Seeking Refuge: Extremism, Hope, and an Image of Audacity
4:38 PM
"The enemies" of which he speaks are the displaced Syrian refugees and the Muslim-Americans who you call friend, business-owner, co-worker, and neighbor.
With a blatant disregard for both the First and Fourteenth Amendments, as well as global history, Trump quite frighteningly didn't dismiss the idea of requiring all Muslims to wear identification badges, and suggested the surveillance of American mosques.
While I'm disappointed at myself for even spending a moment to entertain Donald Trump as a serious candidate, I am even more disappointed that there are others who believe that such bigotry, such a lack of compassion, such ignorance, and such offense would "make America great again." There are actually men and women out there who have come so far as to lose their ability to distinguish notions of political correctness, with simply being a good person.
But this isn't about Donald Trump... not really. This is about the extreme nature of his rhetoric and its supportive body.
American extremists who read an entitlement to automatic weapons into the Second Amendment but exclude Islam from the clear language of the First. A contemporary establishment making a new age Nazi -type regime seemingly completely possible. Persons who astound me with the ease at which their hatred falls in line.
The roots of hatred which violently thrash are not founded in my faith or yours; they are not established in the grounds of Christian lands or Muslim countries. Hatred is born and bread in the shadows of extremism - of any variety. This extremism is what puts us at risk, it's what poses to separate and dissect our humanity.And in all of this... my heart hurts. As I prepare for law school exams I take a moment and reflect on the fact that as I am now, even with my anxiety over the tests yet-to-come, am so incredibly lucky. The chances that I as a young woman would be studying for exams in an institution of higher education would drastically decrease by the mere nature of my not being American. Not only that but my entitlement to study the law increases those odds even more. I take a moment to reflect on the privilege I hold to navigate not only this world but our society as a member of the white, Christian, middle-class. I think about my home and my warm bed, my family and my friends. I think about the assurance that I'll see them later, and tomorrow, and the day after that...
And in doing so, it occurs to me: what would I even take? What would I be able to carry? I don't even have a backpack. My laptop? Would that be worth the weight if I can't find access to the Internet? Maybe I could sell it? But I wouldn't know to whom. Would I worry about blankets? Or just try and put on all my warmest clothes? Would I take photographs of my family? My grandparents' wedding portrait? What about medications?
So I imagine...
Water valves are blown open, and streets in actual rubble - and not in the way the gossip column of my hometown paper would normatively describe rubble -- but actually, really, truly. I walk my 93-year-old Grandfather to the car; I throw his walker in the back. I didn't think to grab a can-opener so the trunk is filled with bread and whatever granola bar boxes my dad left on the counter the night before.
Is my mom working at the hospital? People have got to be hurt, they probably need her there. Should I go there to find her? My dad doesn't work too far away - should I wait for him to come home? This isn't a storm, the basement surely can't be the best place for us to go? Half our neighborhood is already gone, flat, gone. We can't hide - I can see straight through to the kitchen of my neighbor's little yellow house... well, this morning, anyway, it was a clear creamy yellow. I hear sirens, but I don't see anyone coming. The noise of them is going every which way, but it's not coming here. I check my phone: no service. There are no flashing lights here because they must be needed everywhere.
I drive until the roads are blocked, there's no way to get over the bridge to where I think my mom will be - maybe dad went there, too? He could have gone south-bound. Surely, he's trying to get to her too.
The road becomes so congested that families are abandoning their cars - children are taken out of their car seats, and put on backs and shoulders, and there's crying, so much crying.
Nonno can't walk. His legs are too tired and weak, he needs his walker. He says to leave him there, and go on without him. I can't do that... Another one ignites, first light, then the noise - noise of the explosion, noise of cries and screams. The parallel bridge, and all the people on it: gone.
I'll never find my mother. I wonder where they would run if they were trying to get out of the city? To my sister, in Boston? Surely not, that would be even worse - we haven't been able to get the news or the radio for hours now, but if I had to guess, I'd guess the city is even more of a mess. I'm thinking now of my sister and her husband; they're smart... Vermont - they probably are trying to get to our friend's house in Vermont; it's secluded and mostly back roads. Yes, yes, that's it, they must have left Boston! We will meet them there!! For a quick moment I think of holding my dad's hand as a little girl at Fenway Park, my favorite place - surely gone by now. For the first time in this whole ordeal, I start to cry.
Not knowing is far worse than knowing for sure; and all at once I've become immobile thinking about my friends, and my sister, and my parents. Where are they? Will I ever see them again? None of these people look familiar. I find myself scanning the now-running crowds: "Do I know you? Do I know you?"
How far can the 3/4 of the tank of gas in my car get us? Three hours? Maybe four? I wipe my eyes and run back to the car - we'll see how far we can get, surely they've got to have the National Guard directing traffic by now - yes, yes, I'm sure they've set up some kind of place for me, for us, to go - Daddy will be there, Momma will be there, my sister will be there... where it is I don't know, but hope is the only spring from which we can now drink.
I back up my car - driving over and under, dead end after dead end. "North, just keep going north." I ask Nonno questions about growing up "just talk to me"... he sings me songs he danced to while he was on leave from the Navy, his Rat Pack-esque voice sings "it's been a long-long time"
I see the familiar signs, we're almost there, English AND French... Canada is close!! Mile and kilometer markings line the highway... They'll protect us, surely, they're able.
A boarder-patrol officer approaches my car - I realize he can't be much older than me. I also realize that I'm not as young as I thought... nearly 30, I am by no means a child. I also realize how far away from being an adult capable of navigating such an experience I am, and yet, I have no choice. I wonder if my parents, wherever they are, in their sixties ever felt ready, or my grandfather who now sits, cold and tired, at 93 would feel ready.
"License and registration. Do you have a passport?" he says. YES! I think in my head, my travel wallet! My passport is in there! I always keep it in there!! I don't have one for Nonno, but surely he can be an exception? Right? Thank goodness! He takes my passport, my license, and my car information and leaves me at the gate. Two more cars are now behind me, one without windows... "it's okay, you've made it, too" I send the skinny young boy in the driver's seat a mental affirmation.
The guard catches my eye, and I know now, that the hope that has gotten me through the last several hours has slipped out the window as the cool air has come in. I can see it, on his face: he cannot help me.
I'm told that I must turn around. I can hover near the boarder but they will not let me past the line. I am advised by this young man - whose blue eyes, in any other situation would have been distracting, but today hit me like the ice with which they share their color - that should we try to enter, we will be forcibly removed.
He looks at my grandfather, sitting in the front seat and says: "Canada is not accepting any Americans like you. It's too dangerous."
"Like me?" comes out of my mouth - Nonno says nothing, because he can't hear the tone of the man's voice, it's too low. He's closed his eyes and breaths deeply, in and out, and in, and out. "We've closed our boarders to extremists. Dylan Roof, killed 9 people in South Carolina. I see on your flight record that you've been there. You're white. You're Christian. You're American. We can't have people like you coming here and putting our nation at risk."
~~~
How often the times in American history of which we have to be most ashamed are those when we have turned our backs to those in need. A country built by immigrants, established by those seeking refuge and freedom from prosecution: how grateful am I to have grown up in a world where I feel, even with all of our conflict, safe. How truly blessed I am to have gotten to go to school, to have access to clean water and more food than I could ever possibly eat. How grateful I am that my culture has recognized my humanity as a woman, and has preserved in our society intangible rights to speak and move, and think, and pray freely.
These men, these women, these children have nothing but the belongings they've carried on their backs and the audacity to hope, a preprogrammed disposition of the human condition. Hope that they can be together, hope that they can keep each other safe. Hope that maybe, someday, this will all be over.
It is this hope that keeps us going. Hope that we will be loved and kept safe, hope that we, as a society, will be able to self-correct. Hope that is so deeply embedded in our hearts that it keeps us going, one day at a time, keeps one foot in front of the other.
I would rather die, standing with hope in my heart and with hands out-stretched, than live, sitting in resolution with my back turned to those in need. I'd rather act of this hope, and share in this hope, and give to others with this hope, than find myself falling to my knees, asking for forgiveness, ashamed, that I did not do what I was capable of.
The First Amendment protects the right of all persons to worship their God - or not at all - in the way that they so choose. It is therefore my responsibility as an American to ensure that the rights of my fellow country men and women, whether Muslim or Jew or Christian, are protected from fear, from harm, and from intimidation.
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Socialist.Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Trade Unionist.Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Jew.Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.~ Martin Niemoller
1 comments
GOOSEBUMPS. I love you, Mary.
ReplyDelete