I could only bring myself to watch one clip of events unfolding in Charlottesville.
In it, a torch carrying mob chanted, “You will not replace us.” In a split second I was keeled over in gut shaking sobs on my couch, cradling my laptop as if it were a baby. Though I revile their message, I found myself connecting to the feeling underneath that chant–the feeling of pouring yourself into something, right or wrong, so vigilantly that you develop tunnel vision. If and when your hacked off awareness then starts to creep back, push in on you, the feeling of having worked for a lie is terrifying. Change brings anger. Your self-worth crumbles. The rules seem to be new, just as you finished mastering the old rules.
I felt these same things while leaving the church fifteen years ago, and public education one year ago. I never picked up a physical torch, but I burned lots of things to the ground in both those seasons. I never pointed an actual car at a crowd, but there were lots of bystander casualties as I came to terms with my illusions.
I wasn’t crying for the Nazis, but because I did not understand how we as a nation could possibly combat this cellular fear of otherness that is now oozing from our historical pores. Dealing with children who still inhabit children’s bodies is one thing, but what if the child is in an adult’s body? How do you begin to enter a space where tantrum and logic are both present? I felt hopeless, like I wanted to run away.
But tonight, somewhat calmer after a neighborhood peace vigil, I can listen enough to hear my heart. Although I want there to be a “right” course of action, I know that’s not possible. The only “wrong” course of action is inaction, allying with hate through inactivity and numbing distraction.
So, what else can I do? What else am I asking of myself in response to this newest display of fear? Listening is the first word that comes to mind. Seeking out stories that are different than mine, and doing what it takes to strengthen the skill of listening without judgement or concurrent narrative. Facing institutional and interpersonal racism is some people’s everyday lives. I believe this with my brain because I’ve both seen and heard it, but my heart has not yet absorbed it enough to be fully transformed, to consistently act in line with my values instead of my privilege. Even tonight, as a young trans woman spoke at the vigil, I found myself wishing she would tone down her anger a little. My very next thought was really more of a sigh, a deep one, on realizing how much better I need to be at listening.
Owning my own racist/privileged attitudes, in explicit terms, is the next request I feel myself making. What is my part in Charlottesville? Well, first off, I am frustrated at the never-ending nature of social justice struggle. I want there to be one big action, or a series of smaller actions, that will count as “enough” on the cosmic scales. I want that action to have concrete and somewhat immediate results, and I want it to be hard enough to do that it feels “worthwhile.” In short, I want to tap in and tap out again with something I can put on my Facebook. By doing so, I contribute to how long these struggles take. This option is less available for folks who are fighting for their own lives.
There were also lots of times as a teacher that my racism was quite clear to me, but more recently, I’ve become aware of it in my internet dating practices. My first instinct is to swipe left or delete men of color, often times before I have even read what they have written. When I do read, and often find myself intrigued, I find myself saying things like, ‘it would probably be easier for him to date someone who is Black. How could I ever understand what life is like for him in a way that would be enough?’ Translation: I am not willing (yet) to put myself into the vulnerable territory of doing that work, even though it is the exact same work I ask people to do in getting to know me. I tell myself I don’t want to add to someone’s pain by misunderstanding them, but I am not entirely sure that is honest. I often add insult to injury by conflating these men with the absentee Hispanic and African American fathers of my students all these years, and the judgement I hung over those men was immense. Again, it comes down to my ease. It is easier to know people as categories than as individuals.
I assure you, there’s more. The countless moments that I am probably not even aware of as they are happening. I hope to shift that, rooting these weeds out with kindness where I can, with a little ass kicking where I can’t. I also don’t expect a gold star for these revelations, but I am starting to see that if I don’t name them plainly, then there’s little hope of real change; a heart that more closely matches my outward actions, so that the actions don’t become just a politically correct bandaid. I don’t want to march, donate, email, call, and still allow myself my comfortably dirty corners.
I don’t know how else we start truly belonging to each other, seeing each other as parts of ourselves, when some are born with such privilege or such struggle, but I know we have a lot of things that need replacing before we get there.
It's Time 