My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Innocent Activism
It was a more innocent time. We thought all we had to do was point out what was wrong or saw what ought to be. People would thank us for pointing out what they had overlooked and the world would get better. That was the plan. It was so simple, so reasonable and fair. It ought to have worked, but told of injustice most were unmoved. Hearing of pain and starvation, they let it go on. They heard what we said but heard other and more insistent voices talking less of concern than of profit, and of change as disruptive or benefitting only the poor. There is nothing wrong with innocence and it was in a way our strength, but its loss became so much harder.
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