What haunts me, as I move towards a new phase in my life (I’m approaching a birthday that’s symbolic to me, as I’ve noted previously—my 60th—and one . . . ponders . . . as one ages):
Where does hate go? What happens to it, when it’s done its dirty work, had its field day, and been temporarily vanquished?
In one sense, I ask these questions naively, because I know their answer perfectly well. In speaking of “hate” here, I’m talking about the intractable, venomous, never-overcome tendency of people in any human group to single out a particular sub-set of their community for scorn, demonization, exclusion, and often, active persecution that may even result in their eradication.