Thursday, April 11, 2013
as we ignore the trial of kermit gosnell
I know we will all be brought to justice. The time will come when our actions will no longer be tied to the false pride of our own explanations, but will be laid bare for what they are: inexcusable, bad, morally corrupt. Who defines our morals? Who leads the charge? Who do we follow for answers?
How do we research that which has no proper documentation? Do we write the reports ourselves, or wait for the wheel to churn out our daily pablum; ignoring food, passing by the meat and bones of what's really going on.
What's really going on? Let's not look only at the changing geography of the worth of a life (here: not life, there: life), but at the changing geography of our hearts (here: I care, there: I don't care). Do we act only on the things we see? Or do we pursue the unanswerable, invisible, unmentioned? Where are the hard questions that need to be asked? Where are the voices we've silenced? What of grace, and what of retribution?
The lines have developed a cancer. They deteriorate and leave us groundless, playing in the sand like children, scooping up the earth with plastic shovels; paying no mind to the weight we hold in our hands. We make castles when we should be begging for mercy. We are not children, though, and because of us, neither are they.
We've made needless animals of our offspring by turning our eyes away, removed their value from our hearts by choosing not to speak up, and closed our eyes to the sounds they make as we shoot them. We fear politics, we make arguments, we do not progress in conversation. Our fingertips have calloused, so we can not feel the pulse of our own lifeblood. We do not regard the future, beyond our skin or within it. We do not regard the past, before our bodies got here, or what lies in wait because of them.
Our hearts beat and we beat them down. Our mouths speak and we cut off our tongues for fear of rocking the boat. Fear not, boat rockers; we are not on water, but on sand. Like children, playing.