When the opportunity to write this column fell in my lap I had no idea what it would become, nor could I bring myself to understand what grace made me worthy of the honor. I promise to respect the people who take the time to read these words. I will always write from my heart and do my best to echo the voices that shaped my identity and personality. These voices are multi-racial, from wildly varying socio-economic backgrounds and belong to the men, women, and children I saw every day in the working, middle-class area I grew up in.

We had a community that nurtured my belief in the American ideal. Most of our neighbors saw anyone who was doing the right thing as honorable and worthy of respect. People said things now considered offensive freely and told dirty jokes on their stoops. When there were disagreements, they got sorted out between the families involved. The dust would eventually settle, and we were all neighbors again. It was far from perfect, yet it somehow provided a space that felt reasonably fair and safe.

It felt just, it felt righteous, it felt … American.

These slowly became my people. There were not many Black families in the area. We rode the same buses and attended the same public schools as most of the White kids. Our parents filled the same blue-collar jobs and shopped at the same stores. Our family was not embraced by everyone, but before long we knew every single person who lived within two or three blocks by name, face. and address. There was civility and a mutual respect that transcended race and cultural differences. The ties that bound these neighbors were Caterpillar, CEFCU, bowling leagues, park district softball games, Little League, and cold beers at the neighborhood bar.

Where did that America go? Is there any hope we may still yet escape … ourselves?

We live in a puzzling time where we have been conditioned to respond to anything that causes us to be emotionally discomfited with a singular emotion: Rage. The two-time Virus of the Year, SARS-Cov 19 has beaten us all senseless. My previous column was entirely focused on the challenges healthcare workers, such as myself as an RN, face in an era of COVID. These challenges are largely emotional challenges that siphon our collective spirituality leaving holes in everyone’s sense of security. Comfortable routines are disrupted. Neglected relationships crumble. We isolate ourselves from one another.

Fear rushes in to fill that void.

My story is probably very similar to yours. Our parents worked, had good and bad qualities and generally did the best they could. Many of the pillars of community that helped them raise us have crumbled in modern times. No one goes to church like they used to. Schools can barely educate or summon enough interest from students to field sports teams. Social media was not around in my formative years to poison my reality with viral electronic delusions and a non-stop focus on myself.

We were not drowning in unreasonable expectations of life because stupidity proliferates much slower when six kids share one phone — that is attached to the wall. The plots and gambits hatched by my teenage cohorts and I were frequently foiled or flummoxed in the planning stage.

There was still racism and injustice. Everyone did not agree on everything. Most of us did not get to live our dreams. Things frequently did not go our way. Bad things happened to good people for no reason. Our parents persevered. They moved forward when the tide pushed against them, gathered to pray for God’s Grace on Sunday, and delivered casseroles of support to one another. They never discussed politics or religion as a rule out of respect for each other. We have failed their memory and dishonored their sacrifice by succumbing to this cult of individualism and selfishness.

We talk about civil war so much these days it feels like 1860. We must remember that we are not irreconcilable foes who must destroy one another.

Every man for himself is not an American ideal.

Any man who values freedom, integrity and justice is my brother. That feels American.

Most of the time I am jovial, engaging and breezy. I feel a duty to try to not negatively influence others. This has come with age and experience.

The increasing number of men and women I encounter who are so shot through with anxiety that they make everyone around them anxious have become harder to manage now that I have become a grouchy old man. A 10-minute conversation with an average 25-year-old is enough to make me fling myself from a moving car or take a cheese grater to my face.

Everyone is so touchy everywhere you go. People actually go out of their way to manufacture outrage and resentment. Aggression, incivility, and conflict dog Americans mercilessly. Folks stay on the wrong side of that invisible line between opinionated and obnoxious.

My cousin, who only exists as a vehicle for this satirical moment, called me. Loquacious “Lolo” Jackson and I have the same upbringing. He is a little older than I am so he will probably be dead soon. Lolo enjoys rattling your cage. He tells me the truth. I need him in my life.

“Sounds to me like you are about three steps from drinking a bottle of Wild Turkey and eating a bullet,” he said. “You did your job. You got paid. End of story. You want a parade or something?”

“Hey now,” I said. “There is nothing easy about what nurses are doing right now. It has been an incredible challenge and we all are feeling the strain, but I think I am a little more solid than that.”

“Do you remember Grandma Victoria?” he inquired. “Think about the people who raised you man! These people survived Rosedale, Miss., in the 50s. Did any of that sound easy?” It did not. My Grandma gathered her children, collected her possessions, and moved everyone — seven deep all told — to Illinois in a day. She suspected the Klan would come to kill two of my uncles that night.

“Auntie Alverta worked three jobs well past retirement age,” Lolo reminds me. “She worked more than 40 years in housekeeping at Methodist.

“Did you ever hear her complain?” he asked.

I had not. Not even once.

“You need to spend less time thinking about all the ways you ain’t getting your way. Challenge? Ever hear of World War II? Vietnam? Civil Rights Movement? Do you have to worry about being dragged from your home and hung from a tree? When work gets hard, tell yourself ‘I ain’t doing this for free.’ That should be enough if you’re not a crazy person.”

I suddenly felt embarrassed for complaining about my life.

My cousin continued, “Get off your butt! Go to the gym! Do something nice for your wife! Spend your time doing something worthwhile instead of worrying about this world. You can’t change any of it and the universe don’t care how you feel about it. Anyway, you should worry less about being killed by the coronavirus and worry more about being killed by bacon. Stop eating that swine man!”

Talking to Lolo helped me remember the strength that comes from enduring struggle quietly and with dignity like my parents did. Overcoming adversity creates a courageous heart. In that moment, his voice sounded like … hope.