There is no doubt. Children are passionate people. They may not be able to make legislative change. They may not be able to take to the streets in protest alone. Heck, they may not even be able to cross the street by themselves. But children have profound perceptions of the world. They view this monstrous planet with a clean lens, no one filtering their opinions or ideas yet. If only the adults acted like the youth. 

I was nine and I was confused. Surveying the screen hanging in the living room, the 2013 news plastered joyous footage of celebration. Love was in the air. Gay marriage was legal, supported, and appreciated everywhere. Well, not everywhere. Some people had savagely stomped onto the streets with their irate faces and seething signs. Not everyone wanted a version of love that all people could possess. But why would people hate love? Why would people get so mad at others rejoicing in relief at the news of equality? Why do they look so mad when everyone else, clothed in vibrant hues, spinning and swaying in jubilation, are happier than ever? 

I was 11 and I was upset. I spent weeks watching campaigns and learning what government was. I asked questions in my sixth grade social studies class, I reflected with my mom and I filled my brain to the brim with enticing election information. I could not quite define a Democrat or Republican, those were not important, but I could choose between right and wrong. Without a deep knowledge of politics, I knew the person I wanted to lead my country should be kind, warm, and selfless. Instead, I watched a man bully and bombard people with rockets of rude remarks. I watched a man mock minority men and women who did nothing to deserve his domineering diction. I watched a man who was not fit for the presidency. My eyelids quickly unstuck themselves the morning following election day. “What happened?” I anxiously asked my mother as she walked into my room. My mom stared back at me with sad eyes. This was not how the story should have ended. How could he win? How could a bully be my president? Our president? Our leader? 

I was 16 and I was perturbed. A democratic election. A fair democratic election. Staring at the mob of violent and wild Americans, I was appalled. “Freedom Fighters.” That’s what they were being called. Charging toward the Capitol Building, climbing on the ledges, smashing in the windows, sifting through desk drawers. These people were American traitors, not patriots, or protestors or freedom fighters. The rage in the people’s eyes were fueled by the president, the commander in chief, the leader of the nation. This was not America. Or was it? Was this just what we needed to expose the injustices and hypocrisy of America? Was threatening our deeply rooted democracy finally enough to open people’s eyes? 

I am older now and I do not want to just live confused, upset or perturbed. I do not want to just be perplexed, stunned and indignant. I do not want to let those intense, fiery sensations shackle me. Instead of watching the world in disgust, I will speak my mind. Instead of asking questions, I will seek solutions to the problems that once, and will always, infuriate me. I will voice my opinions. Ever since I was a child, I observed what was wrong and what was right. I will not sit and watch, but rise with the passions I possess. I will live like a child: thinking, believing, and doing all things with an open heart and an open mind.