The Fences We Build
I wish we could remember what it was like before we started building fences.
Before we began deciding who counts and who doesn’t. Who should be welcomed and who should be watched. Before we learned to sort people into groups that felt familiar, and push away the ones who didn’t.
When we were young, we didn’t know what made someone “different.”
We noticed, of course. We saw skin and language and customs we didn’t recognize. We heard names we’d never heard before. But we didn’t assign meaning to those things. Not yet. We were curious, not cautious. We asked questions that made adults cringe. We touched what we weren’t supposed to. We stared too long. We hugged without hesitation. We shared our toys with anyone who smiled back. No part of us assumed harm or offense.
That came later.
We didn’t take a class on how to exclude. No one handed us a manual on who to fear, who to mock, or who to avoid. We just learned—quietly, gradually—by watching what others did. We learned it the way you learn to stay warm in winter: one layer at a time.
It often started with a joke whispered just out of an adult’s earshot. A news story where the bad guy had a certain kind of name. A grown-up praying for someone's salvation. A teacher who skipped over part of history. A parent who smiled tightly when someone “unusual” moved into the neighborhood.
It’s not that we were told who to keep out.
It’s that we noticed who never got let in.
So we learned. Which groups were safe to mention and which weren’t. Which questions made people uncomfortable. Which words made everyone laugh—and which names made them flinch, roll their eyes, or mutter something under their breath. We learned to read the room. And eventually, we became part of it.
That’s how fences get built, not all at once, but in pieces. A slat of discomfort. A nail of silence. A plank of assumed superiority. And at first, it still feels open. The gaps let light through. We still believe we’re fair, generous, kind. But as the years go on, we add more.
And more.
And more.
Until we’re not looking through anything anymore. We’re just staring at a wall.
We see the consequences now. In laws that separate parents from their children. In bills that punish trans kids for existing. In wars defended by ancient grudges and beliefs that should’ve died centuries ago. In courtrooms where basic rights are debated like opinions. And in ordinary moments when someone’s identity, peace, or joy, is treated as a threat to someone else’s comfort.
And still, we insist it’s about principle when it's really about preference.
That’s the danger of fences. They don’t just keep others out. They keep us in. Inside a version of the world that feels safe only because it’s familiar. Inside a mindset that resists change, not because change is wrong, but because it asks something of us.
Humility. Empathy. Imagination.
We weren’t born with fences.
But we were given the tools to build them.
And every time we refuse to examine what we think we know, every time we choose comfort over curiosity, we add another slat. Another rule. Another quiet reason to keep our distance.
At first, it’s just a frame. A way to feel safe, to organize the world. But the longer it stands, the more permanent it becomes. What started as a guide becomes a barrier. Not just between us and others, but between who we are and who we might have become.
And the longer we live behind it, the more convinced we become that what we see is all there is.
But it isn’t.
The people on the other side of that wall aren’t asking for as much as we’ve been led to believe.
They’re not demanding your life be upended. They’re not trying to rewrite your story.
They’re just asking not to be erased from theirs.
Not feared. Not judged. Not fixed.
Just seen.
And left standing.