Why I Care About People Who Live Far Away

This is my response to the question: Why do you care? Why do you care about things happening far away to people who were raised in a completely different culture?

See, once upon a time, before I started working for myself, I lived in Chicago. I lived in a fancy high rise building, the kind that has a concierge, and a gym, and a parking garage, and an adjacent hotel with shops and restaurants.

All was lovely, I had a corporate job, I was doing just fine, and then one day, four armed officers showed up at my door and arrested me for something I have not done. The humiliation of being led in handcuffs by the people I knew, including the concierge I used to tip for helping me with the grocery bags, was not pleasant. Being treated like a suspicious subhuman by police officers who would watch me freeze on the metal bed for several days in shorts and a tank top and not give me a blanket, or being rolled around the car seat while handcuffed to two other women (who were crying their lungs out), or crying from helplessness in my cell when I had a sudden stomach pain and I was locked and scared and nobody cared as if I were an animal, is something that I could not possibly imagine happening to me, ever. Ever. Ever.

I’ve always cared about the world and I’ve always been irritated by bullying but that experience taught me that nobody is “special” enough to be guaranteed from suddenly finding oneself in the position of being horribly violated. When I see injustice, I think about these people like they are my relatives. I don’t think of them as some kind of remote creatures from a different culture. I feel the connection that is pulsing through our collective veins, we really are all related. I believe it is normal and human to feel that way.

And I know, we are isolated, living in cities, minding our respective businesses, hopefully doing fine, but…