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Broken Thing

How do you love a broken thing?
How do you fix a broken thing that all too often resists healing?
How do you survive its thrashing, kicking, and screaming?

These questions hold me hostage. I have no immediate answers for them, so there is no immediate relief, but I see others asking similar questions —see them seeking the answers in their actions. Each time we endeavor to fix this broken thing — to eradicate this seething hatred that moves boldly unchecked in American culture — we are working to fix a broken thing despite a cynicism that would have us believe this is just the way it is and how it will always be.

But you cannot fix a broken thing that is not named. You can’t lure it out of its dark hole and infectious pit where it would stay to live an ugly eternity without knowing the precise evil that is making it sick. So for those seeking to name this, or simply to confirm what they know to be true, here is what this is:


And in America these last few days, it has worn the public face of White Nationalism sanctioned by complacency from the individual level all the way up to the current presidential administration.

So what now? How do we fix a broken thing?

To start, name it.

Call it what it is.

Criticize, denounce, and organize. Go to jury duty, your town hall meetings, volunteer at Planned Parenthood, and vote. Call your Senator. Hug.

And name it.


Speak up always. Today especially, and even more so tomorrow.

Justice is a marathon and a sprint. Hope will keep you fueled, fired up, and ready to go. Critical thinking will keep you sane.

All this was lost to me until I saw this dead butterfly in the road moments ago. This broken, beautiful thing was still moving despite being plowed down. Just after seeing it, a close friend said a butterfly rested on her leg, quietly for a long while until it finally fluttered away.

Broken things do get better. Broken things do heal.

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