Love is a Warrior
Not a Saint
After the Nazi march in Charlottesville, VA last year, when Heather Heyer was murdered, my inbox and Twitter feed were awash in “love trumps hate” memes, and videos gushing that there’s only one race — the human race. My friends — of all races — sent me stylized Michelle Obama quotes and John Lennon songs and cute puppies playing in the sun. Red, yellow, black and white … we’re all so precious in God’s sight.
I appreciated their kindness, and their efforts to allay my fears. But I felt uneasy, too. It was unnatural, all this saccharine-soaked love.
My newspaper asked me to write a special column, calling for unity. Calling for hope and peace and kindness.
I had no idea how difficult this small assignment would prove.
Because my words — always so measured, so even-handed, so focused on fairness — abandoned me. For the first time in a long time, my natural inclination was not to soothe, not to make peace, but to incite.
And every story I wrote had the same theme bleeding through.
Rage.
