Fearing ‘the other’ damages our society

In little over a week, we have witnessed pipe bombs sent to Democratic leaders, two murders in our own state likely motivated by hatred of African-Americans, and the mass murder of 11 Jewish people in their synagogue.

Just when I am doing my own praying to God to make this violence stop, our president tweets a blatantly racist video demonizing Hispanic women and children for trying to escape horrors in their own country — the type which we can barely fathom.

It has to stop.

Francisco Cantu, a former Border Patrol agent, wrote a book called “The Line Becomes A River.” In it, he discussed philosopher Carl Jung’s thoughts on “the other” — humanity’s inclination to perceive “the other as the very devil, so as to fascinate the outward eye and prevent it from looking at the individual life within.”

Jung thought when we think of “the other” as being something to be feared or shut out at any cost, we risk the very survival of our society. We’re too busy mistrusting “the other” to see that we are all human. We all cry, we all bleed, we all love.

I recently visited a mosque for the first time, not only to learn about the faith and meet my neighbors, but to show support for them in the wake of President Donald Trump’s travel bans. The mosque received a death threat the evening after my visit.

I attended, with my children, an interfaith service to support migrants and refugees here after we learned that our government was taking babies away from parents at the border. Brown babies.

Now I’m wondering if it’s safe to take my children to a synagogue to show our Jewish neighbors that we stand in solidarity with them against hatred. Or should I be afraid that we have people in Lexington as angry as the perpetrators of the recent violence?

I’ve had many opportunities to show my children that we live in an open, supportive, loving community. Yet I know people here who have been bullied or assaulted because they are African-American or Latino or Muslim or LGBTQ.

All this “othering” of people has to stop. We are all just people — no matter who we love, how or if we worship, or the color of our skin. We have to stop being so afraid of everyone who isn’t exactly like us.

I’ve been an “other.” Growing up poor in Eastern Kentucky, raised by a single mother, I’ve had people typecast me as a poor, white Appalachian. It isn’t fun. We are all “others” in some way.

I’ve tried to examine my own privilege and understand as best I can what it’s like to not be a white, middle-aged, middle-class woman. It’s not easy to confront my own biases and misconceptions, but I need to. We all do.

What can you do? Strike up a conversation with someone who isn’t like you. Go to a different part of town. Visit a new church. Ask questions. Be respectful. Try to understand what it’s like not to be you. And most important, right now, vote.