Can’t Relate to Hate

Despite its global appeal, I can’t relate to hate. I suppose the closest I’ve come to experiencing hate is my gag reflex response to slime.

Once my mother told me I couldn’t have ice cream until I cleaned my plate. I dreaded the cooked spinach, but I completed my half of the bargain. Then my mother reneged on our deal. I never got the ice cream she promised. At the time, I’m not sure I was in the mood for ice cream anyway, because I reneged on eating the cooked spinach all over the table. I think my gag reflex response to slime is instinctive, but psychological reasons might’ve contributed.

Another time a family of vagrants squatted in an abandoned shack in our neighborhood, until the police evicted them a matter of days later. The oldest daughter bet us she’d swallow a slug. The neighborhood kids and I were both intrigued and revolted when she performed the delectable deed. She dared us with a second course, same as the first, dangling between her outstretched fingers. No takers, she didn’t let the morsel go to waste. Looking back, slugs were probably a vital source of protein in her diet, but as kids we never considered that.

Now, I harbor absolutely no interest in ingesting either cooked spinach or raw slugs. Avoidance solves the problem; and I’ve reached a stable, emotional plateau. I don’t hate spinach. I’ll eat raw spinach in a salad without trauma. As long as they lie low, I don’t hate slugs, in particular or as a group.

Hate requires chronic frustration without hope of reprieve. For hate to grow, people need to feel oppressed, blaming a real or imagined scapegoat. I’ve never identified with being a victim. I don’t hate to admit it, but I can’t relate to hate.