Sticks and Stones -- June 30, 2017

http://www.sun-sentinel.com/opinion/fl-op-nra-video-20170705-story.html

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” This adage would always frustrate me to no end when I was a child, and it was a phrase that was echoed ad nauseam by several of my primary school teachers in explaining how we should respond to verbal bullying. In fact, I remember being a great annoyance to my Kindergarten teacher when I just could not bring myself to accept these words. “But, Mrs. Casey,” I insisted, “that isn’t true! Words really can hurt us!” (I’ll always remember this because, during my entire academic career, this was one of the only instances when I caused a teacher to lose patience with me.)

I think that the reason why this platitude was such a source of vexation for me is because, even then, I realized that this sentiment was untrue. In fact, earlier the same day that my Kindergarten teacher was parroting that banal aphorism, I had witnessed two students on the playground exchanging words, which very quickly led to physical brawling. Even with my child-like perception of causality, I was convinced that those harsh words that the two children were hurling at each other were what caused the quarrel to quickly escalate and to become physical.

Looking back now, I can understand another reason as to why this commonplace phrase was so befuddling to me. Personally, I had always believed strongly in the Italian version of this epigram, which states the polar opposite: "La lingua non ha ossa ma rompe le ossa." In English this translates to, “Even though the tongue does not have bones, it can break bones.” This Italian proverb resonated with me more profoundly than its English counterpart. You see, even from this young age, I was an ardent believer in the immense power of words.

As I got older, and I furthered my passion for the written word, I remember in high school and college reading Geoffery Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. In fact, in college, I would spend much time reading both the Middle English and Modern English versions of this lengthy work and was even required to memorize and recite certain passages. (Ah, youth! ☺) Somehow, though, in all of the hours spent studying this entire masterpiece, one single line stood out to me more than any other. In the "Prologue" of Chaucer’s novel, the character referred to as “the Host” explains to the other characters that our words are “the cousin[s] to the deed.” I remember that I was in awe of the verbiage used in this passage in that this writer conveyed a concept that I had long believed—that there is an inherent, undeniable relationship, so to speak, between our words and our actions.

So often these days, this literary passage has really been brought to the forefront of my mind. It seems as though, especially within the last couple of years, I’ve been told repeatedly that I ascribe entirely too much power to words, that I am too sensitive to malicious language, that I am too politically correct, that I am too concerned about offending others with my words, et cetera, et cetera. These sentiments would often be accompanied by a multitude of odiously trite clichés, such as “Talk is cheap,” “Actions speak louder than words,” and, my own personal favorite, “They’re just words.”

Now, for someone like me whose life-long passion and livelihood are derived from language, you can only imagine the uneasiness and frustration that phrases like this evoke in me. I have seen firsthand the level of good or of harm words have the power to inflict. Language, if employed with ill intent, can be weaponized to cause unfathomable damage, and one needs only to look at incidents that have occurred in the U.S. in the last two months to see illustrations of this. For example, on May 20, an African American, Bowie State University student was murdered by a member of a white supremacist Facebook hate group days before his graduation. On May 26 in Oregon, two courageous men were killed by a member of an anti-Muslim extremist group for valiantly attempting to defend two Muslim women on a train. On June 14, an apparently mentally-disturbed gunman opened fire, targeting members of the GOP at a practice for the annual Congressional Baseball Game for Charity, hitting four people, seriously wounding House Majority Whip, Steve Scalise.

Of course, it would be both grossly unfair and inaccurate to claim that incendiary words themselves are solely responsible for these tragic events, but it is undeniable that each of these incidents shares one detail in common. In each of these cases, the physical violence was preceded by an all-consuming siege of animosity that was seemingly fueled by vicious hate speech. I have always believed that although, as the old adage states, words themselves do not have the capacity to cause physical harm, hostile and disparaging language creates a social climate that facilitates violence. Logically, dehumanizing others, even with our words, is the first step to justifying violence against them.

I think that this is why I was so disturbed when I woke up this morning to find that a friend had called my attention to this controversial ad, recently put out by the NRA (see link above). In the ad, the speaker is basically insinuating that, in light of recent events, we are on the brink of a second civil war, stopping just short of implying that we should choose a side and promote violence against others who do not share our ideology or convictions. The ad, quite transparently, is playing on the target audience’s feelings of fear and anger in the hope of increasing weapon sales.

When I first watched the ad, my heart fell into my stomach. After all of the calamity and even bloodshed that is still so fresh in our collective memory, when will we learn our lesson? When will we learn that words can have repercussions that are absolutely devastating? After seeing the level of brutality that can be precipitated by rancorous, vitriolic language, I would be lying if I said that this isn’t frightening to me. Perhaps Chaucer understood this concept when he wrote that a word is “the cousin to the deed,” for even if words are separate from actions, they are still closely enough related that they can both have deadly consequences.

-- Daniella Rossi

The Weight of Empathy -- May 21, 2017

http://nymag.com/scienceofus/2017/05/theres-a-right-way-and-a-wrong-way-to-do-empathy.html?mid=fb-share-scienceofus

Viewing the picture on this article from “New York” magazine, posted on the renowned writer and journalist Connie Schultz’s Facebook page this morning, somehow instantaneously brought me back in time to my childhood. Seeing the photo of the little girl dolefully cradling her wounded baby doll called to mind the myriad of times in my childhood when I would be playing pretend and my playtime would end in tears. All too frequently, as a child, I would get lost in my own unbridled reverie to the point where it seemed real. For example, my imagination was so vivid that sometimes, for one agonizing moment, I would find myself in the perspective of a mother whose child was deathly ill, causing me to momentarily forget that I was just a little girl, with an active imagination, playing with a baby doll. My poor mother, both frustrated and bewildered by these sudden, erratic displays of emotion, would usually say to me, “Daniella, why are you crying?! You made up the story yourself! Just stop playing!” Then, she would always add, perhaps as an afterthought, “THIS IS NOT REAL!!”

Whereas I couldn’t blame my mother in the slightest for reacting this way, I realized even then that I couldn’t have expected her to grasp the true source of my tears. You see, as a small child, I understood completely that when I played pretend, I was merely reenacting a fictitious narrative that I myself had fabricated; however, these moments of playtime caused me to realize that although this horrific scenario was not a reality for me, it was a reality for countless other people. After all, even though I was not really a mother nursing a terminally ill child, who knows how many women, at this same point in time, were experiencing this hellish reality? At this age, I couldn’t accurately articulate this to my mother, so I didn’t try, but nonetheless, the thought continued to cause me great pain.

Similarly, seeing movies or television programs or even reading stories where a character was undergoing some degree of turmoil would often engender the same reaction in me. I always laugh when I think back to how every year at Christmas time, I would experience the same outpour of emotion while watching the movie Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Even what was meant to be a light-hearted yuletide tale had the power to reduce me to tears when I considered the plight of poor Rudolph who was ostracized by his peers for a simple physical anomaly. Whenever, as the story goes, the other reindeer excluded Rudolph from playing their games, I would shout at the television saying, “YOU’D BETTER LET HIM PLAY! JUST WAIT UNTIL CHRISTMAS EVE! THEN YOU’RE GOING TO BE SORRY! YOU’LL SEE! YOU'LL ALL SEE!!”

As usual, my poor mother, at this point becoming rather used to my eccentricities, would respond, “Daniella, it’s just a movie, and you know how it ends!” As always, in trying to reassure me, she would conclude with the phrase, “THIS IS NOT REAL!” I realized that my mother only had the best of intentions in telling me this, but yet again, I understood that she could not comprehend what was at the heart of these emotions. As usual, I was fully cognizant that what I was watching was just a fictional story and the product of someone else’s imagination. I couldn’t help but think, however, that although this particular story wasn’t real, I would never know how many individuals found themselves shunned by others because of their physicality, and that thought in itself was the source of great sympathy for me.

Looking back at these incidents from my childhood, I believe that these may have been some of the first indications of the overwhelming, sometimes crippling, amount of empathy with which I would struggle my entire life. I think that is why reading this article from “New York” magazine this morning had such a profound effect on me. So often when I attempt to explain the exhausting and, at times, debilitating nature of my empathy, others will good-naturedly assure me that compassion is a wonderful quality to possess. I don’t disagree with this, but I realize when they make these comments that people are largely unaware of the all-consuming power of my level of empathy. They are unaware of the many, many times that I am unable to truly experience the simple joys of my own life because my mind is incessantly ruminating on the suffering of others. They will never know the self-imposed anguish I experience with my overwhelming need to try on everyone else’s shoes in often excruciating detail.

When I think of just how heavy and draining this burden of caring can be, I need only to think of an incident that occurred the morning of November 9, 2016. On this particular day, I had a student approach me after class. (I will not give her name; however, she gave me permission to write about her story.) She is a Muslim who had recently moved here with her mother from the Middle East in search of opportunities that she never had access to back home, but also to flee from a highly abusive father. Indeed, she has made excellent use of her newfound opportunities, for she has learned English exceptionally quickly and is extremely intelligent and well-spoken. On approaching me, she immediately broke down in tears. She told me that while she had been very content with the new life that she and her mother had provided for themselves, she had woken up that morning terrified about their future. To exacerbate her fear, a very pernicious man on her morning bus ride had taunted her, warning that she would be soon deported. Moreover, she told me that she had other family members back home that she and her mother had hoped to help bring to seek asylum in the United States and that now, this dream seemed unlikely at best. I wanted so badly to be able to tell her that here, she would be safe, that her fears were groundless, and that this is not how things are done in this country, but on that morning, I couldn’t tell her any of those things with any degree of certainty. In that moment, I felt completely, utterly helpless. I broke down and began to cry as well. I don’t believe that it was good for her morale to see my reaction, and I hate myself for having responded this way, but in that moment, I couldn’t do otherwise.

Of course, this incident began to consume me day and night, haunting my thoughts to the point where I found it difficult to concentrate on other things. I began to replay the conversation that we had over and over on a continuous loop, but each time, I could never find a solution or more appropriate response to this young woman’s plight. I prayed, I reflected, and I dwelled on it so much that it began to weigh on my disposition. As usual, my very intuitive mother, noticing a change in me, asked me what was troubling me. When I told her what had happened with the student, she responded with her usual level of compassion as she tried to reassure me: “Daniella, it will all be alright. You’ll see. It will work out, but you have to stop this. You can’t get so involved in other people’s lives that you ruin your own. You need to concentrate on yourself.” Then, perhaps without even thinking, she reiterated those words that she had so often said during my childhood: “THIS IS NOT REAL.” These words that I had heard so frequently growing up left such an impression on me in this moment, for this time, they were not true. Whereas I appreciated my mother attempting to comfort me once again, this time, the situation was real, and I had seen the victim with my own eyes and heard the fear and uncertainty in her trembling voice. While this horrible situation was not a reality for me, it certainly was for my student, and no amount of comforting words or good intentions could change that.

Throughout much of my childhood, I would have this reoccurring nightmare that would continue well into my teenage years. In this dream, I was somehow always forced to carry around this gigantic boulder. As time went on, I swear that this boulder would become larger and larger. I can still feel myself stumbling and being crushed by the overwhelming weight of the humongous rock. When I would awaken from this dream, I always felt grateful to be relieved of this horrible burden, and I would reflect morosely that many other people are not so fortunate to be able to put their burdens down. So often in life, I believed that if I could somehow carry the weight of the world, it would lessen the burdens that others are carrying. However, I believe that, much like the writer of this article, I have to, for my own sake, come to the conclusion that this is the "wrong way to do empathy." If I try to empathize with another to the point that I am carrying his/her enormous burden in life, it will not make this person's load any lighter; it may, however, cause myself to capsize under its tremendous weight.

-- Daniella Rossi 

The Time Machine -- April 27, 2017

https://theintellectualist.co/republican-lawmaker-behind-reddit-group-dedicated-misogyny/

When I was eleven-years-old, I remember reading H.G. Wells’ classic novel, The Time Machine. I was enthralled with this book. Even though, at this age, I obviously was not fully able to grasp all of the highly complex and nuanced themes of the novel, the mere idea of possessing a time machine fascinated me. So often, I would imagine what it would be like to have the capability of navigating the dimension of time. I whimsically mused that if I had the power, not only would I go back in time to fix every mistake I had made in my very brief life, but I would also possess the ability to impact and even change the course of human events throughout the history of the world. I imagined how I would travel to the Roman Empire in 44 B.C. to ensure that Julius Caesar would stay clear of Pompey’s Theater on the Ides of March. I’d sail along with Christopher Columbus in 1492 and watch the dismay grow in his expression as I nonchalantly informed him that the island on which he had landed was actually San Salvador and not the East Indies. I’d beat Paul Revere to the punch during the American Revolution, shouting, “The British are coming!” from the top of my little lungs. Indeed, as a child, going back in time seemed like the most exhilarating experience that I could possibly conceive of; these days, however, I’m not so sure.

Somehow, when I read the ludicrous article that is attached to this post, my mind traveled through time to recall my child-like fascination with time-travel, and I shuddered. Whenever I hear of incidents such as this one, I can’t help but feel as though our society has retrogressed back in time to when such mortifying ideas would be considered the norm. Now, I would be able to shrug and laugh off an absurd story like this if this were one isolated event. However, it seems as though every single day, as of late, I am hearing of incidents that reveal the blatant misogyny, racism, xenophobia, homophobia, and outright bigotry that pervades our society. I think the fact that remains most disturbing for me is how these bigoted ideologies have become so commonplace in our society that it seems that I am never even shocked to hear about them. Although I never want this kind of myopic mentality to become the status quo, occurrences like this cause me to fear just that.

As much as I’m tempted to laugh at this outrageous story, I also have to acknowledge that this is frightening on so many levels. First of all, the mere fact that this man had garnered so many like-minded followers on a thread that tries to convince others of the innate inferiority of women is horrifying in and of itself. It is more difficult to simply roll our eyes and dismiss this man as one contemptible, harebrained misogynist when there are so many others who share his beliefs. Secondly, one must remember that this Republican representative has the power to use his chauvinistic ideologies to help impact legislation that affects our nation. Finally, I find it absolutely terrifying and perplexing that many women will continue to vote for this man when he is up for re-election as well as other politicians who harbor these same antiquated sentiments, illustrating just how deeply this misogyny and bigotry are engrained in our society.

While I am fully aware that this deep level of prejudice has existed since the beginning of time, I never cease to be taken aback by the overt manner in which it is unabashedly displayed in recent times. More and more these days, I’m hearing about how “political correctness” is just the bane of our existence, and I could never really comprehend this. In my mind, the notion of being “politically correct” is just another way of showing equal respect for all of our fellow human beings. I could never really understand why this was viewed as being something pejorative. Indeed, when I see this amount of vitriol being spewed at all women who are simply attempting to make progress in their quest for equality and when I hear of these men so adamantly claiming to have been oppressed by women, I think of the wise words of one anonymous source: “When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.”

When I was a child, the idea of being able to travel back in time seemed thrilling and euphoric. As a grown woman, I have no volition to go back in time at all, for I am appreciative of all of the progress made to bring us to where we are at this very moment. In the time machine that I conjured up in my childish imagination, I only needed to push a button to be miraculously transported back to my pink bedroom, fully aware that nothing had changed and that life would continue on as it did before. In adulthood, I realize that when we regress back in time as a society, the advancements made to better the lives of countless human beings are erased, changing the course of the future for years to come.

-- Daniella Rossi

The Opposite of Love -- April 8, 2017

They say that we don’t dream in color, that the tapestry of our dreams is woven with copious hues of black and white, but I never gave this notion much credence. Personally, I do, in fact, dream in color, and this is how I know: in my most horrific nightmares, blood is always red. To be quite honest, that flaming, crimson color frequently dominates such nightmares; moreover, it is often the only image that I remember lucidly as I wake up with heart racing and sweaty palms gripping the sheets. During this past week, I so often found myself in the throes of many such nightmares, the kind so painfully vivid that the entire sequence of images seems like one never-ending kaleidoscope of such heinous, bloodcurdling, piecemeal images that I will wake up trembling, feeling fortunate that this hell is not my reality. Many other people have not been so lucky.

The past few days, with all of the indescribably gruesome images of victims in Syria that have been incessantly circulating online, I’ve told myself repeatedly that I should avoid all media. Please don’t think that this is because I do not care about the suffering of others; it’s actually quite the opposite. While human empathy is usually a beautiful and necessary quality to have, the kind of empathy that I possess is more of a downfall than a virtue. It is both crippling and excruciating at times. We’ve probably all heard that old adage, “I feel your pain,” but I take that sentiment to whole new levels. For instance, I can’t tell you how often I’ve witnessed someone suffering in pain, and immediately after, I would develop a very similar pain, or “sympathy pains,” if you will. Also, you’ll never know how often I will hear or read about the suffering of others who are less fortunate, and then, like clockwork, I’ll soon become overwhelmed by all-consuming feelings of angst and melancholia. These emotions are always counterproductive, though, for while they won’t do anything to help the ones suffering, I will become ill and distracted from everyday activities. Therefore, I figured that it would be in my best interest to avoid the media for the past week. However, not only was this impossible, but I don’t even believe that this would have been constructive. After all, what would I gain from keeping myself in my own little bubble of obliviousness? When I logged onto the internet a few days ago, I was instantaneously met with heart-wrenching images, such as the one featured on this post, that have been so ubiquitous and unavoidable these last few days. These very images have been ingrained so profoundly in my consciousness that they have become, quite literally, the things my nightmares are made of.

When I was fourteen, I remember reading the book Night by Holocaust survivor and acclaimed writer Elie Wiesel. This book is a harrowing and graphic account of both the nefarious atrocities that Mr. Wiesel witnessed and endured when he and his family were indentured in a concentration camp, and a life-affirming testament to the power of the human spirit. Reading this book as a young girl was, for me, a pivotal moment. It was one of those momentous instances that helped me to understand how badly I wanted to be a writer and a moment that compounded, in my mind, the unbelievably, transformative power of words to cause others to feel and to change both hearts and minds. Now, as I encounter these heart-rending images, especially of the children, I don’t know why the poignant words of Wiesel’s book keep resounding in my head: “Never shall I forget that night…which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed... Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky.” I think the most disturbing idea in this whole passage to me is the notion of this cruel silence in the face of such horrid crimes against humanity.

Back in January, I wrote about something that is truly a conundrum for me—the paradox in which many ultra-conservative individuals who identify as being strictly “pro-life” simultaneously support a ban that would prevent these tormented individuals from seeking refuge in our country. Now, I just wanted to emphasize that this is a generalization; I know many conservative individuals who do not fit this description at all. Nonetheless, it never ceases to amaze me how many people I encounter who are so vehemently protective of life that is in-utero, but once that life is born, all of that concern proves itself to have only had a nine-month shelf-life. Please understand that as a Catholic, I do not agree with abortion, I find those who seek to protect the unborn to be truly admirable and commendable, and I dislike the prospect of any life being terminated. However, I just can’t understand how some individuals who are intensely passionate about preserving lives, which, in over 99% of cases, are not believed to be sentient or capable of feeling pain, can be, at the same time, coldly indifferent to the lives of fully-conscious, living and breathing human beings who are capable of suffering unspeakable agony. I don’t think that anything has reinforced these feelings of confusion for me more than the events that have unfolded these last few days.

Mr. Wiesel was once quoted saying, “The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference.” I believe this, and I think that this is what pains me most in this situation. Through it all, there are three questions that will not go from my mind. Firstly, I can’t help but wonder how, in good conscience, we could continue to shut our doors to these individuals after seeing what an urgently dire situation these people are in. Likewise, I often wonder if we could have engendered the concern and goodwill of more individuals for the plight of these children if we could have somehow placed them back in their mothers’ wombs. Finally, I can’t help but wonder if more compassion would have been elicited had these victims been American children. Indeed, I believe that many times, the effects of indifference prove to be even more deadly than those of hatred.

These days, I feel this sense of powerlessness washing over me as nothing makes us more aware of our own insignificance on this vast Earth than our own inability to make an impact or change the course of human events. Whenever the thought threatens to become oppressive, I’ll write my feelings down, I’ll say a prayer, I’ll contribute to a charity, and I’ll do what I can, in my own trivial way, to share my thoughts with others, and I warmly invite you all to do the same. In the immortal words of Elie Wiesel, “There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.”

-- Daniella Rossi

We Persist -- March 8, 2017 -- International Women's Day

Dear friends and family, 

I have been asked by so many people whether or not I planned to participate in “A Day Without a Woman,” a movement in which today, International Women’s Day, many women all over the nation will avoid participating in profitable labor in a demonstration of economic solidarity for gender equality and the rights of women everywhere. Even Lady Liberty seems to be on board as last night, the Statue of Liberty went dark for several hours. (Granted, this was simply due to an unplanned power outage, but the symbolism and irony were not lost upon many of us.) Now, I would just like to say that it is not that I am not galvanized and deeply moved by this sentiment; however, I do not believe that, in my case, refusing to teach my students today would serve some greater purpose. Actually, I think that, for me, it would be counterproductive in illustrating the point of the movement. Instead, though, I would like to share a few words in honor of this occasion.

Last month, a fire was ignited in many women of America when Senator Mitch McConnell uttered the following words in his defense of Senate Republicans who silenced Senator Elizabeth Warren from speaking on the Senate floor: “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.” Senator McConnell couldn’t have realized that at that moment, he birthed a battle cry that would be etched in the consciousness of women for many years to come. I think that regardless of where we are on the political spectrum or how we feel about the politicians themselves, the words ring true for many women, for I believe that this unrelenting, unyielding determination is a trait that many of us women possess. In fact, the same could be said about the writer of the letter that Senator Warren was reading before she was silenced, the late Coretta Scott King, the widow of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and a powerful social rights activist in her own right who fought tirelessly for the rights of African Americans, women, and the LGBT community.

Additionally, I always think how ironic it is that on March 7, the eve of International Women’s Day, in Catholicism, it is the feast day of St. Perpetua, a woman in third century Carthage who was martyred for her conversion to Christianity. This young woman disobeyed not only her own father, an act that was considered to be infinitely disgraceful for a woman of this time, but she defied a law forbidding citizens to convert to Judaism or Christianity. For disregarding the demands of her society to renounce her beliefs, she was put to death. One may apply these timeless words to St. Perpetua as well: “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted.”

Today, on the morning of International Women’s Day, I cannot help but reflect on the countless women whose unwavering persistence has pioneered so many of the rights that we possess today and have struggled to clear the path for us so that we may live lives that are worth living. As I stand here on what I can only hope to be the pulse of a strong and beautiful movement, I want to thank all of these great women, both living and dead, not only our mothers, grandmothers, and great grandmothers, but all of our foremothers and the grandes dames whose victories impact all of womankind even today. The path we walk as women, at times, is strewn with great joy and pain alike; nevertheless, we persist…

-- Daniella Rossi

The Pro-Life Paradox -- January 28, 2017

I just can't sleep tonight, but lately, this is nothing new. Night after night, I'll toss and turn until the light reticently creeps through my curtains, flooding the room, letting me know that sleep has eluded me the entire night. Other nights I'll awaken in a fit of worry that will come upon me completely unaware. This may just be due to the fact that I'm getting old (Don't look at me that way; we all have to admit it at some point), and my mind is filled with the concerns that grow ever more bothersome as we age. I don't know for sure, but tonight, I'd like to try something different.

Tonight, I would like to use this forum to do a bit of writing, and whereas I don't usually believe in using the internet as a sounding board, I think that articulating some of my concerns on here might be therapeutic. Normally, I would never post these thoughts on the internet because I never want to offend anyone, and I hope that no one is offended by my opinions as they are just that, my own opinions. WARNING: If you have grown tired of my bleeding heart musings, please, just kindly roll your eyes, and roll on past this post.

A few things would just not go from my mind today. Firstly, we solemnly commemorated one of the most horrific genocides in human history, the Holocaust, which is estimated to have claimed the lives of eleven million human beings (six million being Jews). Secondly, we saw thousands of individuals participate in the March for Life advocating for the rights of the unborn, which is a very noble cause. However, I'm reflecting on both of these events today with a sad sense of irony in that we have also just learned of an order banning refugees from seven predominantly Muslim nations from entering the country. Now, this paradox calls to mind a question that I've been struggling with as of late: what does it mean to be truly pro-life?

I would imagine that, in our society, many may be tempted to define being pro-life as being anti-abortion, and I want to emphasize that this is a beautiful thing. As a Catholic, I personally don't support abortion either, although I don't judge others who feel differently, for it isn't my job to judge. The very question that baffles me, though, is this: how can someone who is willing to fight so passionately for the rights of a fertilized ovum be coldly indifferent to the wellbeing of, say, an eight-year-old refugee fleeing for his or her life? To me it makes no sense, and I'm seeing this contradiction in many people who claim to be staunchly pro-life. Today, I understand that Vice President Pence made the comment at the March for Life that, in our country, "Life is winning." I had to ask myself how he could not hear the irony of his own words. How could one say that "Life is winning" while knowing full well that refusing so many refugees, many of which are children, entrance into this country will destroy countless lives that are already in progress?

For some reason, this all reminds me of a small incident that occurred when I was a child. In primary school, we would have show-and-tell, when we would bring in our treasured possessions and explain them to the class. One little boy who loved to collect action hero memorabilia would always bring in items that were still neatly encased in their packaging. On one particular day, when he was proudly passing around his treasured toy, which was still ensconced in a pristine case, I asked him if I could take it out of the box in order to see it better. I'll never forget how he responded. "No!" he snapped. "What's the matter with you?! As soon as you take it out of the box, it loses all value!"

All too often, I feel as though the attitude that many people in our society have towards life is not unlike this little boy's. In my life, I've come upon many individuals who are so fiercely protective of life when it is in-utero, but as soon as that life is born, all of that concern and goodwill seems to dissipate, proving to have only had a nine-month shelf-life. Growing up Catholic, I've come to associate the term "pro-life" with being vehemently against abortion and euthanasia. However, I believe that we are in need of a wider view of what it means to be pro-life if we are only concerned about that life just when the heart starts beating or right before it is about to stop. <3

-- Daniella Rossi

<3