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Elements of Hate 1/18/2026 3:01:57 PM
first read To Kill a Mockingbird when I was eleven. I remember getting to the scene where an all-white jury declares Tom Robinson guilty even though his innocence was clearly established by the heroic Atticus Finch. I remember the mix of feelings as I read those chapters, trying in vain to understand the concept of racial hatred. Shock. Dismay. Anger. Frustration. Despair. Sadness. The same emotions I experienced as a “tween” and teenager throughout the Sixties watching the news and seeing bombings and beatings and faces of “everyday” moms and dads twisted in hatred as they spewed epithets at children on their way to school.
The mid-to-late Sixties added another element of hatred with the clash over the Vietnam War. I’ll call it political hatred. It was manifested on both sides with bombings on University campuses, with riots in Chicago at the Democratic Convention and with the shocking sight of our fellow countrymen gunning down students at Kent State. Shock. Dismay. Anger. Frustration. Despair. Sadness.
Fast forward to the Eighties. was teaching dance at a community college where, for several years in a row, we had a series of “problematic” directors. As the choreographer for all musicals I got to deal with lazy, inept, untalented, or just plain weird in ways that hurt our shows. Then came “Mr. Smith.” He should have been great. He was smart. Talented. Good at casting. Fabulous eye for staging. But he had an ego problem. A huge one. His first year at the college we did Little Shop of Horrors. After the opening night performance folks were coming backstage to congratulate us on a job well done. By everyone involved. Many people were telling me how much they loved what I’d done with the number “Downtown.” And I saw the look in Smith’s eyes…the rage and jealousy because I apparently was receiving more accolades than he. It was creepy...and sad. Then came “Guys and Dolls”. He wanted me to choreograph the title song. It’s most often performed as a duet, sung by the characters Nicely-Nicely and Benny Southstreet and generally a director blocks a series of characters roaming the stage. But Smith wanted a dance. I had two wonderful singers who were not dance trained…at all. But they were enthusiastic and we turned “Guys and Dolls” into a cute, fun vaudevillian routine. Opening night was Deja Vu on acid. People were praising that number; many calling it their favorite scene. This time, when Smith glared at me… there was more than jealousy. There was hatred. A kind of hatred I’d never seen before. It was personal. It was crazy. Scary. Crazy, scary hatred.
Fast forward again. Present days. The majority of the horrific events we’ve witnessed this past year stem from hatred. Hatred I was shocked to discover is consuming millions in America. Racial hatred. Political hatred. Religious hatred. Hatred of anyone deemed different. Personal, scary, crazy hatred.
How much hate must there be in one’s soul to send death threats to a six-year old child and his teachers a week after his mom is gunned down in cold blood? How much hatred fills the hearts of people we thought were nice church-going folks who snap photos in front of a concentration camp where they laugh and applaud the idea of sending their fellow human beings into a swamp to become alligator food?
I won’t list all the ways we’ve seen hatred manifest itself. You know them. We see them daily in the news and on our Facebook threads. We're all drowning in the hate.
I’ve been following the monks’ Walk for Peace, and am in awe of their serenity, their inherent goodness, their ability to return hatred with love. Many of their suggestions for daily living have been posted and, to me, one of the most difficult to achieve is expressing gratitude. It’s hard for any of us to feel grateful that our nation is falling apart. That some of our so-called “leaders” are power-mad, obsessed with wealth, and hate-filled. Others are merely spineless.
I needed to go beyond the news. Find gratitude in the things most of us take for granted. A place to live. Food to eat. Families and friends who love us. I’m personally grateful I’m healthy and able to dance (even if I can’t kick as high as I once did!) That I have good neighbors. That I have a dog who makes me laugh. That my brain is functioning well enough to allow me to write novels and articles and posts.
And I discovered that I’m grateful because, while still experiencing the shock, the dismay, the frustration, the anger, the sadness over how people treat each other, I, as of yet, do not feel hate. Lots of rage and despair. I despise those in power who continue to encourage the chaos and the divisiveness throughout our communities. I’m sickened by their lack of decency or morality. The complete absence of empathy. But I don’t hate them. Would I feel differently if a family member or friend was murdered in front of me? I honestly don’t know. I’m filled with admiration at the restraint shown by the people in Minneapolis who are meeting violence with whistles and words instead of weapons. They are heroes.
Years ago, a priest told me his concept of “ever-lasting hell” wasn’t fire and brimstone and demons running around gleefully torturing the inhabitants.
It was the absence of love…all love…for eternity.
Hard to imagine anything worse. Perhaps I refuse to allow myself to hate the ones in power fueling the flames of evil because they've already created their own hell.
Because they don’t experience love. None.
The only thing worse is the strong possibility they never will.
