Hate in My Heart
“I just hate him,” she said. She started to cry again. My hug felt like a petty comfort to the searing pain the blast had left. It was 72 hours after the Tree of Life Synagogue slaughter. She was referring not to the shooter but to the president of the United States. I knew which facts forged the basis of her emotion. I also knew that her suffering was exacerbated by her hate. Being a tender-hearted person, she was not being herself. Later that day, I told a friend, “Trump’s going to Pittsburg.” “Good for him,” my friend replied. Shame
