A response to this:
I'm drawn to so much of this blog because of that premise; that people are people and that, but for the grace of God go I in any given case.
But it's also what I use to try and forgive myself. When I look at people and systems and say "this is larger than one person," when people do terrible things and we can find a way to not utterly damn them, not reject them entirely, not leave them, it gives me hope for myself.
It's also an attitude I've had to cultivate. That request by Osama resonated with me, and, unsurprisingly, I went back to my own father. When he told me I couldn't come out to his parents, that I would either need to never see them again (and have them blame me for it), live a dehumanizing lie, or face the wrath of the one person who melts me into incoherent terror, when he says "They're *my* parents and I'm going to do what's best for them" as if I'm not his child, as if I'm not anything but a threat, I see the fixation.
He can't grok the terror he invokes, can't understand how telling a six year old "No, you don't love me" makes the child believe it's their fault they're not trying hard enough. Etcetera. We were not people but burdens, responsibilities, limitations. We were threats. And that is all the justification a person needs.
I am terrified of "going cold." That coldness is what allows that destruction, what allows people to stop seeing humanity and instead see enemies, see threats, see things to be feared, tossed aside, destroyed. I see in Osama's request that same coldness that is in the celebration of his death.
When people stop being people, violence stops being tragic and starts to become the best means to any end. Even when it starts so small. "Dangerous" only begins to describe it.
I'm drawn to so much of this blog because of that premise; that people are people and that, but for the grace of God go I in any given case.
But it's also what I use to try and forgive myself. When I look at people and systems and say "this is larger than one person," when people do terrible things and we can find a way to not utterly damn them, not reject them entirely, not leave them, it gives me hope for myself.
It's also an attitude I've had to cultivate. That request by Osama resonated with me, and, unsurprisingly, I went back to my own father. When he told me I couldn't come out to his parents, that I would either need to never see them again (and have them blame me for it), live a dehumanizing lie, or face the wrath of the one person who melts me into incoherent terror, when he says "They're *my* parents and I'm going to do what's best for them" as if I'm not his child, as if I'm not anything but a threat, I see the fixation.
He can't grok the terror he invokes, can't understand how telling a six year old "No, you don't love me" makes the child believe it's their fault they're not trying hard enough. Etcetera. We were not people but burdens, responsibilities, limitations. We were threats. And that is all the justification a person needs.
I am terrified of "going cold." That coldness is what allows that destruction, what allows people to stop seeing humanity and instead see enemies, see threats, see things to be feared, tossed aside, destroyed. I see in Osama's request that same coldness that is in the celebration of his death.
When people stop being people, violence stops being tragic and starts to become the best means to any end. Even when it starts so small. "Dangerous" only begins to describe it.
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