But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.
― George Eliot, Middlemarch
In the past few months, I’ve held conversations with two young adults who both admitted that they didn’t really feel as though they could bring a child into this world. Both were principled, compassionate, educated, and talented individuals. Clearly, both had genes worth passing on, and both were committed to making this world a better place. And yet when they considered the current state of the world, they couldn’t bring themselves to think about their own children navigating such a world.
Their despair and fear shouldn’t surprise me. But I found myself thinking about my 20-30-something-self and asking: Did I ever consider the world to be such a cruel and hopeless place that I wouldn’t bring a child into it? The world of my young adulthood was marked with painful images from the Viet Nam War, as well as the anti-war protesting and rioting that followed. Suffering, death, and injustice bled through our black-and-white console television sets and into our living rooms nightly: Viet Nam demonstrations in Washington, D. C.; clashes between police and protestors at the 1968 Democratic National Convention (the Chicago Seven); 1970 Kent State shootings; France nightclub fire leaving 142 teenagers dead; damages finally awarded to Thalidomide victims, just to name some of the most awful. Because most of us only had access to newspapers and three major television networks, news traveled more slowly, and our world seemed relatively smaller and less global then. But not less cruel, not less unjust, not less ugly.
I watched every Viet Nam feature film and television series that came out. To the extent that I could, I tried to imagine myself in the jungle, in a field hospital, in an airport returning home to those who loved me and those who hated me, on the streets of my hometown, jobless, damaged, and despised by many. If I empathized enough, if I vicariously took on the pain and despair, I rationalized that somehow in my young midwestern life, I was standing with and for all those who suffered. That’s what I tried to tell myself as I closed my eyes and images of Viet Cong ambushes exploded like schrapnel into my consciousness. Bring it on, I told myself. This is the least I can do.
Through it all, however, I don’t remember ever thinking that I couldn’t–or wouldn’t–bring a child into this world. Not once. Perhaps I should have, perhaps this would have been a more logical response to the world’s despair, but I didn’t. Even as I tried to vicariously shoulder the pain I saw around me, I lugged around a hope chest, unwilling to turn my back on the world I imagined for my children.
So, as I heard these this young adults speak of the probability of childless futures, and as I grieve the senseless killings of Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd, the injustice and racism, hatred and fear, destruction of property and lives, I find that I have no words in the face of this despair. That is, I have words, but I fear they’re not even close to being the right words, words with such fine and perfect edges that they cut wisely and lovingly into our collective conscience.
In Matthew 11:35, we read: Jesus wept. Perhaps if I were to say or write anything now, I might simply echo Matthew’s words: I weep.
I weep because if I were to write or speak, I’m truly afraid that my words may be more damaging than healing to someone(s). For herein lies the challenge: How do you wisely and lovingly hold the pain and despair of disparate individuals or groups in your soul? How do you empathize with one without hurting or betraying the other? I’m certain that there are many who may argue that you simply can’t and shouldn’t, that you must choose sides. They argue that your failure to choose is cowardice, at best, and hatred, at worst. Choose and let not your heart be troubled. Weep only for the righteous–or at least the more righteous.
But oh, the choosing! I weep for Ahmaud’s and George’s families, for victims of racism and oppression, for a system that all too often continues to be powered by white privilege. I weep for nonviolent protestors who long to have their voices heard. I weep for owners whose businesses and livelihoods have been damaged or destroyed. I weep for police officers, the good ones, those ethical men and women who continually put their lives on the line. I weep for city and state officials who yearn to listen to and care for individuals in their communities, as well as to reach peaceful outcomes. I weep for all those who have been victims of stereotyping and oppression, all who have been too easily and willingly associated with the worst of their group or race. I weep for all.
No doubt, some will accuse me of being insensitive and perhaps too much of a Pollyanna when I admit that I take solace in the words of one who is much wiser than me, Mahatma Gandhi:
When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it–always.
Gandhi’s words in no way diminish the terrible impact of tyrants and murderers on the world. Nor do they diminish our moral duty to end these tyrants’ and murderers’ reigns and to bring them to justice. Gandhi’s own life was clearly a testament to his unwavering commitment to end oppression, as well as to stand with and care for the oppressed. Still, when he says, Think of it–always, there is power and truth in his words. It would be great if truth and love won all of the time, or at least won much more quickly and decisively. And it would be great if the inevitable assurance of victory would heal our gaping, festering wounds. But it doesn’t. It may be, however, as novelist George Eliot writes, the painful eagerness of unfed hope.
I confess that likening despair to unfed hope–a hope we eagerly, passionately yearn for– is comforting. And encouraging. How, then, might we feed our hope in the midst of so much ugliness? German Romantic writer, John Paul writes:
The words that a father speaks to his children in the privacy of home are not heard by the world, but, as in whispering galleries, they are clearly heard at the end, and by posterity.
There are so many ways to feed our hope. Although the words of truth and love we speak to our children, our students, our friends and family in homes, classrooms, and workplaces may not immediately be heard by the world, in the end, they will be heard. So, our words matter greatly. Our persistance and conviction in delivering them matter greatly. Our unwavering belief that, in the end, truth and love will triumph matters greatly.
Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich believes that [w]hen a man is in despair, it means that he still believes in something. Our current despair, like that of former generations, may be just this: evidence of our belief in something. We cry, we rage, we pray, we march because we believe that the world can be a better place for everyone.
And this is what I told my son, a 27-year-old black man who fears bringing a son or daughter into this world. We despair because we genuinely care, because we believe something better is possible. A world in which a child can flourish. A nobler world in which integrity and virtue take the throne. A humbler world that learns from past mistakes. A softer world that loves and listens better.
How I want this world for my son, for his son, for all sons. How I want them all to live without fear of judgment, oppression, and hatred. How I want the gene pool to explode with super novas, stars bright enough to light even the darkest corners of the earth. And how I want to feed the hope that continues to sustain and save us, to fix my eyes on the truth and love that triumph in the end–always.
