I'm half-way through
All the Light We Cannot See—a dazzling piece of historical fiction by Anthony Doerr; set in WWII-Europe with two protagonists, a blind French girl and an orphaned German boy. I haven't yet gotten to the part at which their stories converge.
As I was reading the other night, I was struck by the tragic familiarity of fear, hate, blame, and cruelty; politicians positing themselves as saviors; thoughtless rhetoric that dehumanizes others based on country of origin, race (our faultiest invention), and religion.
I went to Charleston for the first time this past June. It was humid, teeming with other bachelorette parties, and awfully charming. Over shrimp and grits, (grits, by the way, originating from way the Muskogee tribe's preparation of "Indian corn"), our food tour guide deemed Charleston one of the few colonial cities in which all religious groups were able to freely practice; an impressive privilege, indeed! but all the while legal servitude was booming. 60,000 black slaves outnumbered white colonists in the early 18th century.
It's so necessary (and uncomfortable) to confront our reprehensible histories—how we could possibly reconcile, what we
should have learned, where we still need healing—and that's all before considering our current realities. There's so much, and at times, so little.
And then there are moments, moments that make me remember; like those at
Courtney and Dani's wedding. I was so deeply touched by the fortitude of (as J.R. Moehringer writes in his praise of
All the Light We Cannot See) "the countless facets of the human heart." There is also love. Hope. We continue.
