ted lasso and john lewis

To hear Brandi read this week’s essay, click here: https://youtu.be/_N6O2z0tFtw

On Saturday, the city of Nashville renamed Fifth Avenue Rep. John Lewis Way. The street runs through the heart of downtown, bordering the best of Nashville’s musical roots, the Predators’ arena, the Music City Center, the Sounds’ stadium, and other places of power and entertainment. Although Lewis grew up in and faithfully served Georgia in Congress for decades, he came to Nashville for his college education. Nashville’s Black church leaders mentored him, and taught him that the way of Christ is a path that seeks restorative justice for others with relentlessly nonviolent, prophetic bodily resistance. He went on to embody such work as he was arrested integrating Nashville’s Woolworth’s lunch counter (on 5th Avenue, no less), and as he was badly beaten marching with Dr. King across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama. As a college kid, he learned from his elders, and then went on to teach all of us a new way.

At the ceremony this weekend, a Blues singer from North Nashville sang a tribute she wrote last spring after George Floyd was murdered. In the chorus, she named the fact that a lot of us are weary. I’ve only been in the work for justice and equity for a decade, and some days I feel bone tired. I listened to her words, surrounded by older sisters and brothers who had given their lives to the movement for expanded civil and human rights. They are weary. She sang, “If your feet are tired of walking, let the children lead the way.”

Prophetic words. If you are tired, look around. We are surrounded by young people who are ready to pick up the torch. They see the world differently than we do and they can offer solutions that we struggle to find.

Good leadership does not align with hoarding power or knowledge, but requires us to be learners at the feet of others, giving them the space and influence to shape our next steps.

After the new sign bearing John Lewis Way was revealed, a parade began, pulsing with Black joy and dignity. While city elders and members of the Lewis family rode in carts, a professional New Orleans-style street band played and sang, dancers leading the way out front. It was a gorgeous sensory overload of awesome. Halfway down the march route, there was a group of young teenagers lined up, proudly wearing their Pearl-Cohn High School Firebirds gear. A small group of dancers and a drumline, they waited for the dignitaries to approach. The march paused as the drums began and the dancers performed. They were excellent. Slowly, the professionals from the official march broke ranks and drew near, shouting out encouragement, praising these young folks who carried on their tradition. Slowly, a few of them moved into line, joining the High School drum line, while taking care to follow the lead of the teenagers beside them. The young people began to stand a little taller, strike a little stronger, smiles spreading across their faces. The professional musicians gave their public blessing to these fabulous young people, simultaneously showing them the way while also welcoming them into the fold.

They made it clear that presence of young folk was needed, that the torch could be passed, that the work will continue in the capable of hands of this new generation.

If you know me, you know I was right up in the mix, tapping my foot and crying my eyes out. Public displays of courage, excellence, empathy and blessing make me weep.

John Lewis made his mark on America when he was just a kid. His career notwithstanding, he helped awaken the moral conscience of our city and then the Nation before he was old enough to rent a car. Young people have a lot to teach us, if we will only listen. Some of us middle and elderly aged folk feel overwhelmed by the changes to our social order. We feel displaced and lost, unsure of what normal looks like, uncertain of how secure or powerful we will be in this brave new world. As we navigate our own discomfort, let’s take care not to poison our kids. Instead of telling them how to feel about the changes in politics and power dynamics, let’s ask them what they notice and how they feel about it.

We might be working hard to save a world order for our kids that they do not want.

Some of us welcome the sharing of power and the disruption that brings, but feel weary at the relentless nature of the work. We aren’t sure that our tactics are effective anymore, and we waiver between hope and despair. As we navigate our own cynicism, let’s take care not to ignore the creative hope our kids offer. Instead of telling them who to blame or how to feel about differing political positions, let’s ask them what they notice and what they want to do about it.

Whether the push for equity and universal dignity make you exhausted (but hopeful) or nervous (and vulnerable), let the children lead the way. Look to our youth, honoring their effort, welcoming them to the table, and following their lead.

On a less serious note, and because season 2 of Ted Lasso comes out this week, we could also look to Apple TV for notes on how to expand our us.

The world has gone crazy for Ted Lasso. I am here for it. One of my sisters is often my portal to pop culture, and I think she actually built and starting driving the Ted Lasso bandwagon. She got my siblings and me on board early in the pandemic, and Ted’s infectious hope and way of seeing the human beings hiding underneath the people around him has raised the bar for how we live together.

Since she is a media oracle, I finally obeyed her order to watch Mythic Quest. The show did not look appealing to me. I am neither a video gamer nor a technology and coding enthusiast, so I’ve been dragging my feet for a year. Now that I’ve starting watching, I’ll just say that it is always best to do what the oracle tells you to do.

Between the 2 seasons of Mythic Quest, there is an interstitial episode that is part fantasy, part reality. The mythical moment rips off the Sword and the Stone, Harry Potter, animated Robin Hood and the Bible. It is fabulous. Despair has taken over the village, and the King holds a tournament to foster good will and to maybe find the one figure worthy of pulling the Sword of Light from the tree in which it is embedded, thereby restoring hope to the kingdom. The narration reads thus:

“The smallest of them all was destined to prevail. And though he was beaten, he did not break, refusing to give in, he rose and rose and rose again, fueled by a belief no blow could extinguish. With each act of bravery, the people began to believe as well, until at last they cheered his victory. The resilient champion had broken the curse and freed the sword. The people of the kingdom—young and old—learned that day that to dispel the darkness, we must only believe in the light.”

Pay attention to the magical young bearers of light around you. They need our blessing, and they can show us a new way forward.

claiming Lincoln, claiming King: speaking with precision in the public sphere

To hear Dr. Kellett read this week’s essay, click here: https://youtu.be/cpp3Gp4TbDg

President Lincoln and Dr. Martin Luther King were quoted often on the floor of the House during the second impeachment of President Trump last week. Members invoked their memories boldly, sure that each legend would back the person now quoting them with such intensity. Collectively, the body, surely without meaning to, reminded students of history of President Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, given in the midst of a long raging Civil War. Lincoln aptly observed that both sides of the conflict believed their cause was righteous, and both sides invoked God’s help, as they fought for the decent, patriotic, good guys:

“Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained…Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God; and each invokes his aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered—that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has his own purposes.”

Last week, members from both sides tried to be the spokesperson for American heroes, for hardworking, decent, patriotic Americans. Lincoln knew then, and we would be wise to remember now, that anyone pretending to speak for God best do it with a large dose of humility. Indeed, “The Almighty has his own purposes.”  

Seeing the violent assault on the Capitol the Wednesday before last and the absurd posturing in the Capitol last Wednesday, brings to mind the idea that each of us believes our cause, our action, our perspective, is the best one. We think Lincoln would agree with us. We think Dr. King would agree with us. We think God agrees with us. We think we would have handled the Civil War with nobility and nuance. We think we would have marched with King. We look back to history and insert the myth of our own heroism.

Not so fast.

It is difficult to realize you are living through a moment that will later define your generation. We experience life in the present tense, feel conflicted, and do our best to make sense of our allegiance, words and actions. When we look back on big American moments, moral clarity looks easy. In real time though, we struggle to articulate our positions.

I’d like to gently remind us that the number of Americans who denounced slavery as evil was actually quite small. The number of Americans who marched with King, civilly disobeying, breaking the law and sacrificing their own safety, was quite small. (In fact, the number of Americans who didn’t hate him was quite small; he was widely regarded as a trouble maker and a dangerous agitator). Most Americans felt either apathetic or conflicted, and in either case chose to keep their mouths shut. Our African American brothers and sisters led us, in both instances, to demonstrate what it looks like to know a thing is wrong, to articulate why it is wrong, and then to move with haste and courage to end that wrong.

The legacy of Dr. King is rhetorical in that he articulated so much of what plagued us, and named who we might be in the Beloved Community he worked to inhabit. Nearly everyone loves this part of his legacy, but we do so while simultaneously overlooking or ignoring his physical legacy in active, precise resistance. Dr. King is attractive to us from a distance, as we each find parts of our own humanity in the invitations he offered to elevate our higher natures and affirm the dignity of everyone.

However.

This year, as we mark his birth and legacy, we must examine the massive chasm in us between who we think we are and who we demonstrate we are. Most of the white folks I know would have nodded along to the words of Dr. King, but refused to challenge the grip of white supremacy in their own neighborhoods. They would have said that naming or physically challenging white supremacy was “getting political” or “contributing to our divides.” We hear the same today: “Sure, I agree that things got out of hand since the election, that people got too intense…But anyone speaking out about what led to these divides, to this violence, is contributing to the tension. Ignore it, and it will go away.”

Friends, most of us would not have marched with King. It dishonors his legacy to pretend we would have while shunning those who speak specifically against white supremacy and racially motivated violence or fraudulent claims today.

We do not speak with precision about things that make us uncomfortable. Here in Nashville, as we reflect on 2020, we talk specifically about the damage of tornadoes, the isolation of students, and the death toll of Covid. We use no such language to refer to the collective protesting of police bias and brutality, nor the systemic and societal devaluing of Black lives, nor the President’s stoking of xenophobic fears. Instead, we say the “tension from this summer,” or mention our “intense political divides.” If we can’t name it, we can’t address it. If we won’t address it, let’s not pretend we care enough to do anything about it.

King spoke with precision, and then he acted sacrificially to bring about change. As Presidential power transitions this week, I urge us to take the chance to reflect on our speech and our actions. What are you willing to name as wrong, abusive or a lie? How do you describe what occurred in the last 8 months? How do you speak up about what happened in our Capitol in the last 3 weeks? What are you willing to specifically support or disavow? Friends, I ask these questions with fear and trembling. I am asking them of myself, and I think they will bring you needed clarity if you join me in asking them of yourselves.

Many Southerners in the Civil War found slavery to be a fraught and even evil institution, but they would not agree that disruptive action was necessary to end it. What good was their uneasy sentiment, or lack of support, if they refused to take action to stop institutionalized oppression? Many Americans in the Civil Rights Movement felt uneasy about the caste system created by Jim Crow. They felt terrible about the indignities Black folks had to daily face, but they would not agree that strong action was necessary to end it.  Again, what good was their awkward discomfort if they weren’t willing to sacrifice their social acceptance to speak out against evil?

We might not have had the chance to speak up then, but we do now. If you find yourself aligned with the Republican Party’s traditional platform, and voted for Trump, and now feel that you are not aligned with “those people” who rejected election results or brought violence to our capitol, then find the courage to precisely name what you are for and what you are against. Your vague discomfort with what your vote might have been supporting will not save anyone’s life or republic. You have to name and reject it.

I am currently more aligned with Democratic values, and I commit to doing the same there. I will challenge specific behaviors that endanger the lives of others, that destroy the public trust through repeated injustice. As we remember King, and keep hearing about Lincoln, let’s be like the few Americans who went all in to affirm the better angels of our nature, not like the majority who noticed the evil but took no action to stop it.

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.