[Congressional Record Volume 170, Number 96 (Wednesday, June 5, 2024)]
[Senate]
[Pages S3998-S3999]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]
TRIBUTE TO SENATE PAGES
Mr. BOOKER. Madam President, I stand here as a Senator of New Jersey,
but I think I am going to be representing all 100 Senators when I mark
this distinctive moment when the Senate will soon go into recess, and
we will end a week in the Senate that is not a typical week. It is a
week that happens once or twice every year where we say goodbye to a
class of pages.
And the truth of the matter is, it is a time that is emotional. I
have been to a handful of graduations. And even though the pages are
spending not even half a year here, the bonds that you experience here,
the friendships that you make, the fact that you are participating in
something so much larger than any one American is pretty significant.
You will have many graduations, I imagine, from high school, from
college, some of you from graduate school, some of you from medical
school--none of you from clown college, I think, because you lack
senses of humor.
But the reality is, this is a meaningful departure, a meaningful
graduation. And every year, I try to come down to the floor and express
my ire at the class. This one particularly has raised my dander--and it
is hard to do because I am bald. But this time something different
happened because of the extraordinary people who work in this
institution, not the Senators but the parliamentary staff. They made
the mistake of telling me that in past years, there were poetry
competitions. And I figured that since this class--probably worse than
any others--lacked the ability to share with me any jokes, we decided
to rekindle this moment that maybe we could have a poetry competition.
Now, I was handed, about 3 weeks ago, this very formal-looking
envelope that says, ``From the President of the United States,'' which
it is not--it is actually from pages--an envelope with poetry in it.
Forgive the alliteration, Madam President, but a pathetic paucity of
pages participated--just a small handful. There was a smattering of
page participation. It was very disappointing to me. But I had a chance
to review the 10 or dozen or so poems.
And given the poetic wisdom that I have gleaned in my years of
education in one poetry class in grade school, I have deigned who the
winners are.
And now I would like to read the bronze medal--this is an Olympic
year, after all--the silver medal, and the gold medal shining winner.
And what do you win? Nothing. I mean, actually, you win the distinction
before your peers of having your poem read as the gold medal poem and
entered into the Congressional Record forever, for eternity.
And so, first, I will do the third-place poem. These were all
extraordinary entrants. Everybody who participated is a winner--yada,
yada, yada, yada. OK.
I hope you got that, ``yada, yada, yada.'' OK. All right.
This first one was the third-place finisher. And here we go.
Division
Scrolling through your phone,
You don't see the friendship between Senators Booker and
Britt--
Sidebar. The only reason this one got into third place is because it
actually named my name. You do get awards in this place for being
obsequious, sycophantic, and more. Going back to the top--
Scrolling through your phone,
You don't see the friendship between Senators Booker and
Britt,
Not if you are at home,
But only if you sit where we sit.
Seen as division,
But united as one.
While ideas do bring collision,
We still stand under the same sun.
Watch them argue on the news,
See them as friends on the floor.
Even when it seems win or lose,
Their debates do not mean war.
The only way to realize, is if you see it with your own
eyes.
(Poem by Kathryn Murchison.)
That was actually really good. Bronze medal. Yes, we can have
applause in the Chamber, which is not technically allowed.
I didn't see anything. Raise your hand if that is yours.
It was tremendous.
All right. Names will officially be read into the Record later. But I
am going to go to No. 2.
O Capitol, Our Capitol
Here the Capitol lies
The Titan of the city
Standing to bridge divides
With many a committee
Busts and paintings they loom
And stairs trodden by masses
With halls that have seen history bloom
So quickly it all passes
Ideas come in and out
Always a deadline due
Change some bring about
But from what I know is true
The path we choose to follow
Will lead us to t'morrow
(Poem by Miriam Tsegay and Mira Murphy.)
Raise your hand if that was yours, by the way.
Oh, my gosh. Oh.
Why did you raise your hand then?
It was a collaboration. I don't know if that is fair. Not only is
this page class not funny, but they cheat.
No, no, no. Collaboration is important. It is important.
All right. This is the winning poem. The Gallery is full of media--at
least one person--to the tens of people watching on CSPAN at home.
No title for this one. It doesn't need it. It is the winning poem.
My country `tis of thee.
My parents' eyes gleamed with a dream.
Red, white, and blue stretched from sea to sea.
They were told ``work hard but don't run out of steam.''
Late dinners to unpredictable shifts.
Staying with my grandma felt like living in a world away.
It was almost too good to notice the reality of it.
[[Page S3999]]
Little did I know, it was like this every single day.
Years later, I'm in a world stuffed with suits, speeches,
and words that inspire.
They call me a patriot, a daughter of immigrants that walks
through the Brumidi Corridor.
Oh how my future came to transpire.
The beat of pride and uncertainty trails behind in an
uproar.
I trace the center of my palm before I lift my hand to my
chest.
Good morning, America, another day awaits for your glorious
unrest.
(Poem by Alina Hussain.)
Raise that hand. Be proud.
So, pages, this is my final farewell. I want you to know that it has
been a privilege to serve with each and every one of you. They separate
you on the sides of the dais, but truly you all were united in your
commitment to serve this institution.
It has been an honor to serve with each and every one of you. It has
been brief. But, I tell you, you guys have been gifts to us.
I asked for more, though, and you failed me. I am really shocked that
you could not step up, that you are the bottom of all the page classes,
in my 11 years, in humor, but you are going to be remembered by me at
the top of commitment and service.
And so in honor of that and this new tradition, which I didn't know
about, I want to shock you all. I am not sure if this has ever been
done on the Senate floor before, but in honor of this class of pages
and your paucity of poetry participation, I--the junior Senator from
New Jersey--have written you a poem.
Fasten your seatbelts. Let me show the poetic pages how it is done.
But I need somebody to help me out here.
Om, I saw your hand go up first. Om, you should take this spot.
Madam President, without objection, I would like the page to stand
next to me during my poetic verses.
The PRESIDING OFFICER. Without objection, it is so ordered.
Mr. BOOKER. Thank you very much.
Om, stand here. Not too close to me, Om.
When I signal to you, do what I signal. There is one moment in this
whole thing, don't mess it up. All right.
This may be the first embarrassing poem a U.S. Senator has written
and recited on the Senate floor. This is history, people. Here we go.
Pages!
Young wise, future sages, you have all had access passes to
the Senate's back stages.
Look at you, hanging out on the Senate floor. You do more
than just bring us water or open our doors.
You bring life to this August body; You bring the average
age down in this place from 90.
You remind us of our virile past; a testimony to the truth
that youth and hair go so darned fast.
You were told to stay silent. Though, on some days, perhaps
you wanted to scream, because you went without sleep and,
thus, were denied your chance to your own sweet American
dream.
And yet you witnessed the sausage-making of American truth,
debates, partisanship and perhaps--believe it or not--one or
two Senators acting a little uncouth.
Foreign leader visits and State of the Union speeches, only
to have to get up the next morning and pay attention to
whatever your teacher teaches.
God, you Pages! Out of your comfortable home cages.
You jumped into this experience despite all better wisdom
and a host of warnings:
You signed up for really late nights and some too many
early mornings.
What were you thinking?
You are clearly too young to have been drinking.
(Laughter.)
And yet, with a full-time job and a relentless academic
course load, you came; you saw; you conquered with a pace
that never slowed.
You may think what you do perhaps didn't make a difference
at all, but that is ridiculous because, at this end of the
historic Washington Mall, Pages sit humbly in the well of the
Senate, but their contributions stand tall.
Every day, I walk through those doors, to your smiles and
kind spirit in this Chamber so round. Good days or bad days,
you still gave me a solid pound or a smile or an earnest nod
of your head. You should know you subtly remind every single
Senator of what for this country is truly ahead.
Yes, a divided floor--Republican and Democrat, left and
right--but you all unify us because, in you, we see that
America's future is bright.
And you scramble to us after every speech, Please, may I
have a copy, you beseech.
But in the very gesture of us handing you our own words,
something more than symbolic occurs.
We hand tradition; we hand history; we hand off to a
courier that is you.
We both stand on the stage of history, but briefly, someday
soon, it will be over; for here, in the Senate, we all are
just passing through.
At the doors, hurried Senators literally pass you, but in
the span of time, who is actually going to pass who? For you
all, each of you, will experience tomorrows that we never do.
You are leaving here, my new young friends. This is now a
beginning and not an end.
You came here as individuals from all over the country. Now
you are tight-knit. You witnessed history here, but now it is
time for you to separate again and make it.
This Nation needs each and every one of you. It needs your
artistry; it needs your compassion; it needs your genius; it
needs your love.
This country needs your grit. It needs your struggle. It
needs your firm belief in what is possible. And, when this
Nation gets stuck, it needs your shove.
We handed you our best speeches, our best words, and you
took them all. But, soon, our time will have been past, and
it is up to you to make America a more perfect union, with
liberty and justice for all.
So my last piece of advice--and, yes, this is an insulting
poke--you guys really need to learn some much better jokes.
The truth--and this is the truth, and I am sorry it is not
yet sunny--you guys are awful and not that funny.
In fact, you are like cold, wet, soggy cereal. You have
given me no good jokes. It has all just been awful material.
So if this poem is going to have a final epitaph, it would
be to give you this: Give the world everything you have, but
never take yourself too seriously. Always remember to laugh.
(Applause.)
This is truly, truly an honor. You guys are really, really special. I
know I speak on behalf of the Senators: You will be missed, but all of
us are looking forward to witnessing your rise, your contributions, and
the light you are going to bring to a world that still has too much
darkness.
Madam President, I yield the floor.
The PRESIDING OFFICER. The majority leader.
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