Being so utterly disappointed in Facebook’s interpretation of my 2016, I decided to think seriously about how my year actually has gone. As far as things go, it’s been a pretty big one. Over the next 10 days, I’ll be reviewing my year by alternating between the worst and best bits of the year. I hope that the introspection and discussion can set us up for a better year next year.
Today we’re starting to get into the serious lows.
The death of Jo Cox.
I had no idea who Jo Cox was before June 2016. Then, all of a sudden, I knew who she was. An upstanding person, a politician, and a sincerely kind human being. At first I was simply sad, as one generally is when a public figure dies. But then it began to transpire that her death was connected to the white nationalist movement and the upcoming referendum. News permeated to me that the gunman had tried to shoot several people.
That some commentators were excusing him as “mentally ill”.
That Britain First were pretending they would never endorse this kind of behavior.
That many people claimed she deserved it.
That she was the first British MP to be murdered since I was born.
That the last MP to be assassinated was as a result of the Troubles relating to Northern Ireland.
That she had tried to save others, sacrificing her life.
That the toxic campaign of hate against “immigrants” had finally paid off.
That this goddamned referendum which nobody asked for had taken its first casualty.
A black mood enveloped me. I remember little of that day other than trying to explain to someone why this sincerely upset me, and them simply not understanding. Why does it matter? It’s just an MP, it’s not like it was your family. Why, indeed.
I will be sincerely grateful if no other MP is murdered during my lifetime.