Dear America, You are Hurting Me

Dear America—

You are hurting me.

I don’t think you mean to. I think you, a young nation, are moving along as best as you can. Trying to figure yourself out. Exploring your identity. Things that adolescents tend to do.

But I have to level with you—your identity crisis is eating me up inside.

You know I’m a pretty sensitive person, right? You’ve seen me—my emotions are right out there on my sleeve a majority of the time. Remember that time a client told me that she hardly needed my words to know how I felt, my face was that expressive? I liked that. I took that as a compliment. (Yet I will also heed your warning to never seek a career in professional poker playing.)

You also know I try really hard not to cry in front others. It’s a vulnerability avoidance thing. Also, usually I don’t want to mess up my mascara. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

But America, if I would let the outside of me match the inside of me…oh boy. Cue the waterworks.

I’m hurting. You’re hurting me, America. Some of what’s going on inside of me isn’t about you, I’ll give you that. Some of it is my own bullshit, and I’m working on it. But even hurting, I want to be a part of you, America. I want to be engaged with you, and from within you, with my world.  So I poke my head out of my own self-absorption and take a look at you, America. And I whisper to you: Here I am. How can I help?

My eyes opened wide, here’s what I see in you, my country, my nation:  

Your ideals have polarized, America. They are polarizing more every day. 

Your sons and daughters are hurling insults at friends, at family, due to political division. Your sons and daughters are dehumanizing each other.

America, your culture somehow seems to thrive on hate and derisiveness. Which confuses me, because very few Americans I've ever met are inherently hateful people.

Your most marginalized people are becoming more marginalized, their voices drowned out by the cacophony of political ire and ideological differences. Their needs and their humanity are being swallowed whole by you, America.

America, one of your daughters is raped every two minutes, somewhere within your borders. You don’t seem to be ready to engage in the process of change that it will take to turn this around.

Your sons and daughters of color aren’t safe. America, your police officers also are not safe. I want to remind you, my nation, that the safety of these two populations is not a mutually exclusive proposition. Please don’t allow yourself to buy in to those who try to play on either/or thinking. This is an and/and proposition.

America, your children are hungry. 13.1 million of them. How is it, that in a country known for excess, your children are hungry?

People all over the world are suffering and dying, America. They are under attack. Babies lay dead in the street next to the bodies of their dead mothers, while we complain about the newest iPhone system update. Are we paying attention? Is there more we could be doing?

Despite the outlets for self-expression-- a privilege that you've afforded us, America-- whether it be via social media, text messaging, etc., we’re all lonely. We don’t feel connected to each other, regardless of all of the ways we have at our disposal for connecting.

America, your culture is one of fear. We are all so, so scared.

When I dare to poke my head out to interact with you, America, the doors of my heart are left intentionally open, all the better to care for the matters and the people that need to be cared for. And I watch and watch and listen and discuss and think. I try to figure out my role—what cog am I to be in this larger system? How can I be an agent of change?

Sometimes I come away with some idea of how to help. Sometimes I pull an Alexander Hamilton (one of your fathers, America) and I “write like I need it to survive.” Earlier this year, I wrote a letter to the paper regarding Syrian refugees, and it made it to press. I forwarded that letter to all of my elected officials. Sometimes I try to get connected with others. Two weeks ago, a colleague and I met with a senator to discuss how to be supportive of a family medical leave legislation that our state is working on.

Sadly, though, most of the time I retreat from you. I pull back into my own thoughts and stay there, stagnant. Helplessness comes for me, like a plague of locusts who feed upon my hope and my drive, and I give in. I let them take me. I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m disillusioned.

Keeping my heart open to you is hard, America. So more and more, you get the me who is cynical, critical. You get the me who will halfheartedly talk about important societal matters but who will eventually divert your attention with self-deprecating humor. You get the me who numbs out and retreats to reading fiction. You get the me who looks away rather than staying engaged.

And part of this is because I fear for my relationships. At the end of the day, my relationships matter far more to me than being right. It’s taken me years to learn this, but learned it I have. I don’t mind sparring with my fellow Americans about the issues we all face, but at the end of it, I want our connection to be solid. I want our base of mutual respect and caring to remain intact. Less and less do I feel that this is possible. I want to be able to talk to people about what I believe, hear what they believe, and keep the conversation going. Yet more and more, every type of social and political discourse feels like the best way to damage a relationship. When did this happen, America? When did we stop listening to each other, trying to find common ground?

In any case: America, you’re hurting me. Please, please try to be better. Please try to remember that people are people are people—we all bleed the same blood, we all carry within us hopes and dreams and fears. None of us has any more inherent value than any other person. And we belong to each other. It seems that as a nation we’ve forgotten, but we’re nothing without each other.

Much love from your daughter,

Allison