Black men.
Muslims.
Hispanics.
Immigrants.
LGBTQ.
Women.
Daughters.
I believe
I am inextricably in the midst.
Your pain is my pain.
Your hurt is my hurt.
We are all connected.
Our divide is so painful.
In that hellish June,
with young Black men killed,
with police officers killed,
he spoke angrily to me
about Blacks,
spewing diatribe gleaned from his only news channel,
and I quietly, respectfully, purposefully responded
"There is pain on all sides...so much hurt and suspicion."
And he charged back, bitterly,
"You are beyond hope, Maureen."
There was no sarcasm in his voice.
No laughter.
No joking.
This is a frustrated, hateful, angry old man,
disappointed in my open-mindedness,
dismayed by my civility,
disgusted by my politics,
done with me.
His daughter.
Yes, the diatribe is more satisfying.
To be of his one clear opinion is more satisfying.
To be alone is more satisfying.
The words echo
"You are beyond hope, Maureen."
I squeaked back, quietly, reminding
"I am of you."
and was met by silence.
