I have been paralyzed. In my thinking; in my writing. I don’t know what to say to the rest of you outside of my little, safe world.
This nation was built on the bloody fabric of indigenous genocide. There can be no arguments about that. There can, and will, continue to be arguments about the depths of genocide. Was it 112 million? The more acceptable 10 million? At any rate, circa 1900, there were 300,000 indigenous peoples remaining. Even in my little world the population of my indigenous ancestors went from 20,000 to a staggering 1,875 within 60 years of contact with Russia.
This nation was recrafted as a haven for refugees fleeing unjust religious practices. It was a place to flee to if you had pretty much used up your welcome elsewhere in the world. It became a place where people could build a life for themselves and their families and more than survive; they could prosper. It formed into an independant country through bloody warfare and was crafted into a democratic union. It was a safe haven for those in need.
So what happened? Why are we now so unaccepting of those same types of people who are seeking refuge? Or who is it that is unaccepting? I can sit here and watch the cloth unravel, row by row, seemingly indelibly because how can you ever recover from such hatred being spewed? Spewed by our leaders. Spewed by our faith leaders. Spewed by our fellow countrymen.
I am appalled at the lack of empathy that we have for humanity. I believe it will be the resistors who will have to weave this country back together, perhaps the same, hopefully better and more inclusive. Who is going to take up the banner? Like a piece of fabric blowing in our Aleutian winds, we need to have flexibilty in order to bend, but strength in our frame to hold us together. Who will that be?