not political? get practical: 5 ways to stop being the problem

Last week’s essay made the case that the problem with our current national public devolution is not outrage or political involvement. Rather, our apparent inability to communicate with each other is a result of our obsession with ourselves, our restricted interaction with people whose life experience differs from ours, our clear commitment to prioritize that which furthers our agenda, and our discomfort with ambiguity. I heard from friends who read, nodding, grateful tears running down their faces, and from friends annoyed that I suggested “outrage” or “getting political” could ever be a valid option (and many people in between!). Here’s the thing: We all agree we are really, really bad at talking with each other about the state of America right now; we shake our heads, tisk our lips, and roll our eyes at the state of us, but we fail to recognize that we are both part of the problem and have infinite resources to change our behavior.

I’m a college professor, and I regularly tell my students that we adults have utterly failed them. That we are terrible at talking to each other. That we seem to have no ability to lean in to the lives of people whose experiences differ from ours. That we are actually not the kind of adults anyone should want to be. They laugh, but some of them agree with me. When I remind them that it takes difficult work to recognize our own bias, to admit that the problem in not “out there” but “in here”, that we are deeply lazy, selfish people who love to blame others instead of doing what we can do to make things better, a few of them get a panicked look in their eye, because they know they will turn into us if they don’t find a different way to be in the world.

In an effort to promote a different way to be in the world, this week I’d like to offer suggestions on how to stop screaming at your television/radio/neighbor and instead invest in your own environment, changing the way “normal” is done around you. There are many ways to respond to the Kavanaugh hearings. Decrying public engagement or passion as ridiculous, shallow outrage, is not helpful in my view. Here are a few practical suggestions that might serve the cause of justice and promote communal flourishing as we all learn to be better grown ups who share a country and a neighborhood.

 1)   Don’t undermine women in your life. Don’t use phrases like “middle school girl drama” to describe grudge-holding or silly bickering. Remove gendered insults from your vocabulary. Treat women as if their value and importance to society go far beyond their physical endowments. Teach them to speak up for themselves and then listen and respond when they do so. Don’t talk trash about your mom or mother-in-law, your boss or your waitress.

2)   Instead of raging about the inequality displayed in the Senate, take inventory of your own power. In your home, community or place of work, how are people respected and how is gender navigated? How do you show respect, and who do you silence? Who gets the benefit of the doubt and who is treated with skepticism? Clean up your side of the street, in the places you live and play and work. If you are privy to sexist or denigrating comments, whether sexual in nature or gender-based hyperbole, speak up! Let people know that you are neither safe for male locker room talk nor for females bashing males.

3)   Don’t confuse young men with conflicted and gendered teaching. In the South especially, young men are taught to protect women, to open their doors and to carry their things. Often, the same men who teach these lessons tell off-color jokes, clearly appraising women’s bodies with their eyes. They extend their “protection” of women to a patronizing withholding of information from women: ‘I don’t trust your ability to function in stress or to contribute to solutions’ gets phrased as, ‘I didn’t want you to worry.’ Don’t tell young men to treat women one way and then undermine that with your own behavior.

4)   Openly engage in the world around you. Refute the bullshit that paying attention or commenting on the political arena is somehow hysterical or an act of outrage. If men can grow up so insulated, with such privilege, that they regularly got blackout drunk and violatingly handsy with women in their paths, yet still demand the respect of others, we should be outraged! If a man spent a career respecting others, admitting mistakes, making amends, and applying the law to society in just ways, but was falsely accused of multiple counts of sexual assault, we should be outraged! If a woman’s understanding of her own body, safety and sexuality was badly impacted by an early assault from an entitled peer, we should be outraged! If our elected officials acted to further a conspiracy of damaging lies, or looked the other way when someone committed multiple counts of perjury, or acted to protect powerful unrepentant sexual assailants, we should be outraged! The presence of outrage does not presuppose an unhealthy person. Engage in the world around you, and consider what will make you speak up, or in whose defense you will stand. If there is no scenario that might make you speak, or gently disagree with a friend, or defend a person your circle has dismissed, then ask yourself what holds your love and loyalty.

5)   Know your history. Face the sexism and abuse and misogyny that has carried our country along. Explore the dark activities we have called normal. Educate yourself on the differences in patriotism and nationalism, between leadership and greed. Look into the divides between who we teach our kids to be and who we are when no one looks or no one cares. Many of our recent public moments could help us face a culture that excuses or even encourages behavior that destroys or handicaps lives. Don’t allow one person to be the anomaly; look for patterns and find your own places of compromise. Face the reality of our past, confront our present, and change the future.

 Our choosing of sides is problematic. Our love of finger pointing, blame, victimization and outrage are absurd. Our jump to accusation and defense are not helpful. But they aren’t the main problem. The answer is not to back away. Apathy is not a spiritual gift. Standing aloof will not bend us toward justice. Perhaps the answer is to get more involved, more engaged. What can you do, tomorrow, to be a part of the solution, rather than blindly being a part of the problem you complain about?

on the virtue of outrage

As Judge Kavanaugh’s Senate Judiciary hearings unfolded on a national stage, tensions climbed, accusations flew, defenses rose, and our discourse tanked. Given the chance to address our conflicted teachings on gendered behavior and how they wound all of us, we failed. I don’t mean to say we failed because Kavanaugh was confirmed, or because a woman was praised as “compelling” and “credible” but ultimately dismissed as neither, or even because of the nearly strict party lines which determined the outcome, although I admit my bias in thinking these things are true and terrible. I am most interested in the failure of our collective consciousness as we reflect on recent weeks. What was revealed, and what we must learn, according to many loud voices, is that we are too partisan and too angry. I have wept, sat stunned and paced angrily for many reasons in the last few weeks, but the thing I lament is much bigger than people addicted to picking sides.

After Judge Kavanaugh cleared the committee, Jeff Flake, from Arizona, took to the Senate floor to suggest the real danger in what just occurred was the elevation of a false binary: You either honor women and vote no on Kavanaugh, or hate women and vote yes. Flake is right that binaries take the nuance, the uncertainty, the confusion about what happened, out of the picture. I too, find binaries absurd, weak attempts to make easy choices of complicated matters; however, the danger here was not a false binary, but the exposure and endorsement of a culture that gives power to people who don’t value the experience of others.

Pastors and pundits alike echoed Flake by saying the real tragedy here was partisan people, addicted to outrage. They make a good point: we are angry and divided, and our problems are certainly exacerbated when we leap to outrage from our huddled corners. However, rather than outrage, I grieve the failure of empathetic listening, of engagement, of the willingness to get involved.

 I am bothered by the grandstanding, the side picking, the blaming anger. Our political habits are troubling, but the realities around which our political circus swirls is devastating:

• Girls are assaulted at alarming rates, and they often hide this destructive secret in the center of their being, where it continually wounds them.

• Boys are often raised to respect and even protect women, while simultaneously enjoying porn, celebrating sexual conquests, and noticing the mixed messages adults send them about (dis)respecting themselves and others.

• We actively endorse the notion that behavioral standards fluctuate depending on one’s location (Vegas), wealth bracket (wealthy kids likely avoid jail), or age (if you are just a kid then a mistake shouldn’t ruin your life, even if your mistake haunts someone else’s).

• We are more likely to believe devious conspiracy theories than the idea that entitled kids do entitled things, and have little reason to regret or confess them.

With or without Kavanaugh subtext, these revealed realities suggest devastating consequences for our shared future. To say that the primary problem exposed in these hearings is one of angry side picking is to miss the point entirely. First, such a view suggests that every testimony, every word uttered in the public sphere, has a clear agenda. It obscures the idea that truth telling comes from honest reflection, and that meaning making is a communal activity (to paraphrase David Dark). This view presupposes that since we cannot be certain about everything, it is better to stay aloof, uninvolved. Could we care enough about the communities we share to actually listen with respect, even when our stories are messy?

 Second, this point of view is founded on the idea that any meaningful engagement in the public sphere is too much engagement in the public sphere. It suggests that any interest or passion is too much and too far, that reasonable, grounded people abstain from getting involved. If this is actually true then we should not claim to be a democracy, right? How often do you hear a person accosted for thinking about how one’s choices or ideals might affect the people around them: “Stop getting political, I’m just talking about my personal faith/school choice/business habits/tax strategy.” Truth be told, I am not sure what “getting political” means, but if it means investing my time, thoughts and energy in public meaning making, in the creating of norms, in the exploration of potential leaders and their points of view, then “getting political” is the foundation of democratic participation. Could we care about the norms, laws and people who govern us enough to engage ourselves in our governance?

Third, the idea that all who were interested in the Senate procedures, anyone who diligently watched, forming opinions and expressing outrage, was a symptom of ‘the problem with society,’ is based on the notion that our country, courts and legislators are never wrong, and always worthy of our trust. To hold them accountable is a sign of hysteria. This perspective has been used to silence protest and to undercut those who would resist oppression. It suggests that the status quo is always just, so any person who robustly criticizes the system has gone overboard and is simply addicted to outrage, passionate about their passion. The reality is that we have often gotten it wrong in our country. The long arc bends toward justice because people are willing to change the trajectory of the arc. Inertia wins unless a new force is introduced in the pathway. If such a new force is always dismissed as too intense, or too involved, then inertia will win, and injustice will stand. Could we care enough to be outraged?

I understand the impulse to choose apathy instead of engaged dialogue. This is a complicated and high-stakes moment. There is much to learn, much to mourn, much to ponder about the last few weeks. If influential folks decide that our central problem is that people are “too political” or “too outraged,” then I’m afraid I need to announce that I am about to become a bigger problem than I have heretofore been. I care too much about the way our public sphere, courts, leaders, houses of worship and laws treat young women and men to pretend like apathy or divestment is a noble act of reason. It is cowardly to not care, and I invite you to be brave with me, to listen to different perspectives with empathy, and to engage in the process of making meaning out of our messy democracy.

Next week, practical ideas on how to respond to this moment.

what the flowers told me: on beauty in pain

“You belong, among the wildflowers.”

— Tom Petty

Living in Scotland, one gets used to gray skies and rainy mornings. On the cusp of adulthood, I discovered there that I was a closet introvert. I tend to live with everything I’ve got thrown out in the sun, engaged from head to toe. The Latin roots of extrovert explain the word suggests one who is turning outward, and I spent the first half of my 40 years doing exactly that. I constantly turned outward, to adventure, to relationships, to thrilling fun. I laughed hard and lived loud.

Then came the rains of Scotland. Walking often alone in Edinburgh, I discovered I liked the quiet. I loved to think and read and eat alone. Gray rainy days gave me the gift of my self. Nature has a way of teaching us how to be in the world, if we will only pay attention. 20 years later, my blood pressure drops a few notches when the rain comes. Rainy days wash forgiveness over us, giving all an excuse for being late, a reason to cancel plans, a lowering of expectations. Rain reminds me that enough is okay, that accomplishing less might be more enjoyable, that we should all just slow down.

For a productivity addict, the calming effect of rain provides a necessary pause. The rain reminds me there are lessons to be had if only I will pay attention. It remind us that the way we live is not the way we must, that our patterns might not define us. We withdraw, we hide away, we indulge, we rage, we distract ourselves, we pretend like we are fearless. When the pain of life delivers us at the end of ourselves though, those coping skills often seem inadequate. As the rain of Scotland exposed the beauty of turning inward and slowing down, I find myself looking again to the natural world for advice on how to survive the times that hurt and try us.

Yesterday I spent a lovely morning with a dear friend in a field of wildflowers. She is a pursuer of beauty, a chaser of wonder, and it is good to be in her presence whether I am happy or sad. As we drove through small towns, past barns and rolling fields, we began to learn the lessons Mother Nature offered up. Here are a few:

Consider the sunflower. Big, bright and beautiful, she is iconic. The deep brown center, the flaming bright petals, she stands tall with a stern stem. Today I observed her, and noticed the sunflower seems so sturdy, but those yellow petals are quite frail. The stem is thick, straight as a backbone, the brown center large and open, but the leaves, which provide the color for which the plant is known, are rather tiny. We love sunflowers for the brilliant contrast of the yellow and brown, for the large center, so stable, so open. I tend to minimize my frail parts, wanting to hide my fragility from the world. But the sunflower is the sunflower because we see the frail parts, because that flash of yellow is such a gift around the orb of brown. The sunflower teaches us to turn ourselves toward those who give us life, exposing our fragility and trusting others to call it beautiful. Could we learn to know we need to face the sun, that we must turn inward or outward toward those people and practices that give us life? Could we learn to bring our full selves, stable or fragile, toward the light, toward that which will carry and comfort us? Is it possible that our hurting, broken places are actually the most lovely? That our weak parts are made beautiful when seen alongside our strength? The sunflower has much to say if we will listen.

As we walked through the fields we also saw butterflies, fireflies and bees. Everywhere fluttering and buzzing, reminding us of the grace of rest, the freedom of flight and the necessity of nourishment. Ubiquitous, I found such pleasure in watching them dance. I saw there a beautiful reminder that perhaps the best path is not a path at all. Fully existing in a moment might require us to flit about, finding nourishment or rest wherever it is provided, unsure from where it will come. Don’t stop the journey because the rest ahead is unclear. Fly anyway, enjoying a reprieve whenever it appears. Perhaps the best paths meander.

Amidst the gorgeous bright sunflowers were also wildflowers of every shade. They were wild and bushy, mostly messy green with small pops of color. Lovely all the same though. Step back and survey the mess of life, looking for the precious color within. Might we trust that in every disaster there are moments of peace, that in every mess that is fleeting beauty? Some of the sunflowers looked like they were dying, but their burnished leaves added such depth to the sea of gold. Look for beauty in the dying, in the mess. No heart can bear only bad all the time. Allow yourself the gift of beauty if you stumble upon such wonder.

Buried beneath the flowers, we learned, would soon be tulip bulbs. Burrowed deep for the winter months, they will break through the ground in the spring, bursts of color growing toward the sun. In the beautiful wonder of our created world, cycles of life abound. God created this world to live and thrive and decay and die, only to nurture and grow new life. I am learning to face each death I encounter, knowing that in God’s baffling and cyclical economy, some gift is being deposited for the new life to come.

The natural world is a wild and lovely place. It is helpful, when the path ahead feels riddled with the traps of pain and despair, to remember that we were made to live as observers and partakers of the world around us. There are gifts of comfort and lessons of wisdom hidden within the plants and bees and rain and sun. Although we live our lives in a line, we grow in cycles large and small, as grace and pain somehow work together to teach us how to pay attention.

“The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first; Be not discouraged - keep on - there are divine things, well envelop’d; I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.   ”

— Walt Whitman