Savage Daughter

Ya know, I almost lost my cookies with my UU congregation this past Sunday.  A wonderful lady from a local healing center, which has a leaning toward justice, was to be the speaker. An African-American woman with an M.Div. and tons of experience in the arena of social justice had been invited to occupy the pulpit and bring her message of racial equity and social response to this hapless bunch of well-meaning neo-moderate mostly white people. Unexpectedly, she literally offered me salvation, not only because she is a phenomenal speaker with a phenomenal message, but because I so desperately needed to hear a Black woman give HER message to our congregation. 

I did not realize what a tremendous need that was for me.  Her message was one that called for authentic ministry, and I do believe that is clearly our work.  I am sad to say, however, that I have my doubts about whether we are courageous enough to do it, and that makes me incredibly sad. Accordingly, I feel as though I need to share why that is, and how it feels to be a member of a racial, ethnic, and cultural minority in our house. Just for giggles, and just for my survival

Ineveitably ,things happen in a shared environment – an errant word, a microaggression, differences of opinion and perspective. These are usually functions of humans competing for space and power, and appear to be inevitable. These incidents may not seem important to most, don’t seem related to promulgating the status quo, and often are not seen relative to the closed caste of dominant culture. When viewed through the lens of the non-dominant culture, however, it’s a different picture. 

My experience this past Sunday illustrates how seemingly random and unconnected events might ultimately prove to be representative of a cultural overlay that ultimately contradicts our stated identity, and shared vision for the future. Recognition of this overlay presents some of us with a cognitive disconnect, which is distressing. That distress raises deep questions that cause some of us to doubt the integrity of this chosen community, such as whether there is true racial and ethnic equity here, and how power is disseminated amonst us. Is this yet another example of well-meaning people who are not prepared to go to any lengths necessary to realize the change they espouse? Those are questions that are painful to ask, and contemplating the answers inspires even more discomfort.

Sunday was an unexpectedly hard day there for me.  I got confused about the date for the CUUPS appearance at Forum, and showed up there to show my support for that.  Unfortunately, that presentation occurred the prior week, and the topic for the session on Sunday was policing and crime statistics (presented by Antonio Reid).  It was a great presentation, though, although the attendance was a little light.  However, those present, including myself, were engaged.  Someone, a member and Forum regular who shall remain nameless was compelled to make the statement that Native Americans in this country were not killed in mass quantity by European colonists, but by internal conflict and disease.  Huh?  I can’t even remember why that came up since we were talking about civilians killed by police in present day United States.  Someone sitting next to this person, who happens to be a retired university history professor, jerked as though someone had shot him when those words were spoken, and turned to this person, saying simply, “That’s not true.”  I, on the other hand, was on the verge of levitation because the comment was so painful.  The party of the first part continued to support his claim, albeit briefly, and pulled out his phone to offer evidence and citations for the statement.  No one was particularly interested in his data, but I digress.    Strike One.

When the session had reached its end, the Forum host explained that no further comments or questions would be entertained…except their own.  The host laughingly stated they had a comment on the material presented, although the session was over, but intended to “exercise personal privilege” in order to speak their piece.    If that had not been so sad, it would have been funny. Ball One.

The ridiculous comment that minimalized the Native American genocide inexplicably caused my nerves to stand up at attention and jangle, but I proceeded to the Sanctuary for the service.  I wanted to see the speaker at the main service because I’d heard such incredible things about her, and was looking forward to it.  The service began, with no mishaps or glitches, and it soon came time for the speaker to begin.   Just as she began speaking, a group of people at the back of the room – all of whom were determined to squeeze themselves into the chairs on the back wall rather than proceed to numerous open chairs farther into the room, began having a giggle fest over their efforts, with one person somehow sitting on the lap of another.  I tried to give them a signal to shush, but they were oblivious. I couldn’t hear the speaker.  This upset me because I was already jangled by the Forum experience, and so I stormed out because I felt it was incredibly rude to be inattentive to the speaker.  I think I called them idiots in a stage whisper on my way out but…my bad.     Ball Two.

When I got to the lobby, I thought I might turn on the radio out there to catch the broadcast of the sermon on the FM channel, but as I stood close to the door where the radio is located I realized once again how irritating and misguided (in my opinion) the new door-locking policy is.  The policy requires that all but one of the main entry doors be locked after the main service begins, including the handicapped door. I have no idea what this does to enhance security, and it creates a bottle neck at the single point of entry. It is gatekeeping at its most literal finest. 

I will make a diversion here to note that I attended a Forum session several days ago when the Safe Congregations Committee presented a status on their efforts to keep the congregation safe. This included the nonsensical door locking policy. The posture and direction demonstrated for purposes of fulfilling their charge has been an issue for me ever since.  There were many unacceptable statements in that team’s presentation: they proudly admitted that locking the doors enables volunteers to scrutinize who is requesting entry to see if they “look ok”; they have considered engaging armed security (volunteers and contractors) in the building; they have contemplated acquiring a golf cart with a flashing light to “patrol” the campus, because they are preparing to apply for a FEMA grant to improve security per FEMA and local police guidelines. This has been eating away at me ever since because it seems to present numerous opportunities for practicing the kind of objective judgementalism that has resulted in harm to people of color all over this country.

When Knoxville UU was attacked years ago, when Mother Emanuel in Charleston SC was attacked, when Tree of Life in Pittsburgh was attacked they didn’t close their doors tighter, they opened them wider.  Temple Emanuel in Winston has a police detail that sits outside in a police car during their services, but the doors – and their eyes – are open.  We are a community of faith, and it is totally disingenuous to celebrate your welcoming posture while locking doors to guests. What faith are we claiming when authority is rendered selectively to a chosen few judge who is worthy of sanctuary?

Regardless, I was already irked and commented to a  gatekeeper – titled a “Watchful Shepher” (a term I have despised since it was first introduced) that I did not see any value in locking all but one of the front doors, inclusive of the handicapped door, and that if someone was urgently trying to gain entrance in an emergency (such as being pursued) they were screwed.  They didn’t understand and said that anyone could exit via the push bars on the doors.  I reiterated that I was talking about someone trying to get IN, not out.  The response was silence and a blank stare.  Strike Three, and OUT.  

I have more to say about the music for the morning service, but that’s for another time.  I enjoy the accompaist’s music tremendously, and he explained that he was offering a couple of jazz classics (one by Duke Ellington, maybe?  Can’t remember, truthfully) that morning; he is a fine jazz pianist.  A couple of other vocals were included in the service, and in my opinion they had particular significance to the Black community (Balm of Gilead being one).  Given the timbre of the sermon and the fact that it’s Black History Month, I was a little peeved that we couldn’t have found even ONE person of color to contribute – even with recorded music – to the musical performances that day.  But it is what it is.

I also have a bit more to say about the door-locking issue, the non-inclusive message that it sends (particularly in locking the handicapped entrance), and the FEMA grant efforts but that’s another story for another day.  I’m from New Orleans, and FEMA doesn’t mean diddly to me.  We’re a community of faith and claim to be a sanctuary; that is not the business of FEMA.  There are all kinds of efforts toward congregational safety going on within our national association of congregations and their partner organizations. There are resources available to maximize congregational safety, align with best practices, acquire training, etc.  Those are not militaristic or utilitarian strategies, and it makes me very sad that we have not explored those.  If we have the  need for money to do specific things related to security, we might consider applying to the national associations funding program for a grant.

But, back to me – I left the lobby and went to my truck and listened to the sermon from the parking lot.  My first instinct was to leave the grounds completely, but I stayed and it was the right decision.  I went back inside and spoke briefly to Love’ after service was over, thanking her for her presentation and telling her how meaningful it had been to me.  I was near tears because it had calmed me and spoken to me in a way that nothing else did that morning.  She probably thinks I’m nuts and I had to reassure her that I was not stalking her because I began feeling like the enormous Mr. Staypufft in Ghost Busters, more or less clogging up the exit route.  But I digress.

All that being said,  I had the good fortune to run into two other people of color (still a surprise to me that such a thing can happen) after the service was over and most everyone else had cleared out of the sanctuary.  I was able to vent to them about my experiences that morning;  I was still very much off balance, and I didn’t understand why it all felt so bad.  One of my conversation partners summed it up very well for me saying, “It was just too much.  Any one of those things was … a thing.  All together, it was just too much.”  And that’s exactly right.  It was too much.  Some days I deal with it better than others, but Sunday was just not that day.  After it was all over, I stayed and talked with my cohort for quite a long while.  They empathized with my feelings and shared their own experiences and reactions to the same and other incidents.  Having a group for PoC is a such a tremendous gift – I was here long before there was such a thing, and it has changed things a great deal.

There has been some aftermath to my Sunday experience, and it has taken me nearly 2 days to completely settle myself.  That’s just how I roll, though, because I process things interminably and dramatically, and i have family trauma and blah blah blah, and that’s my stuff.  I walk a fine line, though, between what’s my stuff and what’s their stuff. Right now, I feel as though I am beginning to show myself at the there a bit more, not being quite as conciliatory or assimilative as in the past. I hope that means that I am showing up more authentically than I have previously, because I’m no longer willing to swallow my own disturbance for the sake of simply keeping the peace.  I deserve that.

The long and short of it is that I am looking to bring all of who I am there, through even the one door that is unlocked and presided over by a gatekeeper.  Feeling as though it’s not a given that I can do that makes me angry, and frequently enrages me, because that’s what I was told was the desired outcome. My rage is front and center but it’s only because I care THAT fucking much.  An old spiritual teacher once told me that anger is the blanket we throw over our fear, so I need to discover the nature of the fear. It has many levels, including a trepidation that nothing I do here will ever change one thing that makes a difference, a difference to racial equity, to multicultural acceptance, to broader inclusivity.  That all of this is just talk and when it comes down to darker and more dangerous times they will choose their own comfort over those of us who are most at risk.  That it’s all just pretty words and good intentions and that I will eventually leave these people exactly where I found them, in an beautiful but insular silo made of bulletproof glass and privilege 

The abject terror of it all, however, is the paralyzing horror of disempowerment, when you are not sure you will be able to save your own life. You begin to wonder if you will be left behind when it’s the last train out before the cataclysm, and that you can’t do a thing but watch as the caboose fades into the mist. Wondering if when the others come for you, you will have have no defense while the doors close one by one up and down the line. It is rage because no matter how many times you’ve warned of the risk of inaction, the recapitulation to status quo,  the rejection of change you are still left behind with the echoes of thoughts and prayers, and pledges of right action when it is the right time. You are left behind to grieve and wonder if it was all a lie or simply a mirage. False hope in the midst of unrelenting despair.

My heart is really too big for my own body, but it’s what I come to the table with.  It’s also what I have to lose, so the stakes are very high.  I have heard that one’s faith, or community, has to break your heart before it is yours, and before you are theirs.  I don’t know if that’s true but my heart keeps breaking and I’m still not sure if i truly belong to this place or if I am simply tolerated.  As mad as I get, as hurt as I may be, as many times as this place breaks my heart and then wads it up to throw it back at me with a closed fist, I’m not looking to go anywhere.  As many times as people expect me to carry the water and chop the wood , I’m not looking for the exit;  I know where it is.  My mama told me a million times to NEVER let ANYbody run me out of ANYwhere, so if nothing else I honor that commitment.  As she would say, they will have to sweep me out with a broom. 

I’m not asking for anything, except maybe the time to digest this.  Unfortunately, I rarely bear discomfort in silence so I will more than likely be a pain in the ass whining about one thing or another going forward.  Because, as I heard in a song, “I am my mother’s savage daughter, the one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. I am my mother’s savage daughter, I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice.” (“Savage Daughter” – Sarah Hester Ross)