These are strange times. I feel surrounded by people so passionately affected by all the craziness–politics, black lives matter, pandemic, and so on. Some get very passionate about their opinion.
Maybe I’m suffering from compassion fatigue, but I’m just not getting all riled up by it all. Part of me resists due to my not wanting to get sucked into the vortex created by the non-stop media coverage. And I’ve heard a few times that just by being white, I’m complicit in the injustices suffered by black people today and through the years. But I hear no one say that just by living in a first world country, we are complicit in the injustices suffered by the Royhinga and the Uighurs and so many others that are all but forgotten about. And then there’s the battered wife who lives just down the road and the five year old boy just a bit further down the road who suffers at the hand of his abusive parent. Who rallies for them? There’s the one million people who died yesterday and the one million people who will die tomorrow. Why are they not on the news?
It’s not that I don’t know the answer. It’s called psychic numbing. And yet I feel a little left out of all the angst and passion.
Maybe I’ll sit.