I am mad. I don’t know what to do or say anymore. I can’t pretend this blog is only about aging women. It’s about the political fire which we are all living through and how that is affecting all of us. However, pretending that it is not happening isn’t working for me either. Let me share a few thoughts.
I thank my daughter Lara for the concept of concentric circles in your life. The center circles are where you take care of yourself and your immediate family; the next circles are your friends and your local community; and finally maybe — once you have solved those problems, in the outer circles of your life, you take on the world.
My inner concentric circle is my own family. I personally have a place to stay with my daughter that is comfortable and safe. My youngest son has a job and a house and is taking the beautiful photos that I often post on this blog. My daughter is amazing. She takes care of me and her son, our family and her friends and clients in a loving and effective way. All is not well, though. My oldest son was directing a project in Southeast Asia which was suspended this past week. The dreams of those with whom he worked, if not shattered, were badly damaged. So first I want to acknowledge the impact this conflagration has had on my most important concentric circle.
In the second circle, I will soon return to the community in which I lived, Altadena, which has been burned — in some cases – beyond recognition. While my building and program survived, the staff, who have lost more than they will ever recover, are working to help us reunite and return. But once we are back there, what will life be like? For me, it can never be as it was. If I look out my window I will see what is around me. If I never look out my window, I will wither and not be the person I want to be — someone who gives back, who cares about others, who wants to help others heal. What can I and my community do to give back? I’m not sure yet. I hope those answers will come.
As for the world? The outer circle? It’s really on fire. The Eaton Fire has been devastating, but what is happening to the people in Syria, Gaza, Kenya, the Congo, even Cambodia, is far worse. The people who live in those countries are suffering beyond our understanding, and we will not be able to help them very soon. We will not be able to rebuild our foreign aid program for a very long time either. What we have been doing internationally for years has been delegated to thousands of small nonprofit organizations around the world. Those organizations do not have the resources to wait ninety days for some kind of Muskian review. These programs are dying or have already died. Even a conservative Republican who once was the Adminstrator of USAID, Andrew Natsios, knows it has been stupid to shut down all these programs at once. The damage is not reparable in our lifetimes, and it feels awful to stand by and see these political fires destroy what has taken so long to build.
Am I going to blame Elon Musk now and his group of hot shots who are going to integrate our government data systems so they can more easily make their cuts? No. I blame all of us. We were not prepared. We did not think this could happen. We didn’t really didn’t pay attention to what that Statue of Liberty really stood for. We believed that immigrants built America — until we didn’t.
A few years ago, at a Fourth of July celebration at my community, I was asked to read the poem “The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus. She was a poet and essayist in 1883 who wrote this poem to raise money for the construction of the famous Statue of Liberty, who has held her torch high for over a hundred years in the New York harbor. Read it again. And weep if you can.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
