“Women may be the one group that grows more radical with age.”
― Gloria Steinem
I sat with my husband and my grandchildren this last weekend. These are bright people whom I admire greatly. They are thinkers and doers.
Still, I found myself “odd man out” in conversation. I have toured the college campus. I have sighed with relief since my granddaughter survived a car accident. I have loved the meal and cherished the faces around the table.
But really! Does no one of these beloved people feel what is going on in the country? Is no one aware of #BlackLivesMatter and #ICan’tBreathe? Can we get to the heart of what it is to live at this moment in time?
When there is a comment on the adorability of a passing child (who happens to be black), I express concern about what this child must know in order to be safe. Everyone looks at me with questioning eyes. I am acutely aware that we are sitting in Claremont, California, a community of privilege.
Is it my age? As I grow closer to my time in the earth rather than on the earth, is my skin prickling with the importance of waking up?
Still, at the same time I am more accepting. More tolerant. More at peace with who I am. I just don’t feel it at this particular moment. I want my grandchildren to care.
Still, I smile into their eyes with loving approval of who they are.