My Beloved Community
I made the following 5-minute public comment at my local Hanover County (VA) Board of Supervisors’ meeting on Wednesday, January 12, 2022. I wanted to share it here in honor of the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday this year. Here’s a video of me delivering this public comment (I’m at the 57:15 min mark.) Context: The Board of Supervisors appoints school board members in my county. The school board voted in November to not follow a state law that requires them to adopt inclusive policies for transgender school children. I have a transgender son who attends Hanover County Public Schools. I want to speak regarding the board’s upcoming school board appointments and for the general social environment of our Hanover County community. With the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday coming up, I thought it might be a good time to share with you something new I learned about Martin Luther King just 3 years ago from Rev. Janie Walker. She gave the MLK day keynote address at Randolph Macon College that year. She said that King believed in the concept of a “beloved community,” that to himself he wasn’t primarily a civil rights activist, but he became known as a civil rights activist as a byproduct of his belief in the “beloved community.” That’s how he identified himself centrally, as a Christian believer in the beloved community vision. Did you all know this? I didn’t know this. Learning it helped me to frame my own vision for the type of community I want to live in. The Beloved Community is a community where every single member of the community is valued for who they are. That each person has unique gifts to give their community and in a beloved community they are free to contribute their gifts to serve their community. Barriers are removed. A Beloved community is one in which everyone is cared for, absent of poverty, hunger, and hate. Can you imagine living in such a place? Where the work of managing our community is shared more evenly, where the best of citizens is on full display? King gloried in this vision and he believed it was possible, if only we could remove the barriers that keep people from giving the best of themselves to their communities. That’s how he arrived as his activism. I want to linger here for a moment. ALL people are valuable. No exceptions. NONE. Not for skin color, income level, religion, education level, gender, sexual orientation, disabilities —- gender identity. EVERY SINGLE LAST ONE of us is valuable exactly as we are. We don’t need to act more like someone else, we simply need to be allowed to be the best versions of ourselves. Be free to develop our gifts, and be free to give our gifts. In the context of Christianity, this is the idea of Devine Spark, that there’s a piece of the divine in every one of us. To cast aside any of us is to cast aside the divine. Sometimes I feel undervalued because I am a woman, put in my place, expected to give free labor. Some of you might know what that’s like. I think there’s a little part of many of us that feels undervalued to some level. Who among us hasn’t had the experience of feeling like the outsider? Underestimated, limited, kept down? We live in a greater society that is structured around social hierarchies, so chances are many of you have felt this feeling too. Maybe you’re not rich enough, or philanthropic enough, or you or your kids didn’t go to a good enough college. Imagine being even more socially disadvantaged in Hanover, of being in poverty, disabled, being Brown or Black — being LGBT. Or any combination of these. What brings me here today is that I am begging Hanover to provide policies, appointments, and priorities that allow each citizen of Hanover to feel valued and be allowed to develop and give their gifts to our community. I beg you to see each one of us as a valuable contributor. See ALL of us as counting as humans. What would you do differently if you knew that my child would one day be able to change the world for the better, if only you would support policies that nurture and support him? Do that.
Belonging is the new DEI Concept
When my kids were in preschool, my oldest was given some homework, flashcards to prepare him to begin school the next year. Upon a closer look, I saw that it was a lesson in how to determine who doesn’t belong. A lesson, I wanted to unteach them. In the 1990s my colleagues and I used to call ourselves “diversity educators,” but the term to capture our work has evolved through the years. Eventually the goal of “diversity” with a concern for representation, felt like too low of a bar. Social spaces that were stratified, segregated, or that valued assimilation or tokenization would all technically be “diverse.” Something was missing. “DEI educator” is the preferred term now that more fully incorporates diversity, equity, and inclusion. A vision of “inclusion” brings to mind people of diverse social identities (race/ethnicity, gender identities, sexual orientations, religions, abilities, and so on) all working and living side by side with equal levels of contribution and value to their shared community. “Equity” is the quantitative perspective of inclusion, with a goal of measurably equivalent outcomes. Imagine what social changes would have to occur for social demographics to not statistically predict any of these outcomes: imprisonment, income, educational attainment, and killed by police. All of those outcomes are currently not equitable. In Ibram Kendi’s How to Be An Antiracist, he reminds us that social inequities along these lines are all results of racist policies, and to believe that they are a result of a group’s inferiority is a racist idea. “Belonging” is the new term on the DEI block. Headlines place its emergence in 2019 to 2020. The concept of belonging in DEI work originally comes from special education scholars, like Eric Carter of Vanderbilt, who know that inclusion cannot be achieved until belonging matters. Carter says “Where we once pursued integration, we now talk about promoting inclusion. But my sense is that both terms fall short of what really matters most. People want to be more than merely integrated or included. They want to experience true belonging. But belonging is a hard concept to define. We quickly feel its absence, but describing it’s presence can be much more challenging.” Belonging is the qualitative perspective on inclusion. So, Carter’s research focused on defining the quality of belonging. He identified 10 themes related to the feeling of belonging. We feel that we belong when we feel: loved, present, invited, welcomed, known, accepted, supported, cared for, befriended, and needed. Brene Brown reminds us that belonging is not the same as fitting in, its rather the opposite. She says “’Fitting in’ is becoming who you think you need to be in order to be accepted. ‘Belonging’ is being your authentic self and knowing that no matter what happens, you belong to you. … Belonging doesn’t require us to change who we are; it requires us to BE who we are.” Think for a moment of a time and place where you felt you belonged. Chances are this is a difficult image for many of us to conjure regardless of our social identities. Daniel Buford and colleagues at the People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond, identified perfectionism as a cultural value that permeates many White-dominant cultures, including the USA. The message of “imperfection does not belong here” is often conveyed in our home, work, and community lives. In these spaces when the imperfections of our humanity are revealed, messages of our belonging disappear. And so we strive. Striving for perfection leaves us all feeling short, left out, and lacking belonging. Creating belonging organizations, communities, and society will benefit us all. Imagine now, who you extend a belonging sentiment toward? List five people in your work and community spaces who you’ve made a special effort to welcome, love, and include? In terms of social demographics, are they more like you than not? For many they are, and this is why it’s so important to include belonging in DEI work. We cannot be representationally diverse, in equitable ways, if we only reinforce who is already here with our belonging gestures. There’s another reason. When I saw my kid’s preschool flash cards, I instantly knew that they were being taught a false lesson that was already deep inside me – one that I was working hard to shake. The flashcards consisted of a deck of 50 cards or so, all with four photographs on them, each with the same question, “What Doesn’t Belong?” I’ve included samples here. “What doesn’t belong?” Of course, preschoolers should learn the skill of distinction and categorization. Of course. But that’s not what these cards were teaching. Look closer. A foundational psychology concept posits that we all form self-images by evaluating ourselves as compared to others. This social comparison is a human process, we all do it. How else would we know anything about ourselves? I am tall (compared to others), I am musical (compared to others), I am talented (compared to others) — are all examples of self-image formation via social comparison. As you can imagine, examples go on to include our socio-cultural identities as well. I am a woman; I am White; I am American. There are two types of social comparisons: same/different and superior/inferior. We subconsciously ask ourselves when meeting new people Am I the same or different from you? and also Am I superior or inferior to you? So, while we are asking ourselves whether we are attractive or ugly, successful or a failure, intelligent or stupid, we also decide if the differences we see are good or bad. We have a tendency to extend this judgment beyond our own worthiness, but onto others’ as well. I am better than you? Our culture teaches us to conflate same with superior and different with inferior. Heck, preschool flashcards teach us they are the synonyms. The flashcards said “What doesn’t belong?” when what they meant was “Which one is different?” As if things that are different, don’t belong? I’m certain I had flashcards and worksheets like this as
A Third Way
When you hear “descendants of Confederates” who do you picture? Maybe you imagine a Confederate flag-waving White country boy? Or do you picture an older White man with a crisp business shirt who attends monthly Sons of Confederate Veterans meetings? Perhaps you imagine a fancy white-glove wearing elderly White woman who defends statues of Confederates? But why? There are millions of descendants of Confederates alive today. Why do we picture folks like these — folks who revere the Confederacy? To imagine that most descendants of Confederates venerate the Confederacy is a cognitive bias that is hurting us. Venerators may be organized and vocal, but their views do not represent most descendants. Daniel Kahneman, in his book Thinking Fast and Slow, describes a cognitive bias called “what you see is all there is.” In this case, if we don’t see descendants of the Confederacy who are against its reverence, then we assume they must not exist. The danger here has been that venerators are allowed to speak on behalf of all descendants of Confederates. I’ve long suspected that most descendants of Confederates want to see the relics of their ancestors’ “rebel nation” disappear. I think most descendants understand that memorializing the Confederacy is keeping open the wounds of this country, not just the civil division between north and south, but it maintains a racist ideology that regards the enslavement of Africans as tolerable (at best). I think most descendants understand this, but “seeing” them has been a challenge. Here’s why. First, you already know that millions of Black Americans are descendants of Confederates, right? You knew that. Most are likely descendants through brutal rape and “slave breeding”, but they are descendants just the same. That’s an obvious truth that gets overlooked, likely because it’s painful to remember. We need to picture Black Americans as descendants of the Confederacy, because it is true and their voices matter. Second, and this is the crux of my point here, I suspect that most White descendants of Confederates have felt shamed to silence, so we simply don’t hear from them. A recent Politico article offers some evidence that most descendants of Confederates, even of Confederate “heroes,” say little publicly but believe their ancestors’ names and images should be removed from public spaces. As White people with this heritage begin to accept the truth – that the Confederate cause was not just, that slavery was abhorrent, and that the resulting systemic racism has provided an unearned advantage to them – well that can be a genuine source of shame. Many would rather forget their Confederate ancestry and wish everyone in their family would as well. They may fear anyone knowing of their Confederate ancestry, lest they be held personally accountable for the evils of their ancestors. In fact, they may not even tell their children of this ancestry. Indeed, I discovered my connection as an adult and my father claimed to not know. Or worse, they may fear being mistaken as the kind of descendant who venerates the Confederacy. Such a fear is not far-fetched. Folks seem to assume a false dichotomy that there are only two ways to be a descendant of confederates: either you are a venerator or you should feel shamed to silence. If a descendant speaks of their ancestry, they are suspected of either being a venerator or someone engaging in performative shame. I’ve witnessed this assumption a few times myself. Recently, I’ve been speaking out about my Confederate heritage to my local paper and speaking at racial justice groups. After one article ran, in which I explained I was against Confederate named schools and yes, I am a descendant, an upset White woman called me. “Don’t try to use your ancestry to validate your opinion; that will backfire. Surely most descendants will disagree with you and you don’t want to validate their position.” She whispered to me, “I’m a descendant, too, and you don’t hear me going around and telling people about it. My family is ashamed! You should be, too.” At the conclusion of a talk I gave a Black woman raised her hand and said through measured breath, “I don’t understand you. What do you think you will get out of this?” Perhaps she was suspicious that my motivation might be to soothe my shame. She might have wondered if I was seeking “cookies” and congratulations to appease my guilt. Or was I seeking “self-flagellation,” a sadistic desire to inspire public blow-back for my heritage? Both of these women assumed the false dichotomy that if I am not proud of the Confederacy that I should feel shame and be silent – so which is it? Pick one. Burdened by shame White people are pretty useless as advocates for racial change. Our efforts can end up being “self-centering” as we seek to ease our shame. Or we can project our shame onto others and feel righteous (though ineffective) as we blast racism skeptics in an attempt to shame them, a diversion technique so that attention is not paid to our own shame. Shame is a not a starting place for change-making. If White descendants of Confederates want to be allies, we need a new starting place. I’m proposing a “third way” to be a descendant of Confederates that rejects both pride and shame. The motivation is not veneration nor guilt. In the third way, descendants are motivated by a special feeling of responsibility which results in actions aimed at changing the way things are and a consequential deep drive to effect lasting systemic change. [Note: If you wonder how one can hold responsibility but not shame, I suggest reading a previous blog I wrote on the two paradoxical conditions for healing: ownership and self-compassion.] Envision this with me: What if descendants were successful in changing the (false) narrative of what it means to be a descendant of Confederates? What if, when people picture folks with Confederate heritage, they imagine people — Black, White, and multiracial — who hold a
The Other Tower
The “Tower of Faces” is an exhibit in the U.S. Holocaust Museum. Perhaps you have seen this powerful installation? The tower is intimate, a small room with four walls that extend up three-stories. The walls are lined with 1,500 framed photographs of residents from the town of Eishyshok, Lithuania. The pictures are of families, friends, and neighbors, posing at dinner parties, swimming holes, weddings, holidays, reunions, and just generally enjoying what appears to be regular and comfortable lives. All of the photos were taken in the few months and years preceding the September date in 1941 when Nazi mobile killing units arrived to murder the 3,500 residents. Only 29 survived, including Yaffa Eliach who later created this exhibit with the photos she and other survivors collected. Read more here. Eliach was motivated to create this exhibit to show that her community was made up of humans who celebrated holidays, went skiing, and picked flowers. She wanted to remember their lives, not their deaths. They were just regular people. The exhibit invites viewers to imagine themselves as residents of this town. And imagine that they, too, could become exterminated under just the right socio-historical conditions. The first time I saw this exhibit I had taken my leadership communication class to the Holocaust Museum. I wanted them to face what “leadership” without inclusive values looks like. Before this trip, too often my students would wonder aloud, “Was Hitler a great leader?” I arranged this trip to preemptively address that kind of thinking. The museum provides the lesson of why contemporary leadership theorists include “value-based” as part of the definition of leadership. So, no, Hitler was NOT a great leader, nor was he leader at all. To some extent I expected the Tower of Faces, if not explicitly then in spirit. Visually the tower makes the point that I try to make about leadership in my class. Hitler did not strive to lead these people; he denied their humanity. Here in the tower is the evidence that his victims were human. What I did not expect, as we continued the tour, was a cobbling in my mind of another tower. My students and I entered the museum under the impression that Hitler threatened Nazi leaders, SS, killing squads, and death camp workers into their work – that they could not refuse orders to kill lest they be killed. But this wasn’t true. Historian Doris Bergen wrote “Germans were not forced to be killers. Those who refused to participate were given other assignments or transferred. To this day no one has found an example of a German who was executed for refusing to take part in the killing of Jews or other civilians. Defense attorneys of people accused of war crimes have looked hard for such a case because it would support the claim that their clients had no choice. The Nazi system, however, did not work that way. There were enough willing perpetrators so that coercive force could be reserved for those deemed enemies.” “Enough willing perpetrators…” Indeed. Spread throughout the museum were photos of such perpetrators – fresh-faced young SS officers patrolling streets, professional portraits of doctors who participated in euthanasia programs of the disabled, posed groupings of killing squad members, and drunken death camp workers. Some may have felt professional pressure, but none feared for their own lives. The perpetrators already held prejudices – against Jews, disabled people, LGBT folks, Catholics, Jehovah’s Witnesses, feminists, and so on – that the Nazis exploited with the Holocaust. When some humans are already viewed as less valuable as neighbors, employees, romantic partners, and students – when even touching them is considered taboo — why would torturing and killing them be immoral? What’s to think about? Rudolf Höss, a former Auschwitz commander said this at his Nuremberg trial: “Don’t you see, we SS men were not supposed to think about these things; it never even occurred to us. … We were all so trained to obey orders without even thinking that the thought of disobeying an order would simply never have occurred to anybody, and somebody else would have done just as well if I hadn’t. … I really never gave much thought to whether it was wrong. It just seemed a necessity.” It’s easy to imagine Rudolf, the SS, and the other perpetrators as evil caricatures – figures with no humanity as they denied others theirs. But here’s the uncomfortable truth that settled into me on that day. There’s another tower. The perpetrators were humans, too. Regular people, who before the Holocaust, also had “regular” lives. Somewhere there are pictures of them in family portraits, posing with relatives at a studio, grayscale pictures from the 1930s and 1940s. I have pictures like these in boxes in my attic – pictures with family members with features similar to mine, versions of me from an earlier time. Indeed, a quarter of my ancestors are German, though they arrived to the US four generations ago, in the mid-1800s. The people in the museum’s photographs look like me. Perhaps it’s easier to imagine ourselves as potential victims, but it’s just as real to imagine ourselves as potential perpetrators. What makes me any better of a person than they were? How can I be so sure? As horrifying as this thought is, the more I allow it in, the more empowered I feel. The fight to ensure that similar atrocities happen “never again” is a fight inside me. It’s inside each of us. And we are well positioned to do something about that.
White People, Listen
Not to me. I don’t have any leadership to offer in this moment. White friends, it’s time to listen. It has been for quite some time. As a matter of context: Just in the last few weeks these things happened…Ahmaud Aubrey in Georgia, Breonna Taylor in Louisville, Chris Cooper in NYC, and George Floyd in Minneapolis, not to mention the thousands (yes, thousands) before them. Last night protests erupted in multiple cities across the nation, including the second night of rebellions in my nearby city of Richmond, Virginia (I’m writing this 5/31/2020). Thus far I’ve read two interpretations of the vandalism that are likely both true: “No justice, no peace” and “White instigators did it.” It’s a lot. All at once. My texts, social media feeds, and shoot even my own family are blowing up my phone with White people wondering what they should think and what they can do. “Should I go to a protest?” “What do I tell my kids?” “What should we do about this?” “But the vandalism!” “Aren’t there better strategies than destruction?” You want to know what White people can do? Listen, I’ve got just the answer. No, really, the answer is to listen. I know, I know. You want to *do* something. I hear you, but seriously, listen first. Listen to Black leaders. Believe them. Follow them. And tuck yourself under their leadership. Allow yourself to be led by Black people. Black leaders have been trying to guide us through racial healing, like forever. For all the outrage that Black people are legitimately entitled to have, overwhelmingly most want peace. They want to claim their humanity and realize equity, though sometimes I think we’d be better off with the scales tilted even more in their favor than mere equity. Here’s why. The lie that some people are worthy humans and others are not holds us all down. ALL of us. Don’t you have a story of feeling like you aren’t good enough. That the standard for a successful human is too narrow? Haven’t you ever felt closed out of something? That the deck is stacked against you? I sure have. Do you know who are socio-historically among the most experienced people on the planet with dealing with marginalization? And then on top of that are brilliant creators and resilient AF? Black Americans. If you seek a society where you are good enough just as you are, seek Black leadership. For the good of all of us. The lie of White supremacy is loud. Sometimes it’s all you can hear. If you think there isn’t Black leadership right now, you’ll need to listen closer. They are here, nationally and in your communities. Most are not in traditional positions of power. They are self-determined, creative entrepreneurs, artists, scholars, journalists, experienced activists, and social media masters. They have not been waiting to be appointed to a position. Leaders don’t wait. White people, as you form opinions about race issues or form an action plan on what to do about it ask yourself these questions: • Have I identified Black leaders who I admire and strive to follow? • Do I follow Black leaders on social media? • Do I know who my local Black activists are? • Are Black activists creating a plan? Do they think there’s a place for me in that plan? • Do Black educators have advice for how to talk to my kids? • Have I learned what Black experts think about the issues? Can I name some Black scholars? • Can I challenge myself to fall inline under Black leadership that I admire and not try to steer it myself? • Am I in a position to promote Black leadership? Either in terms of their position or visibility? No, I’m not saying any Black leader will do. That’s not what I’m saying. Not every Black leader aims to provide socio-historically informed system-changing leadership that we need so desperately. Some are trapped in a system that doesn’t want that voice to be heard. And for some, the lie of White supremacy is still too loud. The more you listen, the more you’ll be able to tell. And of course, there is no singular Black voice. There will be contradictions. You will hear “White people sit down, we don’t need you” and also “White people your silence is compliance!” Listen to these messages. Collect them. They are all valid. Don’t form your opinions and plans by talking just to White people, even if they are also anti-racists. Don’t seek the leadership of White people in this moment. Now (and every moment) is the time to follow Black leadership.
An Open Letter to Confederate Sympathizers
Last month the KKK visited my county seat with hoods and recruitment signs. This message isn’t for them. They felt welcome here due to my county’s fierce resistance to changing the names of two public schools that were named after Confederate leaders in the 1950s and 1960s (in the midst of desegregation). Resistance here comes from some county politicians, school alumni, and community members. This message is for them. …AND for anyone who is fighting to keep any of the 1747 Confederate symbolic representations in public spaces (see Southern Poverty Law Center report). Among the common arguments in my county is a fierce defense of the Confederacy. Here and here are some recent doozies: •”[Robert E. Lee & Stonewall Jackson’s] involvement in the war had absolutely nothing to do with slavery.” •”The war was not fought over slavery.” •”The Civil War was fought to determine if a state had the right to break away from the country as a whole.” •”[Stonewall Jackson] purchased two black teens he didn’t need because their mother asked him to buy them. He brought them to sit in church, in the pew with him, and was reprimanded by others who said they needed to sit in the balcony with the other black members of the congregation. His response? ‘My children sit with me.’ ” Comments like these read thick with the Lost Cause narrative — a twisted interpretation of historical events that tells a false story that the Confederate cause was just, that the war was not about slavery, and that slavery wasn’t that bad. Assertions that folks who think otherwise need to learn history are a projectionist stance. Contemporary PhD-level historians have provided overwhelming evidence that the Confederates indeed went to war to defend the institution of slavery. Countless first-hand accounts of enslaved Africans (and common sense) tell us that slavery was abhorrent and immoral regardless of how “benevolent” any slave owner ever was. It’s a no-brainer that defending the institution of slavery is a white supremacists ideology. This is just not a debatable point among those who seriously study the war and are open to peer review. In fact, the idea that the Lost Cause narrative is myth is so mainstream now that you can learn about it on Wikipedia! What’s tricky about the Lost Cause narrative is that factual historical information is misapplied to arrive at an inaccurate conclusion that flies in the face of heaps of evidence to the contrary. So, while the following arguments might hold historical truth… •”Abraham Lincoln said, ‘If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves, I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that.’ So those who say that the Civil War was ‘all about slavery’ are ignorant of what the ‘Great Emancipator’ himself said.” •”[The Union] did not fight to free slaves…Who do you think bought that Southern cotton for their Northern textile mills, and who bought that sugar cane for their Northern Distilleries? New England mills alone consumed over 283 million pounds of slave-produced cotton, or 67% of the 422 million pounds of cotton used in U.S. mills in 1860.” •“[Jackson] taught, for years, a Sunday School class for all the black people, slave or free, at the Lexington Presbyterian Church. He taught them to read (which was against the law) because he believed that it was every child of God’s right to read His word for his or herself, not via an interpreter only.” …this does NOT therefore mean that Confederates were not defending slavery (they were) and that slavery was humane (it wasn’t). Historians DO understand that the Union did not go to war to end slavery; this is widely understood as well. The entire nation was complicit, north and south. There is room for empathy. I do not blame you for having heard, believed, and retold this narrative. Ever since the war ended, descendants of Confederates have been busy creating and perpetuating this narrative in an effort to save face. The United Daughters of the Confederacy in particular pushed a powerful and successful strategy to set the Lost Cause narrative into our national culture through targeting children: Children of the Confederacy chapters, stocking school libraries with Lost Cause narrative books, sponsoring lost cause essay contests and teacher scholarships, and campaigning for the UDC’s own approved school textbooks — many of which stayed in the school systems for decades. The residuals of these initiatives continued when you and I were attending school. We were taught the Lost Cause narrative, in part or in whole, as if it were objective truth. We were good students and learned what we were taught. I spent an embarrassingly large portion of my life holding the Lost Cause narrative interpretation as truth, when it never was. (By the way, did you hear that Pluto is now considered a dwarf planet, butterflies do NOT emerge from cocoons, and dinosaurs were not reptiles but pterodactyls were?) Amazing how what is “known” changes over time when we get more information. I have compassion for you. You are my family after all. You are my grandfathers, uncles, aunts and grandmothers – we are cousins. You are my people. I grew up in Fredericksburg, Virginia where my father and his ancestors were born and raised. I was born a Carter and descend from the Northern Neck Carters, just like Robert E. Lee did. I am a descendant of a Confederate soldier. I’m no “come-here” Yankee, though I have traveled. I suspect defenders of the Confederacy are also descendants of the Confederacy, especially when they display a depth of knowledge of the Lost Cause narrative as if it were learned directly from the Confederate Catechism. Our history and heritage are painful to face. The Civil War was crushing for white southerners. A credible statistic estimates that 75% of southern white men (ages 17-50) fought
Two Conditions for Healing
I have a friend, we’ll call her Jessica, who doesn’t speak to her mother, says the relationship is damaged beyond repair. When Jessica was a child her mom allowed abuse, defended the abuser, and turned the parenting of Jessica over to her grandmother in order to continue living with the abuser. Jessica says, “I’ve tried to have a relationship with her over the years. We’d keep hitting an impasse. I’ve told her how she’s hurt me; but she has excuses. ‘I was poor, trying to survive myself. I was a victim, too.’ I can’t heal from her excuses. It’s been a long time to realize this, but for my own mental health I’ve had to let that relationship go.” The trust between them is gone. I have another friend, Trina, who is a recovering alcoholic and rocking it. Says she went down that road in the first place because her parents were alcoholics. They thought it’d be fun to make getting wasted a family activity with Trina beginning when she was in 10th grade. They know better now; they’re even decades into recovery themselves. But Trina didn’t start to recover for another 10 years after them, after a lengthy visit in a treatment facility. Part of Trina’s recovery was to name her folks’ role in her addiction. They agree, but don’t see the purpose in lingering there. “We were young. We didn’t know alcohol was that harmful to kids. We just wanted to be your friend.” And later, “We thought that if we could recover, so could you. That would be your responsibility, not ours.” Trina does have a relationship with her folks, but they rarely if ever talk about this history. It’s too raw; it’s unhealed. Relationships with trauma in the past are hard to heal. A few years ago I went through an intensive Community Trustbuilding Fellowship. The fellowship consisted of five monthly residential weekends at a spiritual retreat center. The cohort of twenty-five fellows from around the country (and some from abroad) engaged in a deeply instructive and reflective process that prepared us for meaningful community work. The Community Trustbuilding Fellowship is offered by Hope in the Cities/Initiatives of Change USA, and their mission is to “transform inequality and conflict through systems of honesty, accountability, justice, equity and peace” (from their website). To work with communities and not at them we would have to build trust that, in many cases, had been destroyed. The challenge of building trust is complicated. My own story is a case-in-point. In many ways, I am a social do-gooder. I volunteer, teach social responsibility, and want to “make a difference.” I live outside of Richmond, Virginia where the population is half Black. It’s not hard to see racial inequalities here (and elsewhere), and I’m educated enough to know the inequities were created by centuries of national and local policy. Of course, Richmond’s history as a top importer and lead exporter of enslaved Africans and as the former capital of the Confederacy shows up in how we all live here today. So do the relics of Jim Crow segregation, redlining, Massive Resistance, and mass incarceration (just to name the most obvious forces). I am motivated to impact racial change in my community. Initiatives of Change’s mission to transform inequality is my jam. But me as a trustbuilder in Richmond? This is complicated. Most of the Black residents of Richmond are descendants of enslaved Africans. And me? I’m not only White, and therefore a visual representation of Whiteness, but also a descendant of a notorious owner of enslaved Africans and a descendant of a few Confederate soldiers who fought to defend slavery. I mean, my NAME “Carter” tells that story before I even speak a word. As a beginning community trustbuilder, these were the questions I held: Would my Whiteness proceed me? Would my skin be enough to inspire distrust? What would I do when I met a Black person with the last name “Carter”? Would I become overwhelmed with guilt? Would I be more likely to establish trust if I kept my ancestors a secret — don’t mention my family name, my hometown? Is there a place for me to process my familial history in this trustbuilding context? Or will I destroy trust by mentioning it? What if I literally wore my values, like a “Black Lives Matter” message tshirt? Would that make a difference? Are others even sizing me up? Or am I projecting my own insecurities onto other people? I have some answers now. I recently read an advice column that helped me to frame my approach to trustbuilding. A parent wrote in to ask advice about salvaging a relationship with her adult daughter who does not speak to her. The two of them blame each other for the failed relationship. The advice columnist, Lori Gottlieb, is a psychotherapist and author of Maybe You Should Talk to Someone. She had some helpful advice for healing relationships. “Being blamed for a child’s unhappiness can make a parent feel defensive and frustrated, but layered underneath that frustration might be feelings of shame or self-blame. (My grown daughter’s life is her responsibility, not mine—but what if there’s some truth in what she’s saying?) One way to rid yourself of those feelings is to dismiss her complaints entirely—which probably just makes her protest louder. Replacing self-blame with self-compassion, on the other hand, will allow you to look more closely at yourself, in a kind way, so that you can consider with an open mind why your daughter might be so angry with you even if you did your absolute best as a parent under the circumstances.” There are two conditions for healing that may seem at odds. First, we must honestly face our role in past events, fully own the things that we have done. Healing can begin for my friends if their parents could say, “I am deeply sorry I didn’t support you as a child; I see that my choices hurt you, and
The Arc of Violent Extremism
“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” – Martin Luther King, Jr. When unjust events happen, this quote is often evoked as a narrative changer, a hope giver. It was one of Barack Obama’s favorites. I’ve heard a similar sentiment from the older folks in my life, too. “As bad as things seem, they used to be so much worse.” Things are getting better. I thought I’d never see the day when same-sex couples could be married under USA law. Then it happened. I once told a political science professor colleague that I thought the first non-white-male USA president would be a Republican since that’s what it would take to get a sizable crossover vote. He disagreed, “Our primary system wouldn’t allow it; we’ll never see a non-white-male US president, not in our lifetimes.” Then it happened, though Obama was a Democrat. US laws used to prohibit couples of different races from getting married. Now they can. In my lifetime it used to be legal for husbands to rape their wives. Not anymore. Civil Rights leaders and the politicians who supported them used to get assassinated in public places. Nothing like that has happened in my lifetime. Wikipedia says the last lynching in the US was in 1981. Work places look more diverse than they were just decades earlier. Things are getting better. And things are getting worse. Much worse. In the USA, mass school and public shootings are a regular occurrence; many of those attacks are motivated by hate. Unarmed black citizens are being killed by local authorities who aren’t held accountable. Hate crimes are on the rise. Hate groups hold rallies and recruit in broad daylight (the KKK was in my community this month). The wealth gap is increasing; poverty is increasing. Our national discourse is increasingly divisive. Even families are severing on ideological grounds. I could go on. Things are getting better AND they are getting worse. Both are true. A paradox. I recently spent a week in Caux, Switzerland for an international conference called Toward an Inclusive Peace, also known as TIP. The theme this year was “preventing violent extremism.” On the topic of violent extremism, I knew I would learn plenty and wondered if I would have much to add to the conversation. I’m a professional communicator. I teach communication studies (interpersonal, intercultural, facilitation, small group, and leadership) at the college level and I’ve had some success being a facilitator for hire. I help community groups engage in difficult conversations. I knew I could offer nuanced communication skills as my strength but knew I had much to learn about global dynamics. The meeting took place in Caux Palace on the top of a mountain overlooking Lake Geneva, nestled between the Swiss and French Alps — a near literal palace in the sky. The palace was built in 1902 with the purpose of being a hotel for the world’s royalty, so it’s quite fancy. Magical, really. These days the palace is owned and operated by Initiatives of Change, an international organization dedicated to building trust across the world’s divides. Due in part to its central-to-many location, TIP was the most international meeting I’ve attended in both representation and process. Every continent was represented, some more than others. The meeting was mostly conducted in English and French. Interpreters were available via headphones and “whisper interpretation.” A graphic recorder was on hand to take notes of the preceding on large visual displays. Silent time and small group reflection were built into the schedule. Each day had a scheduled coffee and tea time. Meals were unstructured. Breaks between sessions were at least 30 minutes. I met people from countries immersed in conflict: Palestine, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria, Ukraine, Uganda…I could go on. I heard first-hand experiences of violent extremism — bombs, shootings, acid splashes. I could feel heat coming from the eyes of some participants as they told me of their frustration with USA foreign policy and how its directly and negatively impacting their lives, or maybe that heat was coming from me. I felt shame, embarrassment, and even a bubbling feeling of defensiveness, similar to what many white US Americans¹ feel when they are called a racist, “I didn’t do it!” I challenged myself to stay engaged with the stories of folks from less stable governments, to stay connected enough to identify with their position. In doing so I saw that the USA is on a similar road toward more violent extremism. A person from Uganda told me that their leader has been in power for 33 years. That years ago when he came up against term limits, he extended them. When he came up against an age restriction, he removed it. “Sure it’s a democracy, but it’s theater.” I responded, “I fear that’s where we are headed.” “Oh no,” she responded as she shook her head, “the US democracy is too stable for that. This will pass. Trump cannot undo the democracy.” “I hope you are right.” A person from Ukraine explained her country’s current climate, “When we fight, Putin smiles” and that certainly sounded like something a US American would say. I kept feeling hit over the head with the idea that US Americans deal with violent extremism more often that we realize. Less socially powerful communities feel it imminently, but likely don’t call it “violent extremism.” To the extent that US Americans do not feel immersed in violent extremism is the extent to which we are better positioned to prevent further violent extremism. I learned at this meeting that I am a peacebuilder. “Peacebuilder” is an international identity that I’m only now realizing. In the USA I would have said “I’m a trustbuilder” or a “change maker.” Peace does not mean the absence of war. Peace means that everyone’s basic needs get met, not just our physical survival needs, but also our needs to become safe, loved, and self-actualized. When people are not free to become, there is
25 Things About Me
Glennon Doyle started her successful blog, Momastery (pronounced like monastery, not mastery) with a list, 25 Things About Me. It seemed like an effective introduction to who she is and what the blog might be about. So, I thought I’d try the same. My best and worst trait is my honesty. When I write a long thoughtful email, I reread it several times before I send it AND every time someone replies. I also do this with my FB posts, I reread them every time I get a comment. Do other people do this? This is probably not a good habit for a blogger. Writing helps me to think more clearly. When I put things in writing I can organized my thoughts and see my faulty logic more clearly. I can name my feelings and distinguish ideas. When I write I can release myself from thinking the same thoughts over and over. Writing clears my mind. But comma placement still confuses me. I grew up in a small rural neighborhood (dozen houses) where just seven of us were all teenagers at the same time. Only three of us are still living; we’re in our mid 40s. This death thing keeps going though… I’ve dated 5 people on a long term basis. Two of them are alive right now, my husband and one ex. Count them, THREE dead exes. The ones who broke up with me are all dead now. (Really. I’m not making this stuff up.) My husband has been forewarned. I’ve had 5 coworkers or supervisors with cancer. Some I was quite close to. One kept it a secret; she told me two years after the hardest part of her battle, once she was certain she would survive. Two died. Four of them all worked in the same building that I did, and I wonder about the safety of our work environment back then. I was born on an infamous death day, the 30th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. Three of my peers have died *on* my birthday. I mean, would you blame me if I told you that I spend a lot of time wondering if all of this death stuff is *about me* somehow? So, yeah, I’m writing a memoir about this. All told 11 of my peers have died. Some died from accidents, but most knew they were dying. I have learned deep meaningful life lessons from witnessing these folks’ lives. I have had a front row seat to several people shifting toward valuing every one of their last days, living with intention and meaning. For a decade I wondered what I would do if I knew were dying. I know the answer now. Stay tuned. I’m really comfortable talking about death, even with people who are facing it. It’s a challenging space to hold for people, but I can. I’ve had practice. In that space is rich clarity about what matters in life. It’s a gift for all who can stay present for it. Moving on from the death stuff… I’m kind of a rule follower. I smoked pot once. Might as well get that in the open. It was legal though. And no, I wasn’t in Colorado recently. I traveled to Amsterdam in college for a study abroad trip. A big group of us went to a “hash bar” and ordered a couple joints with our coffees then passed them around. I made sure I was inhaling big. I wanted the experience. But nothing. Nada. Didn’t feel a thing. Maybe I needed to have more of the joint than just the three drags I got. Others told me that you don’t feel it the first time and that I’d have to try again. No thanks. Not my thing. I just wanted to say that I did it, and that it was legal. In my life at some point I’ve claimed all of the following religions/beliefs in no particular order: atheist, United Methodist, Jehovah’s Witness, agnostic, and self-constructed. I was born and raised in Virginia. I spent most of my childhood in the same town my father grew up in, and his parents, and so on. In my direct genealogical line, I am the first “Carter” who lived outside of the state of Virginia (other than for war) since the 1600s when they arrived here from Bedfordshire, England. I love history now, but as a child I hated it. My only D in college was a history class, European Civilization. I didn’t begin to like history until I left Virginia and I could see how local histories shaped those places. When I moved back to Virginia I was ready to know about its history and my own. I am a descendant of both a Confederate and a Union soldier. I think a lot about what this legacy means for me in this lifetime. I feel a special duty given my social inheritance. I’ve moved around quite a bit as an adult. I lived in central Pennsylvania for five years for graduate school and my first job. I did two quick summer internships in South Carolina and North Carolina. I moved to Chicago with a love interest, and stayed there for nine years working and studying. Then I got a tenure track faculty job in Hawaii (!) where I lived with my husband and gave birth to our two kids. After four years there we moved back to my home state of Virginia where I live now. I lost my tenure track job eight years ago. What they say is true, that you shouldn’t have kids while on the tenure track. So be it. My kids were born when I was 36 and 38. I wasn’t about to wait until my 40s because higher education can’t figure out how to make the tenure-track more human-friendly. Okay, so the “so be it” attitude is relatively new for me. I was really crushed to lose my job. I internalized a lot of it. I was
30 Essays
I’ve been talking about starting this blog for about a year now. I noticed that I had essays floating in my head. Not just thoughts or topics, but essays. Each was loosely outlined with stories and supporting points. I’d find myself reciting parts of these essays to people in conversations. Months ago, when there were just five, I figured I should start a list of essays. So I did. There are 30 now, and I’m sure it will keep growing. Flashback. When I was 23 years old I experienced the hardest break up of my life. My body ached from sadness. I lost weight when I didn’t have any to lose. I fell asleep at night fine, but I couldn’t stay asleep. I vowed to cut off all communication with my ex so that I could move on, but my thoughts of our past and what-ifs overcame me each day. I processed with a therapist and two dear friends who held space for me for weeks. My thoughts cycled through old stories of us, and I worked to critically examine old narratives. As I reflected, learned, connected, and built on my thoughts, I allowed my feelings to crash inside deeper and louder — screaming anger, hopeless loss, and dark grief. Eventually, though, the thoughts became redundant. I wasn’t processing anything new, but churning through a loop, the same thoughts and emotions every day. I figured out why. My mind raced because I was afraid I’d forget. My thoughts and feelings were gold to me. I had discovered valuable life lessons through my processing. I wanted to remember them! So I woke up trying desperately to remember and feel everything. Every day. I was exhausted and felt trapped. Until I discovered journaling. I figured, if I wrote down my thoughts and allowed my emotions to burst out onto the page, my daily mind would feel allowed to forget these things. And it worked. I was free and moved on. Now twenty-some years later, I’m in my mid-40s, and my mind is racing again on a repeating loop. But it’s different this time. Three years ago I had what some might call a mid-life crisis. I call it a crisis of integrity; I discovered that I wasn’t who I said I was. I had been angry more often than I admitted. I was arrogant, critical of others, and self-promoting. I insisted that I was more valuable than I felt allowed to be. I felt undervalued at work and at home. I said I cared about people and fairness, but I wasn’t involved in my community. I had told myself that I could make an impact as an academic — through teaching my students, changing campus processes for all students’ success, and contributing knowledge through my research. But I couldn’t. So, I quit my full-time academic job. Yikes. I took a giant step back, away from the “shoulds” of life – away from obligation, expectations, and proving myself. I dove into self-discovery work. I “broke up” with my status quo life. I found a good therapist, attended retreats, and learned meditation. I slowed down. Way down. I read books, took walks, and picked up a jigsaw habit. I got to know myself deep down in the shadows and the light. I thought, processed, and connected. And journaled. I journaled through it for sure. So I was free to move on. Truly, I experienced an awakening. As I reengaged with my community, I did so with more integrity. I do professional work that brings me the most joy – teaching, facilitating, speaking, volunteering, and writing. I’m immersed in my community and try to put authenticity and intention into my choices. And I have kept my slow pace. The vail of my own self-judgement has lifted. I am a truer version of me. And I’m not done; never done. This is what I know now. I am a smart and valuable person. I’ve doubted that for too long, far enough down into my subconscious that my conscious brain didn’t even know I held that doubt. My arrogance and anger was the evidence of my deeply held self-doubt. But now I know. Finding that doubt freed me to release it. Now I am certain of my value and don’t feel compelled to prove it to anyone. No validation necessary. It’s just true whether others agree or not. I think creatively and make connections that I don’t see many others making. I have something of value to say. The 30 essays, they are the lessons, connections, concepts that are not just mine, but mine to share. And they are my contribution to the world, not just the pages of my journals. I feel called, from a humble place inside of me, to share these stories. What are these essays about? What will this blog be about? Some are methods, lessons, and stories of self-discovery work. Some are academic concepts that can be applied to life and current events. Some are a specific reckoning with ancestors and myself. Some are about burning life questions. Most of them explore a middle-place, paradox, and the counter-intuitive. They are…Gray Areas.