Hatin' on Humanity
“Who would do such a thing?” Answer: all of us. We have all harmed, and we have all healed. That simple truth makes answering the second question easy: “Is humanity inherently bad or good?”
My daughter flew back to college this week, and arrived late at night to find her car’s window smashed in, glass sprayed all over both front seats. Money from the center console was missing. The next day, after filing a police report, she discovered that her bicycle’s front tire had been stolen.
“I’m hatin’ on humanity right now,” she growled, sort of joking and sort of not.
I understand. We’ve all had those kinds of experiences – many far, far worse – and have wanted to shut down our faith in humanity as a result. It’s been happening a lot to me lately.
It makes sense that we would build our world view around our direct experience of the world. That’s how we learn as children: Wendy lies about me behind my back in the cafeteria; I stay the hell away from Wendy.
If enough of those lousy events happen during childhood, you’ll grow up to see the world as an ominous, unsafe place, and you’ll probably assume the worst about people – even those people who DO have your best interests at heart.
On the other hand, if you’re lucky enough to grow up in a relatively supportive environment and lousy events are few, you’ll probably assume the opposite, that everyone is operating from their highest intentions.
My daughter’s experience reminded me of an incident many years ago in my own life. While working as a camp counselor in Maine one summer, I drove a carful of fellow counselors to the beach on our day off. The car was my parents’ old Caprice Classic, and I had borrowed it to drive from Ohio to Maine for the summer.
After a full day of shivering (have you been to a beach in Maine?) we made it back to the parking lot, only to find that someone had slashed all four tires of the car. I don’t really remember how we all got back to camp that day; all I remember was feeling angry and powerless, and using a payphone to call a tow truck. (Yes, that’s how long ago this was.)
In the days that followed, I replaced the four tires to the tune of almost $500. I moped around a lot, disheartened that my $1200 salary for the entire summer was drastically reduced by this meaningless vandalism. Who would do such a thing? Is humanity inherently bad?
And then, on the Friday following the event, I went to the counselor’s shack to dust my forlorn mailbox. Lo and behold, I had mail! A fat envelope with “Mary” written on it nestled in the box.
When I opened it, my mouth fell into a classic dumbfounded O as I saw its contents: cash! Close to $400, in small bills. No note, no explanation. I staggered around camp that day, bewildered and giddy. Who would do such a thing? Is humanity inherently good?
I grilled everyone who had been in the car with me that day: “Where did this money come from?” I asked other likely candidates, too…and not one of them admitted to knowing anything about it.
At Vespers that evening, the whole camp gathered as usual around the campfire, forest encircling us in an atrium of pines. The sun lowered into the hills and the air cooled as we sang songs like “Leavin’ on a Jetplane,” and “Country Road.”
As always, there was the space in the evening program for anyone to come forward and speak to the entire group, campers and counselors alike. I stood up from my bench, took a deep breath… but could barely speak. I burst into tears, babbled something about gratitude for whoever was responsible, then sat down again, my face hot with tears.
What I wanted to say was this:
Thank you, whoever you are, for restoring my faith in humanity. Thank you for showing me how to rise together as a group to come to the aid of an individual. Thank you for diminishing hate by acting with love.
Now I have my own answers to my own questions. First, “Who would do such a thing?” Answer: all of us. We have all harmed, and we have all healed. That simple truth makes answering the second question easy: “Is humanity inherently bad or good?” Answer: We are both, and we are neither.
If there’s anything that the past two years has taught me, it’s that every single one of us is capable of acts of violence, and every single one of us is capable of acts of grace.
Every day now we are given opportunities to choose how to respond to events in the world, opportunities that seem to be accelerating in number and in magnitude. How do we respond? Do we harden ourselves off to the world, hating on humanity?
Tempting as it is, it’s no way to go through life, assuming that everyone is out to get you. Living paranoid and defensive makes for a miserable existence. I know people like that – we all do, probably – and I avoid them.
But a Pollyanna approach is no good, either. It’s frankly dangerous to assume that everyone has your best interests at heart, because not everyone does – particularly those who have attained certain levels of power.
In the book I co-wrote with Todd Norian, he describes being a trusting follower who put his faith into two different gurus, only to be betrayed by both of them. After that experience, rather than shut down his heart completely, he found a middle path: forgiveness without forgetting.
It’s like the analogy a therapist once gave me when I struggled with how to interact with an individual I felt I couldn’t trust. The therapist said, “She’s a snake. You can still love a snake…from a distance.”
I’m finding that helpful as I watch police cruelty, read about corporate malfeasance, or experience government scapegoating. Each instance gives me a chance to feel the righteous anger of injustice, grieve for those harmed, find forgiveness in my heart, and then take whatever loving action I can to console, to heal, and to create change for the better.
It’s not easy, and sometimes I worry that I’m not doing enough. But then I remember that the collective good deeds of the many – no matter how small the deed – always have the power to overwhelm the nefarious actions of the few. The summer camp in Maine taught me that.
My advice to my daughter?
Always have faith in humanity… and think twice about where to park your car.