It’s a wondrous bit of character, this optimism and hope. No one in my family possesses it. We pound and pound and work until something breaks and a little opening of light appears. I suppose it could be called optimism that we assume we can see that light eventually. But no, it’s really different. It’s not American at all. It’s our egos at work, not blind optimism about the world around us. It’s the idea that despite all the obvious and unforeseen obstacles, we will manage to beat the devil. It’s desperation that fuels us.
