Letters that are sent that hate.
 How do I see the person that writes this way? How do I see a peaceful place to understand the mind that hates our thoughts? Is there so much hate in their hearts for our way of thinking that no matter what we do, death will be the final answer? They are provoking an argument. If I would listen and understand then maybe I could see their point of view. Then maybe they could see our point of view.
Lou had a way to answer those questions. My answer is to see them as human with needs as similar to mine. What are the common bonds that would let us live in peace?
Do I have to stand still and die, nobody wants to die, not even I?
I have only one answer. Stand still and listen.
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I reread the letter and maybe he is telling the truth. Maybe there is a reason to hate our point of view. May it be that our past was so terrible that it would provoke hate mail. May it be that we are still so anti-social that whatever he says is truth. Someday someone will understand and explain it to me.
All I can do is see and listen.
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And now boredom has created an audiunce to watch the feathers fly. Man made rings of fire. An oval arcade to watch letters spar.
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At our table
We are the children that Hitler would have deprived of life.
We are not good looking and I am personally anti-social.
I know that bankers and lawyers are human, but I dislike them anyway.
I have sat at a table where no one was left behind. Where everyone was equal in the sight of god. At this table there was warmth. There was no caste or layers of wealth to deprive the mind of warmth.
So that today when people shun us because of my anti-social attitude or because we are not good looking, I know that the world can do better than that. I know that the world is a better place than that. I have sat at tables where there was peace on earth; so don’t tell me that it cannot be achieved. I have sat at tables where my looks and attitude were not a problem.
So don’t tell me that equality cannot be achieved.
At our table there is warmth and thanksgiving.

badaba
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