Friday, February 27

Reflection from Stan Dotson

Weeping and wailing. That's lamentation, at its root. I heard sermon after sermon throughout childhood warning of a place where there would be weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Later, while I was doing a lot of teeth-gnashing as a rebellious teen, I became attracted to the prophets. I learned to love Jeremiah, the weeping prophet. 

It wouldn't be difficult to compose a jeremiad against U.S. injustice toward Cuba. Our government has long attempted to make Cuba a living hell. The official policy since 1960 has been to create hunger and desperation here, so U.S. interests can regain control. 

Yesterday, in the midst of lots of hellish headlines, I read the news that the Cocodrilos of Matanzas had won the national baseball championship. The Cocodrilo mascot brought to mind another childhood memory: whenever I pitched a tantrum, my dad would hold out his cupped hands and say with mock sympathy, "Cry me some crocodile tears." While he knew how and when to comfort genuine sadness, he also knew when my weeping and wailing were were self-serving, not quite sincere.

Associating the phrase "crocodile tears" with insincerity comes from the biology of crocodiles themselves. These predators apparently shed tears while they are devouring their prey. Here's the deal: I was born and raised in a predator nation. My way of life, my standard of living, is largely due to its devouring appetite. That leads to my struggle. I weep and wail at injustice, especially at the wrongdoing running rampant in my country, especially toward Cuba. But at the same time I benefit from the very abundance that the injustice has afforded. So is my lamentation sincere, or am I just shedding crocodile tears? Or, can lament lead to dismantling another layer of privilege? That's the hope.