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bryantSome people I know are upset by the Canadian opinion piece that's been going around. Well, sure; it implies that non-Americans don't help us.
Some people are upset that there were people celebrating in Palestine.
Some people are upset that the WWF is running a show tonight.
I'm upset that people are connecting this tragedy to their own political agenda.
Some people are upset that people are upset.
Take the step back. Breathe deeply. Will the world end if you don't correct this person? Did they mean to offend you? Did they mean well? Is it possible to convey your hurt -- your very real pain -- in a way that won't threaten?
The hardest thing in the world is sacrifice. It's a sacrifice, to give up your right to yell at the person who hurt you. It is. And, yeah, sometimes it isn't worth it. I yelled. I bet someone's going to read my words, and get upset because I complained about political agendas. I'm in no position to tell anyone what they must do.
But I write. And you write. And everyone has the right to express how they feel.
I sort of imagine this vast sheet of white. We come along, and we write our names and how we feel at the top, and we walk away. There's all this blank space left over, and it's so tempting to get into the second layer of commentary, to talk about how what /you/ feel makes /me/ feel.
Which never ends.
Forty-eight hours and counting.
Some people are upset that there were people celebrating in Palestine.
Some people are upset that the WWF is running a show tonight.
I'm upset that people are connecting this tragedy to their own political agenda.
Some people are upset that people are upset.
Take the step back. Breathe deeply. Will the world end if you don't correct this person? Did they mean to offend you? Did they mean well? Is it possible to convey your hurt -- your very real pain -- in a way that won't threaten?
The hardest thing in the world is sacrifice. It's a sacrifice, to give up your right to yell at the person who hurt you. It is. And, yeah, sometimes it isn't worth it. I yelled. I bet someone's going to read my words, and get upset because I complained about political agendas. I'm in no position to tell anyone what they must do.
But I write. And you write. And everyone has the right to express how they feel.
I sort of imagine this vast sheet of white. We come along, and we write our names and how we feel at the top, and we walk away. There's all this blank space left over, and it's so tempting to get into the second layer of commentary, to talk about how what /you/ feel makes /me/ feel.
Which never ends.
Forty-eight hours and counting.
