Hello to you and you and you.
I am here, briefly, because so many readers have reached out after reading last Friday’s column. I wrote about those we love and admire in the LGBTQ+ community, and the hate that continues to target them. I celebrated the courage of those who will not tolerate bigotry—not from their elected officials, and certainly not from their neighbors. Few things inspire me as much as people who are mistaken for ordinary citizens proving there is nothing ordinary about them.
I cannot respond to every comment and email, but I’m here because I want you to know I have been reading all of them. I so appreciate your willingness to share your stories and opinions, your experiences and how they’ve changed you. I am also grateful that you trust me with your fears. Many of you have written privately to me this weekend, as you worry about attracting the attention of people who might want to harm you.
This is where we are, but it is not who most of us want to be. I say this so often because I know it to be true: Most people are decent and good and want to make a difference in the world. Too often, though, we fail to recognize our own power. Much of my career as a columnist has been driven by the hope that, if I do my homework well, I can help us find the courage that resides in each of us. Notice I said “us.” I am a student right along with you, always.
This is a major political year for our country, and for our family, as Sherrod is running for reelection to the Senate. No one has rifled through our trash and recycle bins as they did during the 2006 campaign, but we have begun to see signs of attempts to make us, and family members, feel less safe. I share this not to garner sympathy. As I wrote last September, we’ve known scary times before, simply because Sherrod is a U.S. senator. January 6 was a terrifying day for the entire country but let us never forget that justice prevailed.
What I’m trying to say is that when I write about hope, and my relentless embrace of it, I am not pontificating from a tower, looming above it all. I have many privileges as a straight white woman in America, but immunity from fear is not one of them.
So often, a person will write or approach me in public and ask a version of this question: How do we keep going? I recognize the weariness behind the query. Such an understandable fatigue, when here we are again: fighting for abortion rights, voting rights, LGBTQ+ rights—the list is long.
As I wrote in 2018, I find great comfort in the words of Coretta Scott King, written a year after her husband was killed. “Struggle is a never-ending process. Freedom is never really won. You earn it and win it in every generation.” On hard days I tell myself that if Coretta Scott King could find the hope to go on after such a tragedy, then who am I to give up? I must try.
In the photo above, that is my daughter, Cait. It was 1992, and she was five years old. She loved to blow her wishes into the world, and I loved encouraging her to do so.
This is a photo of her son, Milo. Like most children, and certainly like his mother at his age, he wants to believe that hope has wings. To express a hope, we must first listen to the song of our hearts.
It’s our nature to be hopeful. I understand how we can become fearful to trust that, but I am more afraid of ignoring my heart. I don’t want to lose hope. Fortunately, I needn’t worry about that. It is impossible for me to give up when so many of you are sharing your hopes and dreams with me.
I just wanted to thank you for that.
Good night, gentle hearts. We’ve done what we could with this day. Tomorrow, we get to try again.
Your words are so sweet. I have such a strong hope that Senator Brown is re-elected. I love when I see him on TV, talking about the dignity of work. We all need him, whether from Ohio or elsewhere. Thank you for your voice. We all need you, too.
Today, I did something that makes my heart sing in a quiet sort of way. I drove casseroles downtown for a pop-up cafeteria that feeds the campers and down-towners who live in single occupancy room hotels along the park-blocks each Sunday noon. Some Sundays I cook with a team of volunteers, some Sunday's I drive the food downtown; the recipients are a colorful crowd and I like seeing the results of our efforts being appreciated in such a basic way; full plates, full stomachs. It's a tangible way of offering something to others who are not personally known to me, but very real and present in our community. I don't do it to gain anyone's approval, it's just that every time I gather with others to share this activity (not work, mind you), it feeds my soul and creates a bit of joy between us. This is a solution for the angst I feel about our country and the world; just do something. It has nothing to do with the ballot box, but everything to do with how I want our world to evolve; more compassion, more grace, less bigotry, less hatred.