

[me·ton·y·my--a figure of speech that consists of the use of the name of one object or concept for that of another to which it is related, or of which it is a part, as “scepter” for “sovereignty,” or “the bottle” for “strong drink,” or “count heads (or noses)” for “count people.” ]

Is audacity metonymical for America, and is that part of the reason why so many favor this candidate of keen game and masterful ego? We have the right to be audacious because we are American. We are individual self-seekers who will stop at nothing to attain the best there is to offer because we are emboldened by the sheer disposition that is American audacity. It is without a doubt this audacity has taken us places others in our world may never even fathom. Four cars a plot and the finest granite kitchens! The right to job security and a hopped up Stock Market! Female prostitute's Myspace pictures around every corner and the guilty politician's wife standing beside him!

Audacity! Audacity! Audacity!

It is our plight as Americans to embody audacity with all-mighty pen and sword.

Yesterday, a 5-year old student of mine faced major trauma during computer lab when he got the sudden urge to take a poop. Being that as the teacher I am the captain of all things bathroom (mind you although I do have a controlling personality, I don't pride myself on this variety of control) little Vincent popped up off his computer desk looking into my eyes desperately to report his need for the toilet.

"Go! Go!" I proclaimed.

He ran off, seemingly fearful of the natural force working its way through his rectum. I was astounded as to why. In my childhood, whenever such an occasion came without great strife, I felt sublime relief.

Soon he was back from the toilet, recruiting one of his peers to help. I sent a reliable munchkin to talk him through his dirty work. She quickly returned in desperate need of a male munchkin. In my thinking, Vincent may have just needed some verbal encouragement, who better to send then a kinder role model. They both came running back from the potty in utter despair.

"VINCENT'S IN TROUBLE! HELP! HELP!"

At that point it seemed a desperate time, dire enough for the aid of the teacher. I ran through the halls seeking out the bathroom, when finally, I came upon little Vincent, sitting atop a toilet brim full of healthy shit.

"What is wrong?"

In annoying child garble, Vincent muttered "Tissue... Tissue."

"It is right there. You can do it Vincent. You can!"

"Nooo. My grandma always wipes for me. You have to do it." Oh hell no I didn't. Not to a five year old.

He mustered up the courage to tear off some tee-pee. Wipe! Wipe!

"But how do I know it's all gone? Can you see it? Can you?"

Holy, holy shit.

Later on in the afternoon I observed Vincent asking a fellow classmate if he knew how to do his own tucous work. It must've been an epiphanous moment for him when the boy said, "Ya. Don't you?"

Since then I've wondered why his grandma decided to wipe for him for the past five years. I hope after such a traumatic time on the pot, he's discovered the audacity to do it himself.