Memories, don't live like people do - B

I can remember it like it was yesterday. One of my fraternity brothers worked as a lobbyist for Coca-Cola. One July 4th weekend celebration, he was able to get a few of us passes onto the white house lawn for the 4th of July fireworks display. Additionally, there was a speech to be delivered by then President Clinton.

I must admit, more than anything else about that day, I can remember how ridiculously hot it was. But the excitement of being there created a gentle breeze about my body. The little kid from Brooklyn was doing things outside of Brooklyn. All of the correct steps I had taken were now starting to pay off.

I can remember sitting on the lawn with a few of my friends and contemplating what life would be like if I had made that left instead of that right? What if I had gone up instead of down? I kept placing myself in worlds that had become a bit foreign to me; worlds that defy the natural birthright of logic and discernment. Worlds that continuously throw you curveballs and even though you have proven in the past you cannot hit those curveballs, you continue to swing as they come anyway. It was a moment of deep reflection and I needed exactly that moment in time to have them.

As dusk appeared, so did the band. As the band began to play, President Clinton, flanked by Hillary Rodham Clinton and a couple of other really important looking men appeared out of the White House and began waving to the crowd. It was an exciting experience to say the least. I’m not one to get star struck, but this was the President of the United States of America. This man had ultimate governance over my well-being. I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the fact that I was standing a few meters from him.

I must be honest, I cannot recall the exact message he delivered in his speech. I don’t mean to say that to undermine its significance or importance, but it is peripheral information against the backdrop of my story. Upon completion of his speech, President Clinton came down and walked close to a crowd that was hovering by a rope that separated us from him. Sensing the moment, I walked up toward the rope about a meter from where he was standing. As he waved, he began to walk along the rope and shake hands with those in attendance. I couldn’t believe it!!

He was walking in my direction. I didn’t realize he was so tall either. As he came down the line, I can remember being behind about 5 people clustered tightly together. And each of us had our hands extended so that President Clinton could grab hold and give it a shake. It so happens that I am tall as well. And I am black. I’m not sure which of those two physical descriptions had more of an impact, but the next thing I knew, President Clinton reached has hand through the five people separating him and I and grabbed my hand. He looked me straight in the eye and nodded with a smile.

Now, I’m not homosexual, but I must admit, I did have a moment there. It was an exhilarating feeling. The experience coupled with my earlier reflections forged into a story I would not soon forget. Jaramogi Kareem Adams, the boy who grew up in a poor and tough neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York, was shaking the President’s hand in front of his house.

It is from life’s most extemporaneous moments that a person constructs his history. His history, the indelibly etched markers on the calendar’s canvas, ought to ultimately lead to a life story about choices and decisions. As we make decisions each day, we might want to keep in mind the lasting impact these decisions may have. It might not effect what happens to you at the point you make the decision. It might not impact you tomorrow or the next day. But as we live, no part of our lives is ever skipped; it is what separates the man from his biography. Every day could be another story told, but we must be willing to live it. And we must be willing to share it. It is important to live a life worth sharing. If not to all, then to a select few.

I can remember a week later being back home in New Jersey and watching a soccer match on television that was being played at the Rose Bowl in Pascedena, CA. What was remarkable about this game is that in the middle of it, a television camera panned from ground level up to a seat on the mid tier of the stadium. In that seat was President Clinton. Just one week prior, I had shaken his hand in front of the White House. The next week, he was on the other side of America enjoying a US Women’s soccer match.

I love a good story, don’t you?