The Wrong Dog
From where does that anger arise?
What facets of your identity motivate you to act? With whom does this align you? From whom does this separate you? The invisible lines between us thicken and obscure, so that even those who claim to not be prejudiced at all have qualities that act as a catalyst for a preference towards some humans and not others.
I suppose that’s how we began. Over millennia, we tirelessly traveled to every corner of the world, started speaking different languages, and adjusted the pigment of our complexions to coincide with the UV index of our particular region. When this was complete, we deviated from each other on the basis of race, culture, language, country, creed, and every other identifier that exists. Some settled in geographically preferable conditions and built the world around them faster. When they decided to explore, they encountered beings that were similar to themselves, but different enough to assume, “Our boats are faster, our knives are sharper, our lives are better. And so are we.”
Now, the same corners of the world that had such potential for greatness and true progress are hampered by judgment and animosity. We taunt the lame and execute the unfamiliar. A sheet of once pure and smooth glass has been granularly subdivided back into fine sand. We wear the trauma of our forefathers and inflict it upon our descendants. We etch tragedy and travesty into our actions and into the actions of our children. A single memory is long, but the memory of a nation, religion, or a race spans unimaginable eons.
As such, I find that hate is a constant and cyclical process. Like some eternally preserved energy, hatred is a force that cannot be created or destroyed, especially at a mass level. We transfer it to other humans and oppress in light of our oppressors. We fade and leave the pursuance of that hatred within ourselves to our children, the cruelest inheritance that I dare to dream of.
We are all restricted by something and bullied by someone. We are all confined in a fog of routine, tradition, history, poverty, or genocide. In light of no arrival of personal justice, we quickly dawn steel-toed boots and furiously search for the wrong dog to kick. While he cowers in the corner, whimpering from pain and exhaustion, we fail to see the reflection of ourselves in the eyes of everyone we hurt.
Exactly when will the scales of justice tip evenly in all directions? How long can we maim before we realize a semblance to our maimers creeping in when our backs are turned? As it is upon us, we lose the discernment to acknowledge the reason for finding a tormented rabbit behind the shed, buried in misdirected aggression by the wrong dog.
