Brokenhearted white privilege in a broken country in a broken world
Thirsty, homeless man accepts water from a passerby
Photo by Terry Edlin
Where do I begin? My white privilege – writing in the comfort of my peaceful condo that I own, on a full belly, feeling safe as the world suffers—requires that I speak boldly and loudly.
Having finally triumphed over the depression that I struggled with for many years, I fear drowning in despair from seeing horrific suffering, so I shield myself from it. The tragic rise of xenophobia, racism, anti-semitism, and the horror in Gaza, the Middle East, Haiti and elsewhere makes me fear for the future of our democracy that we casually took for granted. How can it be that masked, unidentified men kidnap people and send them to detention camps? How can “Alligator Alcatraz” even exist? I feel impotent and far too comfortable. Although I’m not a protester by nature, I’m becoming one.
I am horrified that the GOP-majority Congress acquiescently stands by as our constitution, the rule of law, the environment, education, much of our precious and pristine wilderness, our national park system, and much more are under threat. Who knew that our democracy was this fragile and corruptible?
We could power our entire country with renewable energy, but the fossil fuel industries control Congress and our lawless President Trump. Meanwhile, our fragile planet warms beyond repair, species go extinct, and oceans swallow up coastal villages.
Life looks rather normal in my little corner of the world. Although I lived near Uptown, a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood, familiar with violence and gang rivalry, panhandlers are increasingly present. I knew two of them – Paul and Felipe – by name. I moved to a different neighborhood and haven’t seen them for years. People go about their business. Stores have the goods that I want to buy. I’ve never felt afraid.
Taking the L the other day, an infant with two of my favorite qualities in children – clean and quiet – snuggled contentedly against his mother’s chest while she took a rare moment to catch up on her cell phone. I was struck by the contrast between that sweet peacefulness, knowing that thousands of families are desperately trying to stay together and alive.
Waiting until the mid-term elections and contributing from my limited financial resources to deserving politicians feels like too little, too late, with too much at stake.
I originally wrote this in June 2018. Tragically and unbelievably, the world, my city (Chicago), and my neighborhood are under even greater threat. I keep thinking that we are at the bottom. But, Congress, passing the truly grotesque Big Beautiful Abomination, confirmed that we can go even lower.
My plan is to keep writing, working to nurture resilient, responsive communities, and making headway on our housing crisis. If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you. If housing and strong, responsive communities interest you, please sign up for my newsletter
