I have such a difficult time thinking about all the hurt in the world, because if I actually allow myself to think about it, then I hurt, and that pain rarely, if ever, leads to anything constructive. So instead I avoid, and avoid, and read news headlines with eyes that are glazed over with a gauzy curtain of denial. There was one time, that stands out in my memory, when I allowed myself to really, absolutely acknowledge tragedy and it was one of the worst, darkest days for me. The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary… All those kids… I couldn’t ignore it, so I felt it. I felt all of it and I was angry when I saw people, who weren’t feeling all of the hurt that I was feeling. I went to my school’s chapel that day, and sat alone, and I cried. I walked to my car after school, and it was like I weighed too much to walk normally. It was like these marbles of sadness were piling up in my legs, my arms, and my stomach. There was nowhere for the sadness to go and there was nowhere I could go to feel better, so I breathed in the feeling and I wasn’t any better from it. One of my teachers hugged me, and smiled that sad, knowing smile, reserved for such exchanges between an older, wiser adult and a younger one. I was angry. Why wasn’t she falling apart like I was falling apart? I understand better now. It’s because those tragedies hurt too much. Sad things happen too often. It’s almost counterproductive to grieve for everything. Leave that to God. Leave that to someone who can handle it. Leave that for another time, another place, and another universe. Growing up means picking and choosing what to care about. That sounds horrible, and I could be really off base here, but I don’t know how else to live because, if I acknowledge every tragedy, then I won’t ever leave my house again.
I can’t change someone’s mind. I can’t make people be kind. I can’t wrestle a gun from anyone’s hand. I can’t force someone to love instead of hate. I can’t even focus on one thing to actively fight against because there are simply too many things that are wrong.
I love reading enormous, imaginative fantasy stories because the path is so perfectly laid out and the battle is so clear. In reality, I can’t accomplish such huge acts of greatness, like destroying the last horcrux in order to end Lord Voldemort, or putting all the bad people in jail and keeping all the good people safe. Heck, I don’t even know who’s good and who’s bad. I’m lost all of the time, and I like to read books in which people are found. A lot of people like to do that. That’s nice, isn’t it? You would think that I would feel more assured in the knowledge that many, many people want to do heaps and heaps of good. Most people want to shower the world with goodness. They just aren't sure how to do it.
When I was younger, I was obsessed with this book series, called Warriors, about a clan of cats in the forest, who battle other cat clans and fight for dominance and land and all that. I know it sounds dumb, and I actually laughed a little to myself when I read that sentence again, but I really, truly loved those books. The hero is an undeniably noble character, who commits these beautifully selfless acts of bravery in the name of his clan and the greater good. I remember sitting on my heels in bed late one night, clutching the book to my chest and praying for God to put me inside the story. There had been some mistake. I wasn’t meant to live in a world where I didn’t fit in anywhere, where I didn’t know what battle I was supposed to be fighting, or if I was even supposed to be fighting anything at all. I wanted to treasure that same sense of belonging, drive, self-worth, and purpose, which the characters possessed in the book. I wanted to believe in something. I wanted to know that I was doing the right thing.
I still wish my future was easier to see and I still search for the feeling of “belonging”, but, over the years, I have come to my own conclusions regarding what is right and what is wrong. I have learned that there is bravery, and there is stupidity. There is passion, and there is fury. If I feel strongly about something, I must speak about it slowly and carefully. I must remind myself that not everyone was brought up how I was brought up, that not everyone sees the world the way I see the world, that it’s never okay to be angry when someone doesn’t understand my point of view. People can’t be outlets for our anger. We can only learn from one another.
Since coming to Russia, I have been asked if I have any black friends in the U.S., and if said black friends are funny; I have seen pictures of Russian students wearing Blackface on Instagram; I have heard the “N-word” used in casual conversation. It makes my stomach hurt. I don’t know what to say. What should I say? What should I do? Which situations merit a response, and which are better to leave alone? I made a new Russian acquaintance – someone who I respect and admire very much – and, a little while ago, he showed me a video of himself and his friends lip-syncing to Beyoncé in a school talent show, with their faces painted black. It appeared to all be in the name of good-natured fun. There were no racial slurs spoken. There was no intent to harm, but it was still so, so, so wrong. Blackface isn’t okay. It disseminates from a history of disgusting bigotry and ignorance. Not everyone knows that it’s not okay, or understands why it’s not okay. Not everyone knows the history behind Blackface. It’s not their fault that they don’t know. It’s not my place to blame people for what they don’t know. However, it can be my place to, at the very least, draw attention to it.
When confronted with such blatant racism, as I was with the Blackface video, it’s hard to know what to do. So, I didn’t do anything. Was that right? No, no, definitely not. In the moment, I did a balancing equation in my head, measuring the worth of the effort to explain such a delicate, massive issue against the level of impact such an explanation would leave behind. I decided to let it go and move on, without saying anything at all. I decided that I didn’t have the power to change something that was so much bigger than myself, something so deeply ingrained into a society of which I am not a part and do not fully understand. Upon further reflection, I now see how wrong I was. My hope should be to share what I have learned. My purpose should be to make horrible things a little less horrible by reducing big, scary, hateful conventions into an open, friendly conversation with one person – a person who is learning how to approach and interact with the world, just as I am.
I refuse to be someone, who despairs so much over what happens to the world that I am unable to acknowledge small opportunities for positive growth. There’s so much I have no control over. In that moment, I had the opportunity to influence someone’s perceptions and sensitivities the tiniest, littlest bit, but I let it slip by. I will do better next time.