Is this really the best we can be?

“Every day we have a choice. We can take the easier road, the more cynical road, which is a road sometimes based on a dream of a past that never was, fear of each other, distancing and blame, or we can take the much more difficult path, the road of transformation, transcendence, compassion, and love, but also accountability and justice.”

– Jacqueline Novogratz –

A few years ago, I read a book by Ian Bremmer called The J Curve: A New Way to Understand Why Nations Rise and Fall (highly recommend). Bremmer’s essential point was that there is inevitable instability when an authoritarian nation opens and moves toward a liberal democracy, and vice versa.  I remember being struck by the complexity of the world (there are stable regimes and chaotic democracies) and yet certain that the United States of America would always be a democracy.  

I’ve also mainly thought of our country as “a light unto the nations,” a strong symbol of prosperity, equality, opportunity, and hope for the larger world.  When I recently read Samantha Power’s account of her experiences as a reporter and then UN Ambassador, I was amazed at her strong will to make a difference in an upstream fight. Finally, finishing Mary Trump’s riveting account of her family’s extreme pathologies last night, I’m convinced that we are sliding down that J Curve with our deepening social and political divides.

I’m not known for my astute following of the news or for being up on the latest anything, so my husband, a pop culture guru in my eyes, frequently tells me tidbits that he thinks I should know in order to properly function in society.  I am an artist, a mother, more of an academic than a community organizer. So it has been a shock to both of us that since this pandemic began, I am devouring statistics and news stories like mad. When my husband mentions a recent event to me, not only do I already know about it, but I can tell him so much more because of all the newsletters I’m now subscribed to.

I feel a responsibility.

I simply cannot look away because I feel an overwhelming responsibility, like if I bear witness to the disturbing unrest and chaos in America at this moment, I’m doing some small thing. Following the “news” is definitely accelerating my sense of despair and inhibiting me in my parenting role, but my Jewish faith teaches that we may not be silent in the face of injustice.

As one of America’s 331 million citizens and the many others living here who benefit our society, I will not be one of the many complicit when someone 200 years from now reads about the collapse of America’s leadership and democracy in a history book. How did this happen? How could so many people just go along with things? Well, we’ve all seen it time and time again and the ending doesn’t change just because we know better. My mother used to say, “when you know better, you do better.” So what is our excuse this time?

I am a natural empath and I feel others’ suffering or emotion deeply.  I do so much better when I avoid negativity and instead read novels and spend time in study and doing educational and fun activities with my daughter.  I like my bubble, but I’m disturbed and full of angst as I learn about the unrest in our cities, the horror of lynchings down the street from me, Anti-Semitic displays, and sheer ignorance in the face of science. 

We must each use our individual talents and wisdom to benefit and elevate other people and our collective whole. It is with this in mind that I write this with the best of intentions. I don’t know who to call or what else to do to help us. Ideally, putting this out there will make some sort of a positive difference.

I’m losing my optimism.

I’ve been observing myself and my feelings lately and pondering what the appropriate response is. When my family watched the various 4th of July celebrations on TV, I recognized a familiar exhaustion. My heart soars when I see the shining lights at the Lincoln Memorial and hear the US Navy Band playing the 1812 Overture; my heart sinks when I consider the rage and sense of futility that is fueling unrest in our cities.  Sitting next to my 11-year-old daughter, I wanted to be celebratory together, but I had trouble. Sure, we made patriotic cupcakes and donned red, white, and blue, but I didn’t know what to say to her about current events because I’m losing my optimism.  I am despairing and I am naively hopeful at the same time. Showing my daughter all disillusionment is not a possibility for me, nor is it possible for me to blithely sing Stars & Stripes Forever as if there are no traumatic family separations at our border.

This is new terrain for me: having to moderate my feelings for the benefit of a future generation.  When my daughter was born, I had a strong conviction that she is here to help in a positive transformation of some kind. I felt respect and awe right away for whatever role she would play in elevating humanity and I am humbled still at my own place in helping her to get there to do her thing, whatever that is. I realize that sounds a bit nutty, so I don’t talk about it, but I sure do feel confused right now as I spend 14 hours a day with her in our house, day in and day out. I want to put good ideas in her mind and I’m not sure how to best do that, especially when all she wants to do is watch “how to” YouTube videos. What magic combination of connectivity, perseverance, and knowledge will she need to create a meaningful future?

I do not understand the selfishness.

America as presented to the larger world is currently a sham. It began with a small group of priviledged individuals who obliterated most of the native population, selfishly brutalized others in order to elevate themselves, and destroyed any natural reverence of the land in favor of profit.  Most activists over the last 244 years who have urged us to confront our truths have been assassinated or murdered. I do not understand the selfishness we are seeing in those who will not wear a mask to save others from this virus. I do not understand why we can change the name of a rock band but we can’t figure out how to help inner city kids get to college. I don’t know what I can practically do.

It’s not only unAmerican, it’s inhuman.

I know the fragility of life and yet it often feels like no one is in charge here.  The disrespect for others that we are seeing all around us just crushes me. That is not only unAmerican, it’s inhuman. We cannot be “all in this together” when we see babies in cages, our free press being censored, and our malignant narcissist of a hopeless “leader” willing to ignore a global pandemic, to insult world leaders, and to shut down every program that has led to a flourishing and open democracy and go play golf, declaring everything to be rosy.

“This is not who we really are!”

I am so embarrassed on behalf of our country and want to proclaim to the rest of the world, “This is not who we really are!” Cultural exclusivism is not strength or confidence; it is a sign of weakness and fear.  I have a deep uncertainty that our country can overcome these challenges if we do not vote out the sociopath in the White House. I fear that our election may be rigged anyway. If we allow a law to be passed or our elected officials to be silent when they see injustice, we citizens are complicit in our own destruction. 

How do we push forward in the face of such despair? How do we move beyond “us vs. them” and see the interconnectedness we share? How do we get someone to feel that a shivering and hungry homeless person is ourselves? How can we transform this fear of others into compassion and a determination to transform the group?

Despite these things, I am still grateful to live in comfort in this country, terminally optimistic that tomorrow will be better than today. I hope to show my daughter (and myself) that we have agency, that there is the possibility that we are just shy of that tipping point when we will see true unity and equality, a healthier planet, and a global togetherness.  This is a time of enormous challenge, yet there are countless ways to take action.

What will you do?