...perchance to dream
- Andrea Gordon
It’s the middle of the night as I write this since I can’t sleep. I have spent too much time on Facebook, alternating between taking heart that so many people seem to feel as I do about the recent election and being dismayed to the point of nausea by some of the vitriol being spewed. Often it is both, as a writer describes some abuse or hatred aimed at her or, an epithet spat at him – but then refuted by a stranger or grandmother or teacher.
Maybe I‘m blinded by my own biases but I cannot see how anyone thinks it is acceptable to attack a person based on their skin or on whom they love. It’s not yet been necessary for me to help someone stand up to bullying or attacks, and the worst I have felt is the frustration of conversations that go nowhere and convince no one. Many of my patients endured far worse in their pasts, and I know will be affected long before me. My wounds are to my idealism about the altruism I thought was in everyone, to my faith in some inherent idea of fairness and truth. Tonight the world seems a colder and more indifferent place, and right now I can’t escape it into dreams.