A couple of decades ago, I had a gig as local counsel for the private prison company which managed — and injured — a bunch of Missouri prison inmates housed in Brazoria County, Texas.  As the court proceedings against my client progressed, my job became more about obfuscation than litigation.  I played by the rules but stonewalled while the insurance company negotiated a settlement.

During a teleconference involving about fifteen attorneys, one frustrated plaintiff’s lawyer snapped at me, Ms. Corley, if you don’t give me what I want, I will file a motion against you PERSONALLY.

I laughed.  Sir, I replied.  I’ve been shot at, run over, raped, robbed, and left for good.  I think I can handle a sanctions motion.

I meant it.  Each of those things had happened to me, and I had gotten through them.  But I mention this not to brag about my ability to survive.

I realized on the way home tonight that I have no capacity for hate.

I did not hate the man who shot at me, though if I had been a family member of the two people whom he killed, I might be tempted.  I shivered in the dark for years afterward, reliving the terror of that night.  Still, I could not hate him.

I don’t hate Maher Altalathina, the self-styled Persian who ran over me on 09 February 1982.  Technically, he didn’t “run over” me.  He hit me, causing me to fly three stories into the air, following which I landed on his hood, went through his windshield, and soared 82-1/2 feet forward, slamming to a halt on the street.  I didn’t hate him, though he had no insurance and tried to get me to sign a hand-scrawled release in the emergency room.

I don’t hate the St. Louis cop who raped me in an empty apartment in a complex which he managed as an off-duty job; nor the thug who stuck a hard metal object in my side and tried to take my pocketbook on a cold St. Louis day when my car broke down.

I won’t list the persons who left me for good over the years; but I’ll swear this:  I don’t hate them, either.

I have no capacity for hatred.  I still get perturbed, even agitated.  I don’t know that I can boil as far as anger.

My passion endures.  I won’t hesitate to rebel against injustice. I sat mesmerized, cheeks wet with tears, as the pictures of those killed in Paris scrolled  by on the screen.   But  I cannot — I will not — let the poison of hatred course through my veins.  I am shed of it.  Hatred has no place in my heart.

Surround yourself with objects and people that bring happiness to you, if you feel the least bit tempted to hate.  I share with you a glimpse into the loveliness in my home, the photos and mementos of a life with no regret.