don't give up, part 3: get out of your own way

To watch or listen to Dr. Kellett read this essay, visit the Expand Your Us YouTube Channel here: https://youtu.be/gk0SH0kSKSc

In 1967, President Lyndon Johnson established a National Commission on Civil Disorders, asking the Governor of Illinois to lead the effort to explain why the US Government’s intention to recognize and ensure Civil Rights was neither trusted nor considered enough by the people in the streets.

When Governor Kerner submitted the commission’s report, “the President refused to acknowledge it,” according to Dr. Jill Lepore, in a June 22 article in The New Yorker. Like a lot of us, Johnson believed his intentions guaranteed the outcome he desired. When the Voting Rights Act and the Civil Rights Act did not restore the country to immediate peace, Johnson was baffled. At the very least, he expected passive appreciation for his attempt to transform the entire US Government, it’s habits, ways of being and approach to its citizenry. When the outcome of his efforts was not immediate, and when many protestors seemed ungrateful, Johnson decided that he had been brave, taken risks, and tried to help, and that was enough.

Despite forming a commission to help him understand why some Americans felt left out of their government, when Kerner shared valid and historically grounded reasons for the continued tension, Johnson was not interested in what protestors had to say. Presumably, he wanted them to take the win, say thank you, and let the country return to its status quo. Lepore explains that according to his chief speechwriter, Johnson was intensely bothered by the Kerner Report’s findings because, “It hurt his pride.” When his effort and intention was not praised and appreciated, he could not and would not care anymore.

The cultural norms of America make white folks welcome, but demand proof of good faith from Black and Brown people. This is the norm in nearly every place and institution in our country, and it takes a great deal of courage to name that bias and the challenge such power. President Johnson took courageous steps to expose our American racial hierarchy by legitimizing people like Dr. King. He then spent enormous capital to pass meaningfully reforming legislation to guarantee not just legal rights, but civil ones too. He worked so hard, and went so far out on a limb, that he felt betrayed when protests continued.

We can feel that way too. When a powerful white person awakens to racial injustice, it is very easy to burst on the scene and want to take over. Accustomed to efficient, tidy problem solving with clear results, we throw time and money and resources at the problem of racial injustice, certain we will fix it. When our energy and power and resources fail—as they often do—to radically correct systems and patterns of injustice, we experience fatigue, frustration, and exasperation. Like Johnson, our pride can get wounded.

“After all I did, nothing changed!”

“I gave so much, and you don’t even appreciate my effort?”

“I don’t know what else you expect from me. Everything I’ve done came at great expense, and I have nothing left to give.”

Knowing how hard transformative change around racialized thinking can be, our responses, like President Johnson’s response, make a certain amount of sense.

However, his wounded pride and frustration existed in tension with another, more compassionate response: Empathy that led to understanding and solidarity. When President Johnson took a step back and moved his gaze from his own effort, comfort, and insufficient solutions, focusing instead on the lived experience and daily realities of African Americans, he discovered new wells of compassion and understanding. He admitted that despite his best effort to move and improve the lives of Black people, they were “still nowhere. He knows it. That’s why [he is] out in the streets. Hell, I’d be there too.”

When Johnson focused solely on the nobility of his intention, he denied others the right to be dissatisfied with the outcome of his effort. On the other hand, when he allowed himself to observe the disappointing or even hurtful outcome of Civil Rights Legislation, his empathy drove him to forget about his wonderful intention for a moment, and instead find new, creative, energy and resolve to try to make America a more just and perfect union.

President Johnson’s divided responses hold lessons for us, no matter where we stand in relation to social justice and activism.

First, we must allow ourselves to have conflicting responses. We feel like the status quo is too powerful to change and we feel inspired to try. We feel heroic for getting involved and impotent for failing to reform stubborn systems. We feel like generous allies and we continue to benefit from white privilege. We feel pride at changes we’ve made and frustrated when our efforts aren’t recognized. These tensions exist. Recognize them, wrestle with them, but don’t give them the power to make you walk away.

Second, we cannot engage compassion or empathy, nor can we affect meaningful change, when our comfort is our biggest need. Transforming centuries of injustice, and helping generations of white people relax their exclusive grip on power and wealth is wildly uncomfortable. Rocking the boat makes people seasick. We must understand that right action might feel uncomfortable, new, extreme and even wrong if we are to take right action. Notice your discomfort, and decide to commit anyway.

Third, we must know there can be a wide gap between our intentions and the outcomes they produce. Johnson’s intention was to bring about equality and offer hope to every American. The early outcomes had mixed reviews. When our intentions don’t magically transform, guaranteeing perfect outcomes, it is easy to blame others or get defensive. You might show up to help an organization and end up making someone else uncomfortable. You might try to move into a community to help them and get your hand slapped. You might invest in an impoverished person and realize 6 months later that they are still unemployed. Keep your eye on the outcomes, rather than your beautiful intentions, and view these experiences as feedback that can change and improve your approach. Your intentions can be noble, but if we really want to bring change then we must allow outcomes to inform our actions and investments.

Be encouraged that a LOT is happening. Laws have passed, leaders have stepped down or up, concern has been shown, escalation has been exposed, statues have been moved, businesses have divested, mission statements have changed and new policies enforced aimed at equity and inclusion. Yet, I can feel the fatigue of the country, of my city, of friends and family. Johnson demonstrated our penchant for leaning in for a brief time, taking the concerns of vulnerable others seriously, responding with action, and then, importantly, shrugging our shoulders as if to say, “If you aren’t satisfied with all I’ve done, that’s on you. I’m tired of your need to disruptively ask us to change our habits. When you remind us that we treat you with suspicion, project criminality and laziness on to you, refuse to hire or rent to you, and try to keep you out of our spaces, it makes us feel guilty, then annoyed, and finally angry that you won’t just go back inside and trust the system.”

 We have to do better. This work is long and hard. Don’t give up. Look to history, and realize your own compassion and effectiveness might not be trustworthy long-term motivators. Take the time to hear a person’s story whose life is continually diminished because of the gap between who we hope to be and what our habits prove us to be. Hear her story as an invitation to keep acknowledging the tension, decentering your comfort, and paying more attention to outcomes than to your intentions. It will take all of us be a better America. Don’t give up now.

thoughts on celebrating America

 In 1751, the Pennsylvania Assembly commissioned a large bell to mark the 50th anniversary of the state’s original constitution, written by William Penn in 1701. The bell’s inscription was taken from Leviticus, a Book in the Pentateuch, or the first five Books of the Bible. It reads: “Proclaim Liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.” Visit Philadelphia today and you will see—you might even feel—that the Liberty Bell embodies our national pride and spirit.

 This week, as we eat soggy pasta salad and slurp crisp slices of watermelon, toasting our nation and celebrating our unique commitment to freedom, we will think fondly of this liberty. We will remember that we one day decided, collectively, that it was worth sacrificing everything in order to be free. As we look skyward at exploding lights, I hope we will also reckon with the fact that many Americans are asking all Americans to see that we aren’t all free.

We are in our second month of widespread protests that force us all to question what freedom can look like to 2020. Independence Day is a good time to admit that American notions of liberty have always coincided with American practices of exclusion. American liberty has an asterisk, for it has historically meant freedom for some and definitely not for all.

When early Pennsylvanians decided to commission a state house bell, they choose words that captured the expansive concept of liberty: liberty only works if it is for all of us. The irony, of course, is that in 1701, in 1751, and even in 1851 “all the inhabitants” of the land were neither liberated nor proclaiming any such thing. This conflict is the tricky problem with American memory and celebrations of our history. We cling to our stated values, while ignoring—erasing even—those not included.

30 years after the Pennsylvania bell was commissioned, the New Hampshire state convention named the enemy of liberty, saying, “The love of power is so alluring that few have ever been able to resist its bewitching influence.” New Hampshirites seemed to know that liberty requires ongoing sacrifice because power and greed are equally alluring ideals. What the Pennsylvania delegates failed to recognize is that proclaiming liberty for all inhabitants requires shared sacrifice; otherwise the freedom of the many will be sacrificed for the liberty of the few. Liberty and power must be held in tension, especially in communities where equality is espoused.

Liberty, first dreamed up by those early signers of the Declaration, and then made real by the brave men who died for the freedom to govern themselves, was costly. When a young United States of America celebrated its 20th Independence Day, many Americans were right to toast our independence from tyrannical Britain. Many other inhabitants of America—especially those with brown or black skin—must have choked on the celebratory cries, knowing those who rejected the tyranny of Europe had no trouble at all using abusive power to demean those around them.

The Liberty Bell, as we now remember it, as a beacon of hope, of equality, of shared sacrifice, did not come to signify these expansive and inclusive ideals until resisting voices took the Bell at its word, and reclaimed it as a symbol for those previously excluded from American equality. Abolitionists popularized the Liberty Bell as an American icon, and they did so simply by calling Americans to be who they claimed to be: Be people willing to pursue liberty for all folks, rejecting abusive power as a means to personal liberty.

Those resisting voices were accused of desecrating the intent of the inscription and the meaning of the bell in American history. Similar to today, many Americans accused abolitionists (protesters) of being unpatriotic. However, those abolitionists were deeply loyal to the values celebrated by Americans. History is complicated, and they knew liberty and power were not the same thing. They knew our hypocrisy would destroy us unless we began to realize that liberty for all requires limits be placed on personal power.

 Today, these familiar ideals will continue to divide us as a society unless we hear from all those talking about American liberty, what it means, who its for, and how it works. We cannot reserve liberty for a few while many suffer. We cannot call a culture that upholds the comfort of white supremacy and ignores the abuse of all others a free one. We cannot say all lives matter until Black lives matter. We cannot assert our civil liberties to not wear masks while vulnerable people die because we will not limit ourselves for the good of others. 

As we celebrate Independence Day, perhaps we should think not just about the Liberty Bell, its history and inscription, but also its crack, and the obvious vulnerabilities in our shared history. We need to elevate protesting voices who remind us that we all have a claim to liberty, just as we all have to sacrifice in order to live in community with those around us. If we want to be a country where all people have access to liberty, we have to begin to take responsibility for the things said and done around us, even if it means we challenge the status quo. Equity and justice aren’t part of the American creed unless we make them staples of everyday life.

The Liberty Bell holds a lesson for all of us who care about our country: The presence of a crack does not diminish the value of the symbol. Resisting voices who help us understand the many implications of liberty do not dilute the power of patriotism. The protests that have erupted in the public outcry over the deaths of Maud Arbery, Breonna Taylor and George Floyd are deeply patriotic. Understanding our long held hypocrisy does not detract from our striving to form a more perfect union. Acknowledging our mistakes does not destroy our pride as Americans.

Facing a complete history, which welcomes every perspective of who we have been and who we might become, which celebrates our symbols even as we notice their flaws, is perhaps the most American way to celebrate the birth of our nation. After all, we are a country born out of the notion that all men are created equal, and we cherish this idea even as we often fail to act on this core belief. To be American is to know big dreams are realized with small steps and shared sacrifices. This 4th of July, I want to believe our hopes for liberty and equality can coexist, and that they matter enough for us to notice how we fail to live up to our own American dreams. Learning America’s history—the noble, the hypocritical, the celebrated and the erased—issues an invitation for everyone to sacrifice for the stunning American idea that every inhabitant is created equally and for liberty. What a dream.

on changing our culture of white centrality

The primary block to justice is not intentional corruption or overt racists. The primary blocks to justice are white folks consumed with themselves, habituated to ignore or diminish the lives of others. Economic, legal and racial inequities continue to define our country because they are the foundation upon which our country was first established. Our American founders gave rights to people based on their wealth, race and gender. This became the status quo, and every study of history and culture reveals that status quos are powerfully resistant to change.

Video recordings seen across America in recent weeks have alerted many to the long-standing, violent mistreatment of people of color. Many are shocked, appalled, confused, and outraged; they continue to lean in to ask what can be done, even though they might be overwhelmed or scared. I am grateful for these people. They have decided that the status quo is not okay. That what is normal is not acceptable.

These sentiments offer a wonderful chance to start again, but norms will not change unless systems change. Deciding “in my heart” that I am sad for victims and suspicious of unjust authority will not change the nature of the power that erases hope in communities of color. If we want our society to disavow racism, we can’t simply understand our history or label overt evil, we have to each actively become antiracist in our thoughts, speech and actions. If we want to create a just society, we have to actively change the one we have been creating for 250 years.

To that end, here are a few suggestions for how we in the white community might begin:

First, make is personal. Don’t start with ‘them’, start with yourself. Take inventory of your life, relationships and investments. Do you regularly share experiences or routines with anyone outside your tax bracket, religion or race? Do you seek advice from or lean on a person whose life experience is different from yours? Do you read, watch, follow or listen to podcasts made by people of color? The purpose of such inventory taking is not to shame, but to help you see who you trust in your life, whose experiences you value, and what you think is normal based on that information. If you don’t spend meaningful time with people whose reality differs from yours, you should not be surprised when a viral video reveals that different realities exist.

Educate yourself, seeking to learn with humility. I have been flooded with messages from folks who are discovering for the first time that our country’s status quo undervalues, restricts and violates the dignity of people of color. I am thrilled people are engaging with such desperate passion, and thankful I can share my own experience on this journey. Unfortunately, many black friends have also been bombarded. Nearly all of them are thankful to know their white friends care, but most are also exhausted by the idea that they are asked to comment on, explain, defend or teach a well meaning but uninformed person about what it is like to be black in America, this week, or today in Nashville.  

(PSA: if you want to reach out to a black friend, colleague, student or mentor, but feel frozen about what to say, I gently urge you to get over yourself and reach out! When you reach out, even if you feel awkward, you remove the need for them to wonder whose side you are on. Simply say something like: “I have been thinking about you this week, and want you to know I am thankful to know you. I value you and I am learning how to be a better ally to help change our city/workplace/church/school/country. I hope you feel safe. You aren’t alone, and I’m here if you want to talk. No need to respond.” Your words will not rescue them, and you need not ask anything of them either.)

As you educate yourself, notice who you ask to pay for your education. You must actively engage in your own journey rather than climbing on the back of a generous black friend willing to carry you from first to second base as she teaches you what is yours to discover. Even more costly, when African Americans do the heavy lifting for you, they usually do so in a way that privileges your feelings and comfort, rather than allowing you to discover that our status quo began and continues based on the comfort and feelings of white people. Don’t ask someone else to do what is yours to do. (I’ll provide a reading list to help you get started at the end of this essay).

 As you become educated about our racialized society, I hope you will take time to lament all we have lost by only privileging one type of life. We are all victims of the racialized hierarchy that determines our status quo. I am furious that my city’s segregation makes it difficult for us to live in multicultural neighborhoods. I am sad that my moving to a diverse neighborhood often means I will accelerate gentrification that displaces impoverished people. I am shamed when I realize that my white culture makes it bad manners to challenge a comment reflecting racial bias, or that I participate in a culture that normalizes only white wealth, while ignoring or actively avoiding an experience with a person from a different perspective in the name of safety or comfort. If we don’t take time to grieve these failures, we are more likely to abandon our efforts to change because facing our habits makes us feel terrible. You are not alone! We have much to face, and need honest courage to do so. Don’t stew in despair; instead, admit the failings you see and commit to live and speak differently.

It is easy to point a finger at an actively racist person; it is much harder to begin to notice and correct small, racialized biases, and stereotypes or fears that shape my behavior. Not many of us are overt racists, but most of us take actions to avoid certain areas, keep distance from certain people or vote against certain policies—all along racial lines. These implicitly racist habits explicitly impact the lives of others in devastating ways. Acknowledge the subtly racist thoughts that occupy you, and confess your sadness and frustration. Share your lament, your broken heart, with others in your circle. Doing so invites them to join the journey you are on and is much more hospitable than shouting them down once you “get woke.”

Moreover, sitting with your sadness will likely spur you to action. It might lead you to change your routine so that you begin to spend time in places where you are not in the racial, religious or socioeconomic majority. You can be kind and good as you go about your day, but you will never understand the reality of our unjust status quo if you only spend time with people whose lives mirror your own. If you want to challenge the norms that lead to black necks being knelt on and crushed while silent others watch, you have to share your grief with those in your circles, and you have to disrupt your own comfortable path.

Finally, as you walk along this journey, be aware that your life will change. You will become comfortable with difference, and will likely develop sincere gratitude for how much strength you derive when you learn from other people as they share their lives with you. As you do this, you will begin to de-center yourself. As you recognize the wildly different realities Americans live, you will soon begin to know and articulate your perspective, while simultaneously hungering for someone’s take that differs from yours. You will want to vote in local elections and pay attention to policies, housing, education, policing, oversight and power in your town. You will be less consumed with finding folks to affirm and agree with you, and more interested in listening to the different perspectives others might bring. You will be reluctant to share an opinion, a policy, or a voting position without seeking to understand how someone different from you approaches a similar issue.

Celebrate this fact, because when this is true of your life, you will have expanded your us. Your sense of community, of belonging, of “your people,” will have grown. You will find yourself going to bat for people in a way that offers you no direct benefit. You will create a more just and equitable society because you will use your intellect and voice and power and money and influence and vote to elevate people other than you. When wealthy white people do this (because our power is unparalleled in America), our status quo will change, our society will become more just, and we will all breathe. Every person has a role to play, and it will take all of us to create a status quo where black lives obviously matter.

If you are looking for a place to start, educate yourself by reading these (mostly) recent books. For a white person, this is the order I suggest (many of these reference or mention Christian outlooks):

On Race:

Waking up White, Irving

How to be an Antiracist, Kendi

I’m Still Here, Channing Brown

White Fragility, D’Angelo

Between the World and Me, Coates

The Color of Compromise, Tisby

Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People about Race, Eddo-Lodge

Podcasts:

Code Switch

Truth’s Table

1619

Still Processing

Other helpful texts

On Christian Engagement with Social Justice:

White Awake, Hill

Generous Justice, Keller

Disunity in Christ, Cleveland

Seek the Peace of the City, Banister

Knowing Christ Crucified, Copeland

Dream with Me, Perkins

On Education, Criminal Justice and the Law:

13th, film, DuVernay

Just Mercy, Stevenson

New Intro to Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria, Tatum

The Color of Law, Rothstein

Democracy in Chains, MacLean

The Sun Does Shine, Hinton

On Economics and History:

1619 Project, New York Times (Hannah-Jones)

Toxic Charity, Lupton

Stamped from the Beginning, Kendi

The New Jim Crow, Alexander

The Economics of Neighborly Love, Nelson

Stony the Road, Gates, Jr

12 Million Black Voices, Wright