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I Don’t Want to Know How Bad it is Anymore

Growing up, I was taught that knowledge was power.

I used to agree.

Now I’m beginning to believe differently.

Now I think it’s a pain in the rear end.

I woke up this morning, scanned the social media landscape—and in a few seconds felt nauseous because I realized the collateral damage within me of all this relentless truth. 

I sensed the heaviness in me growing, I noticed my blood pressure rising, I felt the anger welling up in me as my mind began to receive and organize and process all the bad news.

I think I have information-poisoning.

The more I know about what’s really happening in this country; the depths of our fractures, the audacity of our leaders, the disregard for our Constitution by our President, the sheer volume of the legislative atrocities manufactured each day—the less hopeful I become.

The more I read the posts and absorb the hateful diatribes of people I know and love, and really fathom how much contempt they have for people of color and foreigners and LGBTQ people—the more resentful of them I become and the less I desire to be in their presence.

The more I learn about the toxic racism, misogyny, and nationalism of an American Church I once felt so much a part of—the more I grieve that I’ll never again feel at home in the religion of my childhood; that I am a spiritual orphan now.

I even begin to resent those who work so hard to make sure that I and others know what’s going on in this country. The volume and velocity of the bad news they provide is so tremendous, that at some point it seems like piling on. It all begins to feel like an unintentional act of aggression; friendly fire unleashed in the chaos of the battle. It isn’t their fault, but even their sincere and valiant efforts to disseminate information, often feel themselves like assaults on my soul.

I’ve recently begun to envy ignorant people; those who by nature or by choice, don’t have a clue what’s going on.

I know so many people who’ve opted out of knowing anymore. They don’t read the news, they’ve checked out of social media, they avoid or refuse to believe any information that feels depressing or frightening or contrary to the story they tell themselves.

I realize this is surely evidence of their privilege; that it is a luxury not everyone has, and I know it’s irresponsible as a citizen and a person of faith—but damn, they seem so happy in their blissful bubble of not-knowing.

I am jealous of these people.

They rarely feel the dread I experience on a regular basis. They don’t spend a moment worrying about the stuff that keeps me up at night. They’re never visited by the grief that feels like such a constant companion here in my heart.

And I want to be like them; care-free, weightless, and fully unburdened because of all they choose not to know—but I realize that’s how we got here; that this current national disaster is the yield of millions of people who refused facts or data or truth. I know that the answer now in undoing this damage, isn’t adding to the pool of ignorance.

I know that the only way through this historic, catastrophic sh* show, is facing and confronting reality; as ugly and disheartening as it is and trying to change that reality, alongside people who also care deeply because they too understand how sideways it all is.

I know that the solution in these terrible days, isn’t to shy away from the bad news or to soft sell it to others—but to welcome and amplify it. The bad news, even though it feels painful, contains the healing too. It is the antidote to the sickness we’re fighting off.

If there’s a way forward, it isn’t in knowing less—and so I’ll keep reading and learning, and dealing with how much turmoil that creates within me. The challenging part, will be convincing those blissfully unaware right now, to allow real life to inconvenience them enough to care too; to let true information disrupt their carefully curated happiness.

Knowledge may indeed be a pain in the rear end—but it is still one of the most powerful weapons we have in the fight to stay human in inhumane times.

I don’t want to know how bad it is anymore, but I do.
I don’t want to grieve the horrible reality anymore, but I do.
I don’t want to care anymore, but I do.

This may not feel at all good—but I know it is a good thing.

 

Order John’s book, ‘A Bigger Table’ here.

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