Skip to main content

Silenced by those who should love us

Somewhere, out there, people are afraid to voice opinion.

I know this for fact, because so many have asked where I get my "courage."

We're living through a sad and anxious time, when those who disagree are shamed into silence, and those who bully are allowed to advance.  Ideas still matter.  Words still hurt.  No two people see the world in the same way.  And without the freedom to advance a contrary opinion, we are all slaves.

This past week, I've received violent, angry, frightening emails and phone messages from obviously inebriated, drugged and illogical people, threatening me because I spoke my opinion on the Slutwalk.

Without contrary opinion, we are all slaves.
Their rage and threats concern me; not for the reason one might expect.

I'm not intimidated by obscenity or conflict.  Nor am I silenced by irrational people.

I do know, however, many people who choose to not speak because they are afraid of the backlash.  I know strong, forthright men and women who have been bullied into silence, who shy from discussion, sharing of ideas and dialogue because they cannot countenance the anger they inspire in others.

And I wish, oh how I wish, those who disagree could put their little private hurts aside, and learn to listen and grow.

I have no doubt that Slutwalking women have a great deal to teach me.

They cannot teach, however, with hate speech.

Odd - how the people who want to do away with violence can, without intention, perpetuate its evil arch.










Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Why I no longer trust the St. Paul Police

My dogs awoke me,  barking,  at 3:00 AM -  and I knew something was wrong. I grabbed my under-the-bed baseball bat and stormed into my backyard. The car next door had been burglarized; a neighbor's garage broken into. And the woman who lives in the house behind mine was robbed in the middle of the night. And so as the flood lights slapped across my empty back yard and my dogs growled, I determined to apprehend the culprit. I searched the yard for the wretched, evil doer who would dare take advantage of the decent folks who live in Como Park. Behind me, in my living room, someone walked out the front door with my MacBook and other electronics. Because I didn't check inside the house - I didn't discover the crime until the next morning. "This ain't CSI, lady."  I phoned the police at 7:30 A.M. It took him almost an hour to get to my home - and when he finally knocked -  I opened my door to an overweigh, winded officer. By then I was frant

Here's to you, Mister Hoffman

Dustin Hoffman is eighty-years-old.  Dustin - say it isn't so. Baby Boomers around the globe worship your legacy - your brave, outrageous career where you stepped out - risked much - and led us into our maturity. As Michael Dorsey in  Tootsie  - you exposed an artist brave enough to lampoon his feminine side. As Ted Kramer, in Kramer vs. Kramer  - you challenged other men to reexamine their ability to nurture, to settle for the glories of domesticity. And no one else could have exposed the complexities  of Raymond Babbitt as did you in  Rain Man.   The world honors your excessive and grand talent - but if these allegations are true, none of that will matter.  History will forget your artistry and remember you as a dirty old man. That's what I do not understand.  You're not a B list guy - - not a "made for TV" Hollywood guy. You're Hoffman, for god's sake.  And I cannot fathom you jeopardizing your lionized legacy around someone's seve

Overheard at a coffee shop; An old woman's wisdom.

When she was a small child, she posed in front of her nursery mirror - fascinated with her reflection.  Sometimes she emulated Betty Davis.  Sometimes Shirley Temple.  When she was old enough, her mother enrolled her in tap dance classes, hoping to channel some of that ham-bone energy into something constructive. It worked.   Twice each year, the tap school dressed her in frilly, fluff-flounced costumes, put her on stage with a dozen other little show-offs,  and together they tapped their way to elementary school stardom. When she turned 13-years-old, her tap-dance gang joined the downtown YWCA where they spent their Saturdays doing something called "creative dramatics." Swimming, archery, bowling and hula absorbed their weekends, and she made new friends who introduced her to neighborhoods and families she might never have met and enjoyed. In high school, she auditioned and was cast in every onstage opportunity. In college, where the competition stiffened, she turn