My lunchtime view as I wolfed down a sandwich:
As calming as this should be, I am not calm. After all kinds of discussion about immigration and security, I can’t help but think of the image of a three year old Syrian boy face down in the sand. He was one of the few out of the throng of people displaced by the crises in our world, one circumstance that caught our attention.
I can’t picture what his life was like.
But I can picture my youngest boy, now six, the way he lights up every room he’s in and every face he sees. I try to picture him lying face down on the beach, but I don’t want to see that.
So I try to picture someone explaining to me, in that circumstance, that “we’re worried about Trojan Horses and terrorist threats, that’s why we couldn’t help you.”
I try to imagine how absolutely hollow and self-serving those words would sound.
It’s hard. I don’t have answers or good policy suggestions. I just have these feelings on my mind that I need to get out.
Yeah, it’s a base appeal to emotion trying to stir up compassion. I always thought compassion was pretty exceptional. I always thought America was too.
But at least we’re sort of safe or something.