The year was 1972.
The image seared into my conscience.
A young Vietnamese girl, running from a bombed area, her skin scorched from the napalm attack.
I remember being at home, sitting down to dinner, the television playing in the background, when that story and photo came on the screen.
I cried.
I did not know the girl. In truth, I would never meet her.
I cried.
She was one of four billion people on the planet at that time, an insignificant speck on the map of history, no relationship to me at all.
I cried.
Those who know me know I cry often. I cry when a meaningful song comes on the radio. I cry when I see a video of a homecoming, some soldier gone for three years, his family rushing to hug him. I cry when a baby goat dies, I cry when I read a poignant story, I cry at, I cry at, I cry at.
It bothered my dad, his son so easily crying, for to my dad, men do not cry, do not show emotions, do not show weakness. “Never let the bastards see you crying, Bill, or they will walk all over you.” But, despite his words of advice, I cried.
Call it empathy. Call it compassion. Call it tenderness. No matter the descriptive word, I hope I never lose it, for the tears shed are a reminder of my humanity, and that is something I never want to surrender.
Today’s world is not one I recognize, and it pains me to say that. People seem to have built impenetrable walls around their emotions. People seem to look the other way when they see pain and misery. People seem immune to the suffering of others.
The charred body of a Palestinian child? A Kansas homeowner, weeping over the pile of rubble once their home, a victim of a tornado? Wildfire victims in California? Flood victims in North Carolina? Shooting victims in Ohio? The homeless in San Francisco? The hungry in Kenya? Images online, on the television, in the newspapers, flash before the eyes of the reader/viewer with no more gravitas than stories about new construction or new fast transit innovations.
We drive by the destitute daily, but do we really see them? We hear the cries of the hungry, but do we really hear them? We witness those with mental and emotional needs, but do we really recognize the suffering?
If a tree falls in the forest, but there is no one there, does it make a sound? And the politicians elected to represent us, elected to form a more perfect union, are really commodities to be purchased on the open market, no sound heard at all as trees fall in record numbers.
To feel the weight in hearts unknown,
To share the pain as if my own.
A hand, a word, a listening ear,
To stand beside, to hold you near.
I am not a world leader. I am not the spearhead of some massive, global movement. I am a simple man in Olympia, Washington, a man who refuses to settle for what is, who believes that mankind has a higher calling, and it is damned well time we answer that calling, before it is too late.
I hope I never lose my tenderness, my empathy, my ability to feel the suffering of others and shed a tear for them. I fear who I would be without those traits.
Bill
Feel like reading? You can find my blog on www.aswewonder.com, and my books can be found on Amazon under William Holland. Thank you!
