we are living in pandora's box

When I was a very little girl — like maybe 5 or 6-ish — my teacher introduced our class to the story of Pandora. I remember her reading a picture book of the Greek myth: in this version, Pandora, the first human woman, was given many gifts; however, the gods also “cursed” her with curiosity. Then — and I can’t help but think she was being punked — Zeus, who ruled as king of the gods, gave her a box with the admonition that she should never, ever, ever open it.

So naturally, she did.

As soon as Pandora opened the box (according to this children’s version), all sorts of creatures flew out, with names like Sadness, and Hate, and Pain — and as they escaped, they swarmed around her, stinging her before flying away. Panicked, she slammed the lid of the box shut and collapsed, weeping and nursing her wounds.

Suddenly, she heard a small voice from inside the box. “Please! Let me out!” Pandora, ever curious, opened the box again and out flew a tiny light. It moved around her, and every time it touched her wounds, they felt better.

“Who are you?” Pandora asked with relief.

“I am Hope,” said the light. “You’ve released all these ills into the world, but I have the power to make the suffering from these ills a little more bearable.” And with that, Hope touched the last of Pandora’s wounds and flew away.

Now, I suspect that part of the reason our teacher was eager to share this story was to impress upon our young minds the dangers of unchecked curiosity. But I remember being enthralled by the light called Hope that could make everything better.

Friend, since the beginning of this year, I’ve been living in a state of abject fury. It began with the abduction of the Venezuelan president, an apparent act of war performed without the required approval of Congress — and Congress, by and large, has said nothing. And then the horror show continued a mere 4 days later, when an ICE agent murdered unarmed U.S. citizen Renee Macklin Good in cold blood — with no provocation and on camera, no less — and the current administration proceeded to mount a full court press to make us believe the exact opposite of what we all saw with the eyes in our heads. For the last two weeks, I have been dumbfounded with anger. My poor family has been listening to me rage (pity poor Marcus, especially), and I’ve been feeling pretty damned hopeless.

My ire has been unrelenting. But then two things happened that — well, they didn’t make me feel better, exactly, but they were each a tiny interruption in my constant anger.

The first was the statement from Renee Good’s wife, Becca, released a mere two days after Renee’s death. As a whole, her statement was beautiful, but the last lines, in particular, struck me:

Within 48 hours of the violent murder of her wife, Becca’s ability to show such grace is stunning. Her determination to lead with love, and her refusal to let her wife’s murderer take away her humanity — well, it’s just remarkable, isn’t it?

The second thing that happened was I came across this poem by Nikita Gill, written the day after Renee Good’s death. In this instance, it was the first lines that moved me:

I’ve long maintained that anger is a powerful spark, but dangerous fuel: while anger can spur us to action and advocacy (and thank God for it), using it as the primary source of our energy for activism is like riding a bullet train to burnout. But these words from Gill were a lovely reminder that the reason we fight — for equality, for nonviolence, for peace — is motivated largely by our interconnectedness. By our love.

And after two weeks of anger, Gill’s words felt like a reminder of my own humanity.

Again, I can’t honestly say that I feel better — I mean, friends, I’m furious. But these two little things — these two little lights — well, maybe they’re a little bit like Hope, right?