My Comment To Christopher Armitage

I follow a guy on substack– actually, he’s the reason I’m even on Substack (or follow it or whatever). He does serious research and gives incredible advice on activism that goes beyond carrying signs and calling congress critters. A friend of his just died of suicide (he was in the military and knows a lot of guys in the military) and he admitted he’s called the Suicide Hotline before. Another incredible essay. My reply to that was this:

“Somehow, after reading so many of your incredible hard-hitting and hopeful essays about fighting back against systemic injustice, I’m not surprised to hear you’ve been suicidal. Something about the ardent and deep engaged concern told me you were totally for real, but also vulnerable. You have the arresting power of someone who has suffered and is damned determined to push back against those who cause suffering. You’re exactly what we need in the world right now. I’ve changed so much on the activist level because of your coherent and actionable suggestions. You fucking CARE.

Full disclosure regarding suicidal ideation: Me too. Complex Developmental PTSD here. So much fun! Not from military combat, just from multiple bad people I’ve had the bad luck to spent way too much time with, starting with my parents. My father was a con man, and my mother a… well, she was a quiet Nazi. They were psychological terrorists. I’m 55 now, and my father is dead, but my 95 year old mother is still going, and people wonder why I’m so detached from her.

What you mention about the moral aspect is interesting… My parents “coached” me to be a white supremacist from very early childhood. Their teachings melted in one afternoon. In 1989 I was 9 and we lived in townhouse apartments. We got new next door neighbors– a white family who adopted a black boy a year younger than myself. My father called them names, “_____ digger” the least of them. The teenage kids egged our car one afternoon in the summer while my father was sleeping off a bender. I saw it and seized up in absolute fear: my father would see it and he took his anger out on me. I had to get that egg off before it dried!

I got out the hose and soap and started to clean the big car, crying the whole time. The adopted son of the neighbors saw me and quietly asked me why I was upset. I broke down and told him I was scared and he jumped in and started helping me wash the car. This kid, a year younger, showed me mercy. His teen brother and sister were mad at first, but he told them that I would be the one to pay the price for their retaliation. And they joined us in cleaning it off.

After that, nothing my parents told me about whites being better, or about blacks not being “truly human” were ever believed again. One act of mercy shifted me towards questioning everything my parents taught me. I also realized the entire world was not as grim and mercenary as my parents.

Acts of mercy matter. Acts of teaching matter. Helping one another through dark times matters. You matter and so do I. Right now you’re a bright light and you’re putting some serious energy into other people bulbs– or giving them multi-wick candles! You pick the metaphor! Thank you.“