Lessons from My Father
Today would have been my father's 99th birthday. I was thinking of him early this morning when my loving thoughts were interrupted by today's ugly news—the terrorist attack in Christchurch, New Zealand. To my mind, it is no accident that the mass murderer who perpetuated this violence chose mosques located in a town named Christchurch. What better way to underscore his poisonous ideology of racial and religious supremacy? What better way to increase society's divisiveness and distrust of anyone perceived as other?
Growing up my father often came home with stories about taxi drivers, the cleaning lady, or the man who operated the elevator at his office building. You never really know a person until you walk a mile in their shoes, he'd say, and I'd learn about the taxi driver who lived through the Holocaust, the elevator man whose son was the first in his family to go to college, and the Polish woman who worked two jobs while struggling to master English. I learned many lessons of kindness from my father and the stories he shared. Much of what I learned is reflected in the stories I choose to write.
Not everyone in our society agrees with my father or with me. The violence at Christchurch— like so many earlier incidents, is a reminder that a deep hatred for otherness exists and that we as a civilization have still not learned the lessons of history.
As a writer I have sometimes been criticized for writing outside my lane and appropriating another culture, another religion, another race. And while I understand the limits of my experience and the right of every individual to give voice to her or his own story, I also believe that if we humbly walk in another's shoes we will learn that each of us is more alike than different. Empathy comes from seeking to understand and recognize our shared humanity.
My heart breaks for the Muslim worshippers lost in today's massacre. I am ashamed of white supremacists and their corrupted beliefs. To remain silent is to remain complicit in their rhetoric of hatred and exclusion. The words we speak, the words we write, the words we read and share have the power to build bridges of kindness or walls of ridicule and distrust. I prefer bridges to walls; I am my father's daughter.
Growing up my father often came home with stories about taxi drivers, the cleaning lady, or the man who operated the elevator at his office building. You never really know a person until you walk a mile in their shoes, he'd say, and I'd learn about the taxi driver who lived through the Holocaust, the elevator man whose son was the first in his family to go to college, and the Polish woman who worked two jobs while struggling to master English. I learned many lessons of kindness from my father and the stories he shared. Much of what I learned is reflected in the stories I choose to write.
Not everyone in our society agrees with my father or with me. The violence at Christchurch— like so many earlier incidents, is a reminder that a deep hatred for otherness exists and that we as a civilization have still not learned the lessons of history.
As a writer I have sometimes been criticized for writing outside my lane and appropriating another culture, another religion, another race. And while I understand the limits of my experience and the right of every individual to give voice to her or his own story, I also believe that if we humbly walk in another's shoes we will learn that each of us is more alike than different. Empathy comes from seeking to understand and recognize our shared humanity.
My heart breaks for the Muslim worshippers lost in today's massacre. I am ashamed of white supremacists and their corrupted beliefs. To remain silent is to remain complicit in their rhetoric of hatred and exclusion. The words we speak, the words we write, the words we read and share have the power to build bridges of kindness or walls of ridicule and distrust. I prefer bridges to walls; I am my father's daughter.
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