Amy Hill Hearth

I'm ill-equipped for this era.

I can't get used to the level of anger expressed publicly these days, especially on social media where people quarrel like barn cats.

I wasn't raised to behave that way. My parents were nice people who expected their four children to navigate the challenges of life with time-honored standards. Yell at a stranger? No way. Talk back to a teacher or police officer? Never.

Sure, I got angry at my siblings when we were growing up. As the youngest, I was teased a lot, and I was a feisty little thing, so there were some epic battles, especially with my brothers. But that was the extent of it. As an adult, I rarely lose my temper. I must be provoked repeatedly for it to happen.

There were others in my family besides Mom and Dad who set a high bar for civility. For example, Grandma, a member of the Women's Temperance League, was the kind of gentle soul who said things like, "It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice."

None of the adults involved in my upbringing would be anything less than shocked and appalled by today's "age of rage," as I call our era. Grandma would likely faint.

I've cut back on social media several times and have even considered giving it up altogether. But then I would find it much harder to keep up with my friends and colleagues not to mention that it would make me very sad to give up puppy videos or my latest obsession, the adventures of a baby pygmy rhino living a spoiled life at a zoo somewhere here in America.

But increasingly, the outraged posts are taking over. Sometimes posts, if you look carefully, are clearly performative. The person (or robot) who posts or comments isn't angry at all, but is using cruel, insulting, and aggressive language to try to intimidate or silence those who would disagree with the post. Angry posts attract more attention, but studies show they don't convince people to change their opinion or switch sides on an issue. All they do is make more money for the billionaire who owns the platform.

Then there are those who write angry posts because they, quite simply, are genuinely angry. You can sense the red-hot rage. One wonders what these individuals were doing before the existence of social media. Perhaps they were one of those eccentrics who wrote letters to the editor of their local newspaper, screaming about potholes. (I began my career as a newspaper reporter. Believe me, people care about potholes.)

Now, thanks to social media, the number of pothole people is growing like mile-a-minute vine on a split-rail fence.

You know you've encountered a pothole person when your well-meaning post or comment gets a fierce, sweeping reaction that puts you in your place for your alleged infraction. The indignant person could scroll past a post that bothers them, but instead you are shamed, condescended to, and judged, usually in one short declaration.

God help you if your post can be interpreted in any way as political. That's when you will quickly find yourself facing a virtual village of pitchfork-wielding keyboard warriors who are so nasty that you wistfully daydream about the long-gone days of dial phones and manual typewriters.

I like computers and the Internet and all they have brought us, but I fear that social media expects too much of humankind. It's a little like nuclear power: Humans are smart enough to invent it, but not smart enough to use it wisely.

Back when social media was new, we were told, in grand fashion, that it would bring people together. Humans would be able to connect in a new way, they said, resulting in a better world.

Like any invention, however, when used over time, flaws will emerge. Among the significant drawbacks of social media is that it encourages rage, which is not healthy for the targets, be they institutions or humans.

Much of social media is firmly in the grasp of the tech bros who started the platforms but remember: Ultimately, the power is in our hands. The tech bros will lose money if we tone down the angry posts and comments and stop sharing them – or, we could always leave.

His name was Jonathan. He was a cultural anthropologist, a musician, a free spirit. He was a father, husband, and friend.

He was my brother.

It started with a phone call on a Monday morning in July 2021. Jonathan was in the hospital. He'd had a seizure the night before. This, in itself, raised alarm bells. I knew he had no history of seizures, and yet he'd had one that was so severe that he fell and ripped apart his shoulder. At the hospital, a scan showed "something" in his brain. He would be having brain surgery that afternoon.

It was my sister who called me, and she spoke slowly and carefully. Still, three words - seizure, scan, surgery - felt like three quick slaps to my face.

The surgery went on for hours. When it was over, we would learn that "something" in his brain had a name: Glioblastoma, a malignant brain tumor. 

With optimal care, Jonathan's prognosis was 12-14 months. With no treatment, he could expect to live four months.

He decided to fight it. He lived for 23 months, almost twice as long as predicted. He went into a final decline last spring, and died June 24. 

All is quiet now. Those of us who loved him are bereft and exhausted. We are like survivors of a crash, stunned and awaiting rescue.

As I sit here writing this post, I look out my office window at a gentle, soothing rain. It's a comfort, this soothing rain. I like the sound of it. I like the way it slows life down from a frantic pace. No one is mowing a lawn. Traffic is lighter. Everyone has retreated indoors.

There is much to be grateful for.

There is, also, a lot to worry about.

I have never worried about my country as I do now. I fear the future. Will our democracy survive? Will we split into two parts? Will hatred define us? Is anyone able to hear over the shouting?

Greed is, as always, at the root of it all. The richest among us aren't satisfied. They want more. And more. And still more. They feel entitled. They want to run the country. They think they know better than the rest of us lowly souls, so they give huge sums of money to our elected officials. Bribes, to be blunt about it. All this money is floating into the pockets of public servants – not all, but many - who are supposed to represent us.

So we have greed. We have anger.

And we have self-interest. All of us, not "just" the wealthiest. One person's freedom is more important, apparently, than someone else's life. It's all about "me" rather than "us." Gone are the days of my childhood when we were taught to wait our turn, to share, to respect our teacher. Gone are the days, I guess, when young men like my father enlisted to fight in a world war to keep us free.

People are complicated. We're all a product of the times in which we live. We will always have greed, anger, and selfishness, but right now we seem to be giving in to it, even celebrating it.

And yet there is one more failure – a huge one – that may define us more than any other. We have not prioritized the importance of the gentle, soothing rain. We aren't appreciating the gifts of nature and, tragically, we're hurtling toward the days when there will be nothing but drought, on the one hand, or the kind of fierce, isolated downpours that cause destructive flooding. 

We aren't doing anywhere near enough to fight this crisis. There is much we could do, but we haven't. I believe, therefore, that if humanity survives, our era will be remembered for one thing above all: squandering the opportunity to address climate change.

To the next generation and the one after that: I'm sorry. 

When I see what is happening in Ukraine, I feel it in my bones, my family having gone through something similar in WW II. 

My mother lost numerous members of her family, some at the hands of the Nazis (for reasons we don't know), and, at the end of the war, by Russians. Russian soldiers chased my family, all civilians, and murdered several, including my great-grandpa, who was in his eighties. (He was shot and, while still alive, thrown off a bridge to drown.) My mother and her parents were, fortunately, in America at this time.

While in college, I interviewed several surviving members of my mother's famiily. They had been Displaced Persons at the end of the war and went through absolute hell. One great-aunt had lost both legs to frostbite. Eventually, they found their way to an American zone where they were taken care of, but the physical and emotional scars lived on. They were damaged people, and some of that trauma, no doubt, has been passed to my generation and even the next. 

What is happening in Ukraine at this moment is horrible and has made me reflect on my kinfolk who fled a similar situation in 1945 -1946. There are relatives I never met, and whose fate I will never learn. I do not know where they are buried, assuming they were buried properly at all.

The atrocities being committed in Ukraine will have a life of their own that will be felt a long time from now. 

I'm a born writer, and there was no greater proof than the way I reacted to the global pandemic. I didn't think twice. I didn't hesitate. I went into my home office and started to write.

No, I didn't write about the pandemic itself. My topic is an entirely different one. I don't feel as if I chose the subject as much as it chose me. It's what I wanted or needed to write, so I did.

That said, the idea was rattling around in my head for a long time. I'm an "ideas" person, but being in lockdown with my husband and our dog put my mind into overdrive.

I wrote day and night and the result is that just one year later, I have completed a polished, five-hundred page manuscript. Everyone has had their own way to deal with stress; this was mine.