For those who don’t know, Oregon is on fire.
So is Montana. And California. And all this while Texas reels from Harvey, the Caribbean is being hit by Irma (and Florida is bracing herself) and a thousand people just died in a monsoon in India.
And my own Oregon, including my beautiful Columbia River Gorge, just outside Portland. There is a fire ravaging over 30,000 acres right now, at 0% containment and spreading, just over 20 miles from my home. The ash is covering the city, and we are all choking and nauseous from the smoke.
I’m not saying it’s good, but I wrote it, and I felt it. So here you go. Have some hippie nonsense.
I am torn in half.
I am torn between the weight of genocide, of homelessness, of black eyes and brown skin
and the sometimes-unbearable burden of whiteness; the guilt; the knowledge that half of my ancestors and their kind ripped apart whole societies of people who looked like my other half.
We did this to us.
We still do this to us.
And in I, the individual, is the very paradox of humanity itself:
that in harming others we are also harming ourselves.
If you leave comments consider my fragile delicate feelings, s’il vous plaît.