When I was in fourth grade, I had a book of myths. The story of Pandora covered two pages, showed her in the right-hand corner kneeling beside the open chest, gazing up in horror at the small human figures floating above and around her like a swarm of mosquitoes, their names written beside them. “Rage,” “Sloth,” “Hatred,” “Greed,” etc. One of them, a man tearing at his own hair, his mouth gaping, had a name I didn’t understand. I asked an adult what “Despair” meant.

“It means giving up.”

Was the little man in the picture being bad, like the one with the long forked tongue (Deceit) or the one waving a sword (Violence)?

“No. But he’s stopped fighting all those others, so he’s part of them.”

The page after was a smaller picture, showing a glow coming from the open box. “Hope,” the story said.

Why was Hope not released and flying about with the others? Why did she remain in the box? Nobody could tell me.

I can’t predict how much or how little is going to be required of us. I just know Hope has other names. The two that come to mind today are “Conscience” and “Courage.” We will learn more names in the days to come. “Anger” will likely be one of them.

Like so many generations before us, we are riding the tides of history. Other people have gone through this. Other countries have gone through this. Other peoples and countries have inflicted atrocities on themselves and on others, but have survived.

Hope stayed in that box because Hope can’t be plucked from the air. She must come from inside. You have to hold her close, and when you see someone else who has it, you must share her, and act, even if it’s just to speak.