Last week, I went to see "Lincoln" with my family. I walked out of the theatre a little tired (it's over 2 hours long), mostly entertained and glad to have some time with the family. I didn't think much about the movie beyond this.
A couple friends asked me what I thought and I simply replied, "it was pretty good. I guess it's worth seeing."
My week went on until I came across this movie review. In a quick flash, everything became apparent to me. The only black characters in the entire movie with speaking parts consist of two soldiers at the beginning begging Lincoln for equal treatment, Mary Lincoln's dressmaker (Elizabeth Keckley) and Thaddeus Stevens' common law wife (Lydia Hamilton Smith). What do all these characters have in common? They rely on Lincoln or another virtuous white character to protect them.
Sigh.
Where is Frederick Douglass? Not in this movie....
Where are the black soldiers who secured their own freedom? Not in this movie...
And the countless African American abolition leaders, writers, thinkers, or politicians who lived in the mid-19th century and met Lincoln? Not in this movie...
What disappoints me more than Spielberg's choices to not include these characters, or give names to the important African American characters he does depict (such as Lydia Hamilton Smith) is that it took a week for this to hit me. I've just come back from a week-long conversation with colleagues about racism and multiculturalism. I've taken numerous trainings on white people challenging racism and the like. I've read books, written sermons and careful reflections on anti-racism, anti-opppresion and multiculturalism.
And in the last week I overlooked racism in a movie, made an exclusive statement in a small group and when considering AIDS Day forgot to mention the significant impact on the African American community, especially black Americans ages 19-44.
What's my point?
I don't desire a wave of white guilt. And I fully expect some people reading this may become defensive or try to assuage me that I am not a racist. I am not seeking assurance or trying to inflict guilt.
My point is that racism is still a painful conversation, even for someone like me and my cultural competency does not seem to be improving at the rate of my desire for it to improve. However, I can say that now after these years of uncomfortable conversations, I am more aware of my privilege to avoid them entirely. I am better able to take responsibility without swooning with guilt. And I have no delusions of ever being competent, but great aspirations for humility and learning.
My bigger point is we need to keep having these conversations. We need to create circles of accountability that keep those with privilege engaged and accountable to do so. I consider myself included in this group. I still feel angry when someone speaks truth to me. But now I am accountable to engage in a conversation that has truth for me to hear. I think this is improvement.
I know I am going to mess up with my words, make mistakes and even hurt people. I don't desire this-it seems to be human. But I also know that if I avoid trying to look outside my own narrow vision, I will cut myself off from a measure of love and healing this human heart needs.
So let's keep talking, and hopefully listening too, even if it hurts.
Welcome Progressive Piedmonters and Unitarian Universalists
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
More than a snooze button....
When I was in college, there were a steady six months I didn't go to the church I loved.
The ministers hadn't ceased inspiring me, the community was still warm and compassionate, and I had access to the means to get there. There was nothing wrong with the church. Although I frequently came late after hitting the snooze button one too many times, it wasn't even the snooze button that kept me from coming or the late night sorority gatherings. It was something more...
Somehow in my college budget and with tuition adjustments that semester, I couldn't pay my pledge. Sure I could drop a few dollars in the bucket, but if I wanted to pay rent, tuition, bills and buy food, then my pledge would have to be reduced.
In my 1,000 member Unitarian Universalist congregation, I felt like everyone knew that I wasn't paying my pledge. This was, of course, ridiculous in hindsight. But I felt guilty even walking through the doors without a monthly check.
Why? This place and people had taught me kindness and compassion. They had never lobbied for guilt and fear to guide me. But somewhere long ago, in places I could now identify, I had learned the force of shame. And all these years later, even in a new place of wonder, love and compassion, I was still driven by those old feelings.
It finally took a friend of mine sharing that I was in fact a lot more fun to be around when I went to church that sent me back. I walked through the doors a little worried that somehow still I'd be in trouble. Those old memories of having to stand up in class in my religious school for the whole first period if you didn't go to church came back to me.
I placed one foot over the threshold.
Instead, one of the ministers came forward and gave me a hug. "It's so good to see you! How have you been? Come on in!"
I could have cried but the shock that sent me to my seat where I received more warm handshakes and smiles kept me from tears and in amazement.
The power of shame and guilt can be astounding, even years later in a new place that doesn't profess these from pulpit to pew. This time of year, when so much stress mounts for many, expectations are high, and finances pinched, I hope wherever you may be, whoever you may be, you know that those reasons "more than the snooze button" needn't keep you from church.
When we give, it isn't out of guilt. And when we can't give financially, we affirm that stewardship is more than money--sometimes it's simply presence.
It is when you are at your most imperfect or challenged, that you are also often at your most human and beautiful. In these times, though we may wish to hide beneath blanket because we don't look like what we look like, or have enough money, or seem to be able to get our act together to be presentable, in these times we need each other the most. Sometimes, our presence is the gift we give in this season.
May you know a church that welcomes you home again and again.
The ministers hadn't ceased inspiring me, the community was still warm and compassionate, and I had access to the means to get there. There was nothing wrong with the church. Although I frequently came late after hitting the snooze button one too many times, it wasn't even the snooze button that kept me from coming or the late night sorority gatherings. It was something more...
Somehow in my college budget and with tuition adjustments that semester, I couldn't pay my pledge. Sure I could drop a few dollars in the bucket, but if I wanted to pay rent, tuition, bills and buy food, then my pledge would have to be reduced.
In my 1,000 member Unitarian Universalist congregation, I felt like everyone knew that I wasn't paying my pledge. This was, of course, ridiculous in hindsight. But I felt guilty even walking through the doors without a monthly check.
Why? This place and people had taught me kindness and compassion. They had never lobbied for guilt and fear to guide me. But somewhere long ago, in places I could now identify, I had learned the force of shame. And all these years later, even in a new place of wonder, love and compassion, I was still driven by those old feelings.
It finally took a friend of mine sharing that I was in fact a lot more fun to be around when I went to church that sent me back. I walked through the doors a little worried that somehow still I'd be in trouble. Those old memories of having to stand up in class in my religious school for the whole first period if you didn't go to church came back to me.
I placed one foot over the threshold.
Instead, one of the ministers came forward and gave me a hug. "It's so good to see you! How have you been? Come on in!"
I could have cried but the shock that sent me to my seat where I received more warm handshakes and smiles kept me from tears and in amazement.
The power of shame and guilt can be astounding, even years later in a new place that doesn't profess these from pulpit to pew. This time of year, when so much stress mounts for many, expectations are high, and finances pinched, I hope wherever you may be, whoever you may be, you know that those reasons "more than the snooze button" needn't keep you from church.
When we give, it isn't out of guilt. And when we can't give financially, we affirm that stewardship is more than money--sometimes it's simply presence.
It is when you are at your most imperfect or challenged, that you are also often at your most human and beautiful. In these times, though we may wish to hide beneath blanket because we don't look like what we look like, or have enough money, or seem to be able to get our act together to be presentable, in these times we need each other the most. Sometimes, our presence is the gift we give in this season.
May you know a church that welcomes you home again and again.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Ending Poverty
"It looks like a jail," I mutter underneath my breath to my traveling companions as we enter the school. We walk into a concrete courtyard surrounded by classroom windows, bars on the windows and fortified doors. The doors have locks on them, the concrete is dirtied and waters seems to dribble from an unknown source. As we go upstairs, it's more of the same. On the third level, the classrooms open to a vista. We look out across the rusted tin roofs and on into the lake, the city of Atilan Santiago crammed up in front of us.
Downstairs, we begin in the first class. 19 year old Juanita leads the class. I walk into the dreary room filled letters and numbers.
Perhaps through commercials for the Feed the Children or U2 music videos, I am trained to see poverty. I look at the dirtied clothes, the small box of crayons and the worn shoes. I glance over the rusted, shaky chairs that form desks. My eyes dart back and forth from Juanita to the barred windows. I start feeling depressed sitting in this elementary chair with the fortified door closed.
But then Juanita starts teaching. The children are entranced as she discusses the forest. Asks them, "What do you find in the forest?" Then, she asks us for our help in passing out brilliantly colored green paper, leaves for tracing and scissors for cutting. Soon, from a focus on the dirt I see their smiles.
It's hard to believe we are even learning Spanish, but Juanita has a clever plan.
One girl asks if I can help her cut. Little does she know, I won best tracer and leaf cutter in third grade! I am ready for this task.
We help the children cut the leaves the best we can. Use of gesture and broken Spanglish (they speak a dialect of Mayan, and I speak English) seems to somehow get us to understanding. We meet in the middle with smiles, gestures and lots of "muy bien-s!"
The children pile around, glueing leaves to the trees and hug my legs. We sing songs together in a circle. "Adios," shouts Senorita Juanita in a sing-song voice. We follow her lead and on into the next classroom.
A little tear hits my eyes as I realize I don't want to leave these kids I've just met. My eyes were trained to see poverty, but my heart has been trained to find wealth. I look at the beauty of the little paper tree in the corner, the smiles on their faces, and my own smile now.
Juanita has taught two lessons today. I've learned "trunco" means trunk of a tree and that justice grows from a heart that first knows the wealth worth saving.
Downstairs, we begin in the first class. 19 year old Juanita leads the class. I walk into the dreary room filled letters and numbers.
Perhaps through commercials for the Feed the Children or U2 music videos, I am trained to see poverty. I look at the dirtied clothes, the small box of crayons and the worn shoes. I glance over the rusted, shaky chairs that form desks. My eyes dart back and forth from Juanita to the barred windows. I start feeling depressed sitting in this elementary chair with the fortified door closed.
But then Juanita starts teaching. The children are entranced as she discusses the forest. Asks them, "What do you find in the forest?" Then, she asks us for our help in passing out brilliantly colored green paper, leaves for tracing and scissors for cutting. Soon, from a focus on the dirt I see their smiles.
It's hard to believe we are even learning Spanish, but Juanita has a clever plan.
One girl asks if I can help her cut. Little does she know, I won best tracer and leaf cutter in third grade! I am ready for this task.
We help the children cut the leaves the best we can. Use of gesture and broken Spanglish (they speak a dialect of Mayan, and I speak English) seems to somehow get us to understanding. We meet in the middle with smiles, gestures and lots of "muy bien-s!"
The children pile around, glueing leaves to the trees and hug my legs. We sing songs together in a circle. "Adios," shouts Senorita Juanita in a sing-song voice. We follow her lead and on into the next classroom.
A little tear hits my eyes as I realize I don't want to leave these kids I've just met. My eyes were trained to see poverty, but my heart has been trained to find wealth. I look at the beauty of the little paper tree in the corner, the smiles on their faces, and my own smile now.
Juanita has taught two lessons today. I've learned "trunco" means trunk of a tree and that justice grows from a heart that first knows the wealth worth saving.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
The Road to Santiago...
Begins at a Walmart. Okay, well not entirely, but it is a stop.
Picture it:
We get off the plane and head for the exit. It's clear we were in a different world from Charlotte, North Carolina. Walking outside toward the car pick up line, residents stand outside the exit with blue and white jerseys, flowers, cameras poised and candy for sale. Their champion football players are returning home. And by football, I mean soccer. Tuk-tuks he half motorcycle, half taxi whiz by inquiring if the gringos would be needing a ride. No, no we have a ride waiting. A quick glance up from the busy street and the sign "Kennedy" signals our driver Salvador.
As we wind through the city, it has the marking of most urban centers: fast food, traffic jams, horns and sirens alongside tall buildings. But the shacks on the side of the road and unregulated utilities remind you this is not home. I get the wonderful sense, which companions travelers that I have much to learn; the wonderful feeling of the mind and soul expanding beyond one's focus. It happens when deep in conversation with a friend your realize your difference. It happens in the streets near your home, when lost, you see a new perspective. It happens when you discover years later a heritage or family story you did not know.
You don't have to leave home for this moment, but a new country does seem to provide a soul sigh.
Through a winding parking lot we finallly stop and walk into a warehouse-like structure. Instantly, something is familiar. Then the jingle "rolling back the prices all over the place" runs through my head. Oh no. Really?
Guards stand at the front of the store informing me I cannot take pictures.
The road to Santiago begins at Walmart.
Is it in the influence of American consumerism? The price competition driving some
businesses out of the market? An idealism for a world apart? That I don't like the color blue?Is it in the influence of American consumerism? The price competition driving some
What is rubbing under my skin at the sight of the large Walmart in this city?
The answer comes hours later driving alongside mountain passes watching wire wrap the mountain cutting it into the trees.
The answer comes hours later driving alongside mountain passes watching wire wrap the mountain cutting it into the trees.
The Walmart is that wire, for me. I come to be of service in this place, but also to be reminded, albeit naively, of the paradise possible in the corners where human need lives in contrast to human greed. Yet, knowing we live in an interdependent world, how could it exist anywhere if it was not already everywhere? The mountain calls to yearning the world not yet, while finding a way to go beneath the wire to see the world that is now. Yes, the road to Santiago begins as it should, with a sharp reminder of what is not yet, what is our now, and what could be if wire were not wrapped around it.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
The Hunger Prayer
This was no game.
It was 4:00 pm when I hit rock bottom. The first day of my yoga fast. In truth, I could eat fruit so it wasn't a total fast but there was no caffeine, cooked or processed food, sugar, starch, dairy, etc. I had been exuberant that morning as I ate my strawberries with kiwi, but without any coffee or my afternoon cookie I suddenly became some Unitarian Universalist version of the hulk. It was ugly.
I was cranky and angry, what my friend calls "hangry" (anger from hunger).
I had begun this fast as part of a 40 day yoga program to help me realign and center. But in that one hour window from 4:00-5:00 pm I questioned everything I was doing. Fruit and water? For four days? Can woman live by fruit alone?!
I sent myself home for the day. I clearly couldn't work like this.
After laying down for an hour, I woke up anew. For the next few days, I felt grateful for every meal. It wasn't easy, but that was the point.
So much in my life often goes smoothly, easy even. I have few real sacrifices I have to make. Sure, there are plenty of things I might not feel like doing (the laundry is among them). Yet, there are few sacrifices I have to make. I've never had to give up a meal to feed my children. I've never had to risk my life for a member of my family. I've never had to work 12 hours a day in dangerous conditions so I could bring a small share of bread home to my family. Most days I am not even aware of how my food got to my table. I couldn't tell you the name of the laborers or factory workers, farmers or truck drivers who make something as simple as my garden salad possible.
Now, do I hang my head in overpowering guilt?
No, because this would not be terribly useful. Feeling bad for the ease of my life also isn't the point of sacrifice. I fast, sacrifice, to remind me of the blessing and the responsibility. I fast to connect my life to others; for a day to be conscious of all that happens for that "simple" salad. I fast to ground again in gratitude. I fast to be called forward to create a world where no one has to give up a meal to feed their children.
How? I don't know entirely. But I am led by the hunger.
It was 4:00 pm when I hit rock bottom. The first day of my yoga fast. In truth, I could eat fruit so it wasn't a total fast but there was no caffeine, cooked or processed food, sugar, starch, dairy, etc. I had been exuberant that morning as I ate my strawberries with kiwi, but without any coffee or my afternoon cookie I suddenly became some Unitarian Universalist version of the hulk. It was ugly.
I was cranky and angry, what my friend calls "hangry" (anger from hunger).
I had begun this fast as part of a 40 day yoga program to help me realign and center. But in that one hour window from 4:00-5:00 pm I questioned everything I was doing. Fruit and water? For four days? Can woman live by fruit alone?!
I sent myself home for the day. I clearly couldn't work like this.
After laying down for an hour, I woke up anew. For the next few days, I felt grateful for every meal. It wasn't easy, but that was the point.
So much in my life often goes smoothly, easy even. I have few real sacrifices I have to make. Sure, there are plenty of things I might not feel like doing (the laundry is among them). Yet, there are few sacrifices I have to make. I've never had to give up a meal to feed my children. I've never had to risk my life for a member of my family. I've never had to work 12 hours a day in dangerous conditions so I could bring a small share of bread home to my family. Most days I am not even aware of how my food got to my table. I couldn't tell you the name of the laborers or factory workers, farmers or truck drivers who make something as simple as my garden salad possible.
Now, do I hang my head in overpowering guilt?
No, because this would not be terribly useful. Feeling bad for the ease of my life also isn't the point of sacrifice. I fast, sacrifice, to remind me of the blessing and the responsibility. I fast to connect my life to others; for a day to be conscious of all that happens for that "simple" salad. I fast to ground again in gratitude. I fast to be called forward to create a world where no one has to give up a meal to feed their children.
How? I don't know entirely. But I am led by the hunger.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Are You Out There?
Ever walked into a room and felt that there had just been a
big fight or joyous celebration?
Perhaps you are one of those that can “take the temperature” in a room
quickly without even knowing what has happened. There are some who claim that when a world event has
happened, they wake in the night not knowing what but somehow knowing. If you ever lost a loved one, you may
know the feeling that comes up in you that something is not right; then you get
the call. Not psychic powers, so
much as a deep connection that transcends space and time.
Scientific studies have proven again and again that there is
some kind of energy, knowing, and connection that exists beyond the measurement
of five senses. Even the live
cultures in yogurt respond to human thought, or at least that’s the plot of Tom
Shadyak’s movie “I Am.” Okay, so
perhaps our connections are not that simple. Yet, surely many of us, not all, but many have felt a moment
of transcendence when something beyond us, yet not fully in our grasp, connects
to us. These are the “awe”
moments. Fleeting moments of
knowing we are connected and held beyond measure are often seen as the litmus
test of spirituality.
Some people spend a lifetime trying to live only in these “awe”
moments.
Yet, we know the great sages spent most of their life
between moments of transcendence.
Mother Theresa spent years without any sense of the sacred in her
life. I wonder if Emerson or
Thoreau spent days in the woods where they wandered without any immense feeling
of self-reliance or wisdom unfolding.
I am sure even the Buddha had days of un-enlightenment.
Perhaps the secret, if there is one, to spiritual peace and
contentment is not in seeking transcendence but learning how to live in the
unpredictable presence of transcendence.
We are called to cultivate satisfaction in the days without sacred space
and yet be ever willing to embrace the breezes of mystery and wonder that come
through our lives. It certainly means
acceptance of the ordinary days.
We
are called to be worshipers, always considering what is of worth, training our
eyes to see the sacred, our ears to hear it, our mouths to taste it, our noses
to smell it, our hands to touch it.
We are called to be wanderers, walking in the great absence of “awe”,
seeking more than finding, and yet willing when transcendence comes to let it in. Only then, somewhere between pure
moments of peace and the hard streets of concrete and schedules, can we know
the great contentment of the sages.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Are We Defeated
For the last six months, we have watched together as people’s personhoods were debated in the public square. We have given every ounce to work toward defeating the constitutional amendment here in North Carolina. You have given your fullest measure of devotion: hours of phone banking, rallies, vigils, public pleas, petitions, political organizing, prayers, worship services, donations and collections. As the day closes on voting, and the results come in, it looks unlikely that we will defeat this insidious amendment.
But, are we defeated?
For the last six months, we have come together. We have created new relationships and partnerships with people joining the struggle for justice and equality for ALL people. New voices have come forth. A network of faithful people now stand ready with all we will need: rallies, vigils, marches, pleas, petitions, political organizing, prayers, sermons, donations, and spirit. As the day closes on voting, and we look out across our beautiful home of North Carolina, it looks likely that something new has emerged in the wake of this vote—a way forward.
Are we defeated?
The better question, friends, is:
Are we ready?
Tomorrow morning, we will rise and wake to a new day. We will make coffee or tea, and drinks sips with loved ones. The dogs will need walking and the cat will need feeding. We will go to work and stand around the water cooler. We will hold hands and hug. We will smile and see our people, God’s people, everywhere. We will go home, call a loved one. We will relish in food that is simple but shared. We will walk forward together making this world a better place. We will listen for the call will come again. We will make love, nurture our children, read bedtime stories, laugh and at last just before our eyes close to the day know that we could never be defeated. Hope lives on.
Hope lives on in this place we all call home. From the Blue Ridge Mountains to the rolling Piedmont and out along the coasts of the Outer Banks, hope lives on in North Carolina and her people stand ready to step into its legacy.
The faith and devotion of those who have gone before us beg us to step forward. From Stonewall to today, they urge us onward and ask a single question:
Are we ready?
Take heart friends, hold onto love and the gratitude of those who have gone before for all that you’ve given. Know the journey toward justice calls us forward. Hope is our promised companion, and equality for all our promised land.
Come and go with me to that land.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)