Dear ___,

For as long as we’ve been friends, I’ve tried to make clear to you who these people are. I did it because I had hope in you, that you, unlike so many others, were an intelligent and thoughtful person, one who could possibly be an ally of humanity instead of barbarity. Yes, I know that I would come on strong, but you know that my character is just that way: I get passionate about things and I push matters that others might let pass quietly. So my emphasizing this matter was simply in keeping with the person I am, only here, the stakes were far higher, and so my passions and frustrations surfaced more often. You poo-pooed me, even ridiculed me, and ultimately ignored me, thinking I am some sort of racist because of my beliefs, thinking, well, like so many others of his kind, maybe he’s a liberal on other issues, but not this one. It is, and has always been, a clear and emphatic expression of my liberalism that I was so passionate about this issue. So no, it’s not because I’m a racist—it does not have, and never has had, anything to do with race, skin color or any other immutable property of anyone—but because I’m a student of the relevant history, because I know what people like this have done throughout time (in particular, during my parents’ lifetime), and I know what they are capable of today and always: the evil-doers come in every shape size and color. And so when you think I am some sort of bigot, in addition to deeply offending me as an individual, you are offending an entire people’s great and also tragic history, a history that you, apparently, can’t be bothered to study, or don’t care about. And so, as history has now unfolded in its inevitable and inexorable way once again, and I hear not a word from you as days pass that feel like years, not checking in to ask about how I’m doing, or perhaps especially, how my loved ones are doing, how am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to think?