In a racist, sexist world, love is conditional
Every time I write, I have to contend with the question of who I may hurt with my words. Sometimes the truth is a lash. Both for myself and others. Which is probably why I write so sporadically. The absurdity of it all is not lost on me. How does one ever convey meaning to another being who lives inside their own distinct and unique existence? I'm reminded of this constantly when speaking to my children. All day long, I watch words land at their feet, seemingly powerless. Sometimes even kisses and cuddles are rejected. Their moods and mind, a mystery. I wonder how love ever breaches these borders. Lately, I've been wondering what to say about their mother's Asian face being a target or what to say about the many people who don't care. Should I tell them that their own personal world is populated with people who are indifferent to the urgency of social justice? How do you cultivate tenderness and intimacy in such a world of unacknowledged betrayals? I've known for a