Ten Letters in Ten Days

Dear Conservative friend,

I love you. This is the important thing to say. I know it, you know it, but it bears repeating in these times, when the political divide is ever wider, and we are tempted to think of ourselves as on opposing teams, one of which must vanquish the other. I turn on the news or log onto social media, and the prevailing message is that there is evil among us, emanating from the OTHER SIDE. This idea, then, justifies increasing hatred, chaos, and violence. It is hard not to despair.

I am not a writer in the strictest sense. My daughter is. My son is. I have many friends who are. I’m invited to writing workshops and politely decline (because who has time for a writer’s workshop?! Writers, that’s who.) I wrote my first—and likely only—poem a few weeks ago, and received brilliant feedback from my poet daughter; feedback I would surely put into practice if I planned to write another poem in my lifetime, but the truth is, I don’t. Some people run because they love to run, and some people run because they need to get from point A to point B. I don’t write because I love it; I write because I have things to say. There is a real difference. But even though I’m not a writer by trade, I’m discovering there is a real cost to stopping writing once one starts. What this really means, I suppose, is that there’s a cost to not giving voice to the cry of one’s heart.

So, friend, I’ve decided to write ten letters in ten days. Partly because I realized, in the wee hours of another sleepless night, that not writing—"taking a break," as it were—isn't helping me

I don't know if my letters help much, but they're at least something we can do—this writing of mine, your reading (and responding!). We can, even now, seek to understand and to be understood, in that order.

There are other things we can do. We can remind ourselves of all that we have in common; that there is much more that unites than divides us. We can take delight in our shared history and celebrate each other’s achievements today. We will not avoid the hard conversations, because we cannot make sense of things without each other, but we can shore up loads of goodwill in between the hard.

We can remember that our news outlets and politicians benefit from division and chaos, and we can refuse to get caught up in the frenzy. We can make a habit of calling out our own. (We must make a habit of calling out our own.) We can remember that anytime you put a diverse group of people in a room—assuming good intentions—left-leaning and right-leaning folks, Brown, Black, and white folks, straight, cis, and LGBTQ folks, wealthy and struggling folks—give that group a skilled facilitator and instructions to share their stories, and love and goodwill inevitably prevail. You and I must remember this. We must find these rooms, or create them ourselves.

So. Break is over. I likely won’t stop feeling heartbroken or full of rage, and likely, you won’t either. But while our rage informs us, it does not define us. Remembering this is the way forward.

More tomorrow,

Sara