JUDY EMERSON Author and Personal Coach

I may never know that a neighbor I’ve chatted with at the mailbox was sleepless with sorrow last night.  Not to mention a stranger across town. Or even less, a flood of migrants at the border or thousands of miles away.  I don’t think about them.

I’m aware that my toenail polish is sadly chipped, or that I forgot to start the dryer.  And even though it hasn’t been long since lunch, I’m craving something….  What do I want?  Something salty maybe…. 

I am not aware of that specific, sharp fear in the belly of a boy in central Phoenix, who shivered fitfully next to his mother, in an alleyway on a piece of cardboard, his hand on her shoulder to reassure himself she’s still there, that she hasn’t left him alone to look for her dealer, even though she promised she wouldn’t do that ever again, until he jumps awake at the sudden roar of a truck engine.  Now, even in the dark, he obsesses about being on time for school, where there will be breakfast, even though the kids give him looks because he smells bad. 

I am aware of cat hair on my computer keyboard, of the prescription I forgot to order, of the questionable color combination of my yoga outfit, and of feeling discouraged at how slowly the weight is coming off. 

I am not aware of the twenty-something woman with a toddler and a six-year-old huddled in a refugee camp on the other side of the world who, when she isn’t so consumed with grief, has such an infectious laugh. How she misses her mother, who did not escape the dangers in Gaza, or Venezuela, or Syria, or Ukraine, where gunfire and explosions are more familiar than forks and napkins. The young woman has fled with her husband whose shining eyes still make her heart surge, and with her brother who is the cleverest one in the family. But they had to leave their sister behind, because she wasn’t quite right in her head since her fiancée was taken, and she couldn’t run fast, so she might have made more danger for the babies, although they loved her so. And where is she now?  I’m not aware of the stories her grandfather told her as a little girl, that she carries in her heart. How she had had a life so different than now.

What happened to that wild, favorite cousin, who always won at street games, the best friend who shared her secrets when they were ten, the cranky old woman next door who complained about the noise of their giggling? The teacher who crinkled her eyes when she smiled?  Did they get out?  What sweetness was left behind in the mattresses and the cooking pots they could not carry on their backs?  What memories did that mother carry into that unfamiliar place they have found to rest, and what was too terrible to remember, but had to be locked away in the recesses of her mind, only to spring out in nightmares that make her gasp awake with tears rolling across the bridge of her nose and down, puddling in the palm cupped under her cheek?

I don’t understand what politics or greed, or suffering makes that set of people hate this other set of people. 

I haven’t paid attention to what is happening to those strangers, foreigners, wherever they are.  But the idea of them—they’re like Mary and Joseph, fleeing in the night from the threat of a murderous king who would kill their child who’s now pushing toward birth. There are no hospitals. Where can they even rest?

What fills my awareness is the detail of my own narrow life.  I remind myself to schedule a haircut or wonder what to watch on television.  But I don’t need to question if my front door will lock, or if the heat will kick on to keep me comfortable.   There is food in my freezer and pantry.  The toilets flush. My fourteen-year-old car never fails to get me where I want to go, and I have money for gas.  I don’t have an investment portfolio, but I have a home that nobody will drag me out of. 

Those other lives are out of sight, out of mind, for me.  For them, some privileges that I call rights cannot be imagined, must not be wished for, and could never be expected. Because to think of those things would only risk hopelessness and distract their attention necessary to find something for the little ones to eat today. 

But I don’t think about that.

-Judy Emerson