Nearly 50 years ago, my husband and I purchased property on the Outer Banks of North Carolina and had a small cottage built at Avon, a village on Hatteras Island about six miles north of the iconic Cape Hatteras Lighthouse (which currently is surrounded by massive scaffolding for restoration in time for the nation’s 250th anniversary).  At Eastertime, we would make the 600-mile round trip to open the house for summer tenants.  If Easter was early, the weather often was cold and rainy; late Easters would be sunny and warmer.  

Sunny and warm was the order of the week for our beach trip last week.  Sunsets were gorgeous, bright corals and soft pinks against cloudless skies, and the constant yammering of news outlets was refreshingly absent.  It seemed almost sacrilegious to activate electronic devices in such a bucolic beach atmosphere.  The whole idea was to leave the political and commercial turmoils behind.  And it worked, for the most part.

The Outer Banks are fairly isolated.  No commercial airports serve the islands; no trains and few buses are scheduled there.  The North Carolina Ferry system serves some islands, but the primary mode of transportation is private vehicle.  As we navigated the various sites along the narrow beach roads, the diversity of visitors was expansive.  Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Canadian windsurfers rented houses on the “sound” side of the island to take advantage of good winds on Pamlico Sound.  Most of the vehicles bore Quebec license plates.  Apparently, the Trump-manufactured rift between the U.S. and Canada didn’t affect windsurfers. That was good news for Dare County tourist revenues.  Several multi-generational Indian families were aboard the Ocracoke ferry.  I heard Spanish spoken by visitors to the Bodie Island lighthouse, and an Eastern European language by four fellows at the Wright Brothers Memorial in Kitty Hawk.  At that same site, I observed what appeared to be an interesting religious/cultural exchange by a man dressed in traditional Hasidic fur hat (called a Shtreimel) and long coat who approached a small group of men and women who appeared to be Mennonite.  Photos were taken, but a long conversation, maybe 20 minutes, followed.  I was too far away to hear what was discussed, faith or sightseeing?  Hundreds of miles from home, on remote islands, it essentially was the world in a teacup!

And that’s to be celebrated, again and again.  Diversity adds to our strength.  It is not something to be feared, erased, or demonized.  As I write this column, the death of Pope Francis has just been announced.  His passing removes a global advocate of compassion and support for migrants at a time when such advocacy is sorely needed to counteract the odious policies of many world leaders, including Donald Trump. One of the Pope’s last audiences was a brief meeting with Vice President JD Vance, who has clashed with the Pope, especially about immigration.  One can only hope that one of the last papal blessings might instill more compassion and introspection in Mr. Vance.  Pope Francis was known as a voice for the “poorest people on earth.”  He knew, and accepted, that vast numbers of people fit that category, and that they deserve the same measures of compassion and humanity enjoyed by those more fortunate.