It's Hard to Write

It’s hard to write when the world seems to be going up in flames—when there is such cruelty toward our fellow human beings. When people are detained in inhumane facilities. When others defend brutality, insisting that those who have been hurt—or even killed—somehow brought it upon themselves.

It’s hard to write when entire cities are under attack. When people are pulled from cars on the way to the doctor. When others are shot in the face simply for questioning the violence unfolding around them. How can I work on stories about my own life—so comfortable, so insignificant—during such times?

It’s hard to write when you’re in a state of disbelief. Can this really be happening? Can this truly be occurring in our nation—the place where the Statue of Liberty proclaims, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”? The values I was raised with feel under siege.

It’s hard to write when you see the worst of human nature: aggression, prejudice, ignorance, and hate.

And yet—I’m writing.

As the sun rises, I’m reminded of something Mr. Rogers once said: “When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”

And indeed, I see them.

I see the millions of people outraged by what’s happening. The $1.5 million raised for Renée Good’s widow and family. The people recording ICE aggression, shining light on dark places. The outcry from ordinary neighbors as they watch families who’ve lived next door for decades being taken away.

I am hopeful. Hopeful that good will prevail. That justice still matters. That karma, eventually, returns what we give.

It may be hard to write…

…but I will keep writing.

And I hope you will too.