If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.— Grandma Mary
My Grandma Mary was a very smart woman but also a product of her time and culture, so more concerned with niceties than I am. (Though she did tell me once to stop being a jackass, which was an accurate characterization, so let me not suggest she was always hesitant in the face of bullshit.) The implied call embodied in that saying, though, to be nice even in the face of outrage or justified anger? I don’t endorse that sort of toxic civility.
However, there’s a tweak I do believe in strongly. Namely, if you can’t say something kindly, how about you take a beat to gather yourself?
Kindness can make space for honestly owned and clearly articulated anger, disappointment, disagreement, and boundaries. Kindness can be forthright while also minding the reality of everyone’s humanity. In the slightly updated (by me) language of my people, kindness can remember that everyone carries that of God within them even when they act like damn fools.
But when I look out at the wider world right now, particularly our federal government, and more specifically the leadership of the Democratic party, I can’t be kind right now. I’m so mad I could spit. Also as my grandma used to say.
The disorienting part, the part that feels like it’s giving me whiplash, is that when I turn toward the daily reality of my in-person life, things are great right now. I just this week successfully refinanced my house, which had been delayed for five years due to the pandemic and its economic aftermath. After dinner with my son tonight I have no other plans this weekend than to hunker down and work on my book in the clean-enough, comfortable, lovely house that I can truly afford now.
And it’s not just me. One of my closest friends is anticipating the arrival of her newest grandchild, literally any moment. Another friend is in recovery after a long-awaited surgery that went extraordinarily well. Another friend got a chance to travel this week with her husband in Amsterdam, enjoying tulips and art and stroopwafel.
On the home front, my youngest is finally settling in after the emotional and academic disruption of the pandemic and is excelling at school. On top of that, they are juggling a job, a car, friendships, and a romantic partnership with good humor and grace. My son, who was in the ICU recently, is feeling remarkably well, considering. He is also content with and well loved by his partner. Both he and his partner are trans, and though they’re understandably horrified about the explosion of trans hate outside the boundaries of our local bubble, here they are well supported and loved by their community.
How can the world outside feel like a dumpster fire doused in gasoline, the flames raging ever higher, while my own world, my people, are so stable and connected and good? How do I carry the dichotomy of that?
The political cynic in me is tempted to discount all of the positive things happening in my immediate sphere, insisting that this bubble of goodness we find ourselves in is simply a function of our privilege. That the tsunami of horror already being visited on immigrants and federal workers and international aid recipients just hasn’t reached us yet.
And knowing that may very well be true, as well as caring about the fate of immigrants, federal workers, international aid recipients, and all the other vulnerable people in the crosshairs of the Republican Party is what has kept me calling and emailing my Members of Congress every day for weeks.
But here’s another truth. It’s okay to retreat temporarily, turning back towards the love, connection, and positive realities in my community to remind myself what I’m fighting for and what everyone deserves— safety, stability, community, space to create and grow and fail and evolve.
It’s okay to take a beat to gather myself, fill my cup, and remember how to be kind, while also fierce in my resolve. So, that’s what I’ll be doing over here for the weekend. How about you?
oh asha, there are so many ways i can concur with this sentiment ~ when people ask me how i am, my immediate response is in the form of another question:
do you mean macro or micro?
pretty much says it all
I hate the phone, but I made those calls today. I'm looking at spring as a time of hope and fresh beginnings for my health, and the well-being of myself and the people around me. It's weird being simultaneously fearful and hopeful, but that's my truth right now. I'm trying to be grateful for little things...snowdrops in the yard, a loving moment, my little dog basking in the sun slanting in through the window.