The first day away was tough, the second less so, and by day three, I felt almost human again. I let myself log in briefly from my computer to follow up on a few events managed through the platform. Even though my guard was up, I still found myself drawn into the comments of a seemingly innocuous thread, and I hastily closed the Facebook tab.
Since 2016 we have seen the signs. The misogynistic chants and T-shirts. The support of anti-Semitic wolves who marched as sheep in collared shirts. Lies and deception on an international scale. Support for bullies and murderers who besmirch the names of law-abiding civil servants everywhere. When we raised our hands to report these micro-aggressions, these posts by trolls and bots, these coverups and injustices, the ruling powers turned us away en masse, unwilling to act and possibly pick a side, possibly lose political favor, possibly lose face, possibly lose ad revenue.
That’s the thing about hate.
It starts off innocently enough, the tiniest sapling. You think you can ignore it, so you do. It doesn’t seem so dangerous, really. Maybe it’s not your problem. Someone else will take care of it. Then suddenly, there’s no light. And there’s no sign of what grew there before. The roots now run deep. It will take some sweat to reclaim our garden.
I carried a final load of now-exterminated weeds and wiped the sweat from my forehead with a grimy arm. On my way to the garbage, a speck of green caught my eye. A small, thin leaf punctuated the pristine bed of brown bark - a tiny plant, barely visible.
I brushed the mulch away and uncovered a thin stalk with two pale leaves. I pinched it by the base near the soil and plucked it out, roots and all. I tossed it on the pile and went on my way.
One less weed to dig up in the future.
Photo Credit Dan Edge