When I was a child, I would put on my overalls, slide a
screwdriver and socket wrench into the right tool pocket, and hitch a hammer
into the left side strap. I would go out to my squeaky swing set and “fix it.”
I would turn the screws, loosen and tighten the bolts, then hammer things that
look like they needed to be hammered. I was much older when I learned about
stripped screws, rusty washers, and hammers are for both creation and
destruction.
When we put Sam, my childhood dog, down, I held her and
cried for an hour, trying to hold onto some semblance of soul I knew that she had. I didn’t look at,
talk to, or like dogs for ten years after that. I wanted to “fix her.” I wanted
to fix her cancer. I wanted to fix her bones. I wanted her whole.
When I was in high school, I had so much emotion inside
of me. I didn’t know what or who I was. I wanted to “fix me.” I drove down a scary
path of self-hatred. I wanted to fix my external self in hopes that my internal
self would calm the hell down. I wanted to fix how I loved. I wanted to fix the
world around me, so I could feel safe in my own skin.
I want to “fix” things. I want to fix how the world
treats my Trans* brothers and sisters. I want to fix the healthcare system. I
want to fix systemic oppression. I want to fix hatred. I want to fix.
A human being walked into a synagogue and killed eleven people.
Eleven. Eleven souls were on Friday morning
and were not on Saturday. As Shabbat
came to a close, so did the lives—no, the light—of eleven people.
I haven’t read a single article on this. I can’t. There is too much. There have
been too many lives lost and too little action on the part of our leaders. This
is not to say that I do not grieve for the fallen. This is not to say I do not
hold their families in my heart. Because I am a gentile, I cannot sit shiva for
these eleven people. But, Lord, I can mourn.
I am so sad. I am mad. I am…apathetic. I am smapathetic.
There are CLEAR ways to prevent this kind of thing from happening. The second
amendment as it is currently interpreted should not be a right; it is a fucking privilege. You know what is a
right? Being able to go into your house of worship and not get shot. You know
what is a right? Feeling safe in schools. You know what is a right? Life. I am
pro-life, by which I mean pro-living—living
for myself, living for others, living for a greater good.
I cannot fix this. I care too deeply. I love too
fiercely. I have nothing left with which to mourn. All I can do is try to teach
my young people that love is greater than hate. But, I am flagging. When hatred
always seems to win, how can I look my young people in the eye and promise them
a better world? How can I promise them that “it will get better?” How can I
promise them anything, anything at
all?
