Growing up, my mom often had the news playing in the background as I prepared for elementary school. Nowadays, I still tune in during my morning routine, but I’ve traded chocolate chip pancakes for a steaming cup of coffee. Yet, recently, it has become increasingly challenging to watch the news without feeling overwhelmed with sadness.
From protests to violence, the reports seem to weigh heavily on my heart. Just last Saturday, I was horrified to see families torn apart by immigration bans, including a heartbreaking story of a breastfeeding infant separated from her mother. I can hardly imagine the anguish that mother endured. It makes me question: how did we become a nation that separates parents and children based solely on their origins?
In a quiet neighborhood in Texas, a neighbor fatally shoots his next-door friend while she walks her dogs. In another city, four teens cruelly attack a vulnerable teenager and stream it live. Meanwhile, lawmakers in Washington debate the rights of women, as if our autonomy is up for discussion once again. Each news cycle leaves me in disbelief, pondering the grim realities we face.
This year marks a quarter-century since the Rodney King riots in Los Angeles, a moment I barely remember, having been just four years old. My grandfather, who was one of the most influential figures in my life, sent me a birthday wish that was published in the Boston Globe back in May 1992. Lately, I find myself reflecting on his words, especially as I hear his voice echoing through the pages, reminding me of the challenges our generation must confront.
My grandfather, a Jewish immigrant, penned his wish with a sense of urgency that resonates today.