What is safety? You say this is my sanctuary but I feel less safe here than most other places. Can I trust you to not use your supremacy as a weapon? Can I trust you to believe that you could be wrong? I cannot trust you to use your fragility like a weapon so why should I trust you to not attack me with my own imperfection?
You say you do not feel safe, but what you really feel is uncomfortable.. What you really feel is the fear of authenticity, the terror of seeing yourself unmasked. I cannot have intercourse with you in the dark any longer. It is time to see and be seen and know and be known. It is a choice, but then it is no choice at all. The reality we share is unforgiving but somehow you have hot tea before bed.
I do not feel safe, but that isn’t important because this isn’t my house. You remind me that I’m a visitor, a visitor to whom you grant admission because…this is your house. You make the rules, you deal the cards. You are the myopic custodian who misses the dust in the corners and the carpet stains not because it is dirty but because it is well worn with the footsteps of the prophets who came before us all. But you hire new housekeepers to erase those footprints in order to create more room for your unoriginal story.
What have I done to make you distrust me? Is this a simple case of mistaken identity, me resembling someone from your past? From your ancestors’ past? From lessons you learned a lifetime ago? It’s funny because you resemble many from my past, like the arrogant white man who pretended to accidentally elbow me in the ribs in Tennessee, the many hordes of white frat boys who wanted to touch my hair, and who made pig noises as I walked away The bloated white arbiter who humiliated me in front of a room full of people because he could not have his way, so angry that his spittle landed on my lips, his bad breath hot on my cheeks. And there was only silence. You remind me of the good Catholic girls who remained silent when one of their kind called me a nigger with a supercilious smile on her face that spoke loudly of her confidence that no one would come to my defense. And there was only silence. You remind me of all of these inglorious vermin but still I show up, still I risk everything all over again, still I relive all these traumas and more to allow you to sit in judgment of me. And yet you feel unsafe.
Smiles and soft voices mean nothing. Assuring me of your impartiality and loyalty to the objectivity of policies means nothing. Reading literature, gathering data, discussing ad nauseum, formulating opinion means very little in the general scheme of things. Sympathy means less. Comparing your experience to mine is worthless, because we are not on the same playing field. Listening means a great deal, saying that you could be wrong means even more. Sitting down, allowing me to lead – even if imperfectly – means even more. Believing me when I tell you how uncomfortable I feel at times in your house, and not convincing me that I’m seeing it wrong, means everything. I don’t expect you to understand what you have not experienced, but I expect you to believe what I am telling you. I expect you to believe that I’m not living in the past and that something is happening here that pains me.
What is peace? For some, peace is comfort, the status quo, the way things always were. Peace is no fighting, no competition. Peace is the satisfaction of having control, having things your way. For me, that’s not the real world. We are hard-wired to be in conflict, to compete, to strive. Peace is always temporary because that’s just not who we are. Attempting to force peace on people in conflict is often nothing more than a power struggle, no different from any militaristic conflict save for the weaponry. But know that any power struggle has weaponry – emotional weaponry, psychological weaponry, weaponized resources. Anything can ultimately become a weapon, so we need to understand that power is a battlefield.
Coming from a background of emotional trauma and disempowerment as I do, peace does not mean speaking softly and being gentle. It means respect, that I respect you enough to speak truth. Peace means not abusing power. Peace means not losing sight of the goal, keeping eyes on the prize. It means risk, and it means the long haul. It means there is “we” and not only I. Peace means I see you, and I will not leave you behind. Peace means I will not just say pretty words, but I will walk my talk and be accountable. All these things mean I can feel as though you are trustworthy, not necessarily perfect, and a viable comrade.
Where are we now? We may be in the in-between space, between status quo and this new thing we are building. That’s a very scary place to be, because it feels like we’re falling with nothing to hold on to, no reference points. It’s dark. Things are rushing by very quickly, and we aren’t sure if we should hit the brakes or floor it. We don’t even know this road, and we aren’t the only ones travelling. It’s dark, and foggy, and the smell of a storm is in the air. We have to be willing to risk everything if we’re going to get through this.
The only way to get through this is to go through it, whatever “it” is. Hold on. Breathe. If we are breathing, we aren’t dead so keep moving. We don’t have to set a land speed record, just one breath that follows the next. And the next, and the next. We go together, or not at all. It’s an uphill journey, so if you’re standing still you’re falling backward. It’s not a race, and there is more than enough space for everyone so nobody has to be left behind. As the song says, I go to prepare a place for you. Do likewise, because that’s why we’re here.
The Sound Hole 