I watched bits of the news yesterday. It’s too overwhelming and chaotic to fully absorb. The list of crises is long and exhausting. Every single one demands my attention. They require my care. I pledge allegiance to the side I want to see prevail.
Minneapolis has been a battleground for weeks now. Created by our president. Can you believe that? His soldiers—ICE agents—breaking down doors, slamming into cars, pulling people out of homes and streets, and tear-gassing others directly in the face with no regard for injury. Where does this level of vile anger come from? What fuels such deep-seated fear of other humans that it turns into a desire to destroy them?
At the same time, I am trying to read The Book of Forgiving by Desmond Tutu and his daughter, Mpho. In it, I’m being asked to understand that no matter the act—or the depth of pain inflicted—you must seek forgiveness. I’ll be honest: I want to put conditions on that. But conditions aren’t part of these teachings. Conditions keep us bound inside the conflict. So somehow, I’m being asked to understand where the hatred comes from.
The hate came from somewhere.
Were these men raised in poverty? Taken advantage of by past government systems?
Wait—are they feeling emasculated? Men deprived of strength, vigor, and control? Have we weakened men, made them feel less than? Stripped them of confidence, power, and authority?
Bear with me.
Last night, we watched A League of Their Own—a movie about women forming baseball teams while men were away fighting World War II. The women became good at baseball. Very good. But when the war ended and husbands returned, they were expected to go back home—to be housewives again.
There’s a scene in a dance hall during a night away from the game. It reminded me of my mom. She grew up in a dance hall and loved the atmosphere. Loved to dance. Was good at it. But when she came of age, she married—because that, too, was her dream. Dancing was replaced by cooking, laundry, raising kids, and feeding chickens. Dance became something she only touched in rare, brief moments.
She became angry.
She spent her days screaming at a life she hadn’t wanted. Hated it. Took it out on her kids. The female version of emasculation—a microcosm of a larger system. She had wanted more.
Fast forward.
My generation took the reins. We called it feminism. We said we didn’t want to be controlled anymore. We wanted careers like men. Freedom to make choices about our lives, our bodies. We entered male-dominated spaces, became good at those roles, took their jobs—and then added insult to injury by demanding shared parenting, shared household labor, and sometimes asking men to become homemakers.
Some men welcomed this shift. Others did not.
“Get back in your place,” they screamed.
My brother warned me once: “Don’t make more money than your husband. It will hurt his ego.”
In Minneapolis, one woman blocked the path of an ICE agent. He ordered her out of her car. She said, “Hey dude, I’m not mad at you.” He screamed again, “Get out of the fucking car.” Then he drew his gun. As she tried to escape, he shot her three times. As he walked away, he called back, “Fucking bitch.”
Emasculation?
Our president wants to be seen as all-powerful. In control. Confident that people listen to him—and only him. He wants to be called strong. Dubbed the greatest peacemaker. Some people are feeding his ego. In return, he rewards them—funding projects, granting favors, letting them live in peace.
So, Desmond Tutu—if forgiveness begins with understanding, I’m trying to do that part. But how do I take the next step? For me to forgive this hate-filled supremacy gripping our country right now, must I surrender my freedom? Would I need to relinquish my strength? Must I give up my power?
Maybe forgiveness isn’t absolution or reconciliation. Maybe it looks more like refusing to become what I oppose. Maybe it means holding my ground—clear-eyed, steady, unwilling to excuse violence or cruelty—while still resisting the pull toward hatred myself. I need to seek to understand without surrendering my voice. I need to stay open without laying down my strength.
If forgiveness is a journey, then today I am still walking. I am angry at times and grieving often. Yet, I am determined to stay human in a moment that keeps asking me not to be.
As the Monks walk for Peace, I will walk too.
Tranquil Resources 