CHECK OUT THE NEXT STAGE OF MY SEARCH FOR RIGHTEOUS PRIVILEGE
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In my last post, I explored a lost opportunity that I had to cross an American dividing line. We all know about famous heroes who recognized opportunities for transcendence and reached across dividing lines to advance humanity's humanity. Figures like Martin Luther King, Jr., Nelson Mandela, and Abraham Lincoln. The problem is, these people are enshrined in popular culture more as legends than as humans. As a result, many people don't consider themselves capable of acting on that level of transcendence. So today I'm posting about a regular, non-legendary person who reached out across an American dividing line and advanced the human race. The woman in this picture is Elsa Caetano Kossa, who lives in Madison, Wisconsin. We met her on our midwestern road trip, and she invited us to dinner at her house even though we all had just met. That tells you something about what kind of person she is. She's a teacher, a chicken-raiser, an artist, and a mother of two, among many other things. She immigrated to the US from Mozambique in 2000, after meeting and falling in love with an American man, Bill, who was traveling there. The American man was white-skinned, and when his grandfather, Albert, learned that his grandson was planning to marry a brown-skinned African woman, Albert threatened to disown Bill. Elsa's response was to step in. She reached out to Albert, spending time with him and getting to know him, and did not give up. And so when Elsa and Bill decided to get a divorce, well, it turns out that Albert wrote a testimonial letter to the judge...in support of Elsa. No one except for Elsa and Albert can know exactly what their conversations and exchanges were. These are a beautiful mystery to us. What we can know is that these two people, despite all the American dynamics working against them, connected across lines and were changed by each other. What courage, for Elsa to stick with Albert, who had been marinaded in American racism. What courage, for Albert to remain open, at 83 years old, to altering his beliefs about race that had been cooked into him in his culture since childhood. Elsa told me that Albert once revealed to her that his greatest fear about his grandson's marriage was the judgment of white-skinned peers in his community. This is a powerful reminder that racist words and actions cannot be dismissed as something "wrong with a person." Racism is a sickness in our society and we individuals show the symptoms. But as Albert and Elsa show us, people can change with conscious effort and an insistence on finding the humanity and love inside of all people. Here are two heroes! P.S. Upon me asking her if I could share this post with the world, Elsa shared with me this closing thought: I was actually having a memory about Albert this morning. It was about the last time I saw him, two days before his passing. I know I should celebrate his life and be thankful to have been part of his life. I am thankful, very thankful, but I have this sense of guilt that sits with me ever since the last day I saw him. I keep thinking that I could have stayed with him longer; I should have been not afraid of the affection he was sharing with me, instead, I should have reciprocated and be in that moment vs refusing to acknowledge that that might have been the last time I would touch his warm hands. This evening, after dark, my daughter, Estella and I were playing in Stanton Park here in D.C. As Estella tried out every slide technique she could think of, a group of about 60 middle school-aged brown-skinned children arrived at the park, full of loud, ebullient, almost reckless energy.
My heart rate immediately shot up, my breath became shallow, and I stopped talking to Estella. I did my best to continue playing with her, but it became forced because my attention was almost totally preoccupied with the arrival of this group. As a group of boys sat at a playground table about 15 feet away, they began dropping F-bombs. From a distance, I introduced them to my daughter and mentioned that she was three and a half years old. They got my message, and scolded each other, and one even offered boastfully to protect Estella. The larger group raucously settled on a series of long benches. Four police cars pulled up, slowly, and began circling, lights on. Soon, a cop on foot made his way slowly but surely over to the crowd at the center of the park, his hands on his belt. "Park's closed, folks...let's move along." Moving slowly, the kids began to get up and walk on. Estella and I, it seemed, were exempt from the park closure. One very strong sensation I felt was relief that authorities were aware of this volatile assembly of kids. The kids could see that there would be limits to what could happen here tonight, and they would hopefully go back home without doing any damage to themselves or others. Along with relief, I felt burning shame. For all I knew, the kids were guilty of nothing except being loud on a Monday night during their April vacation. When confronted on their language in a respectful way, they apologized to me and Estella. When the cop asked them to move along, they did. Looking back on it, they were only guilty of being bored teenagers on a beautiful early spring evening, carried away by the crowd around them. But the physicality of my reaction, the shortness of breath, the increased heart rate, all that pointed to a fear inside me that wasn't rooted in what was actually happening in front of me, but in my own internalized attitudes towards...what? Brown-skinned teenagers? Teenagers in general? Hard to say...would it be different if it were 60 white-skinned kids? I began to think about my marinade...a white-skinned, upper-class, liberal American. What flavors and textures, absorbed from the American marinade, were showing themselves here in the park? "Papa, why did they all come here?" Estella had sensed that something was going on. How to answer that question? Despite my fear and shame, I stayed put, determined not to take flight. I wanted to show both Estella and myself that there are productive ways of dealing with this situation, and running away is not one of them. We stayed and continued to play on the slide. Unfortunately, I didn't take the next step: I should have reached out to talk to someone. "How are you doing tonight?" "What made you decide to come out with this group?" "Why do you think the police are following you?" "What do you think is going to happen here tonight?" "What do you wish would happen here tonight?" Maybe if I had asked questions like these, I could have helped to transcend the marinade of age-old corrosive dynamics that were swirling around us. *Overweight, white-skinned cop following "unruly" brown-skinned teenagers *White, "open-minded" liberal parent face-to-face with brown-skinned children who are unafraid of what he thinks of them I was overwhelmed by the instability of what was happening and so I didn't try to connect across dividing lines. And the kids moved on, recognizing the dominant power of the police. Surely moments like this are strong marinade for the minds of children. To think that these interactions are so unremarkable that the children hardly blinked at the sight of a police officer with his hands on his gun belt, not touching the pistol yet, not quite doing that, but everyone sees that he is ready, whatever might happen, he will be ready to make the necessary decisions. When things like this make up our American marinade, what dishes might we end up cooking? While on our road trip to Wisconsin, the three of us noticed that we carried a special energy with us that acted as a magnet for others' positive energy and openness. Everywhere we went, we received gifts (material and emotional). We felt invincible. We wondered...what would happen if we could bring our traveler's openness, positivity, and curiosity back home intact at the end of our trip? So often it seems like everything we encounter during our day-to-day routines is already known, unchangeable. But what if we could look on our daily lives with traveler's eyes, so that we experienced everything as the "first time?" Could we re-create that sense of positivity and invincibility and even share it with others? With this in mind, Ivan, Don Hernan, and I went to Boston's Copley Square on Tuesday afternoon, armed with four chairs and a big poster ("WHAT'S GOING ON? / ¿QUE ONDA?") Copley Square is a borderland...a place where people of widely varying class backgrounds pass through. Reactions to us varied. Many people were intrigued by our poster and our look, but felt nervous about engaging in conversation. I wondered if they thought we would ask them for money, or present them with a petition. But after a bit of time passed, we had a steady stream of conversation going. *A pair of older women, visiting from Lynn, who shared their work on helping to pass one of the strongest homeowner's protection laws in the country. Their pride shone out of them. *A group of eight Boston teenagers who go to Wellesley schools as part of the METCO program. They were nervous but intrigued, trying to figure out what we were doing there. As we talked about Boston unity, race, and class, a passing bird dropped a series of bio-bombs amongst us. One dude got hit. A blessing or a curse? *A woman with a striking green brooch, who spoke fluent Spanish with Don Hernan and tried to figure out what our deal was. When she learned that we were not being paid to be there, her eyes narrowed at me. "Well then...you all must be independently wealthy or something!" "Yes, but I didn't earn it." "Most people couldn't do this!" "I know that, and I appreciate that I have this opportunity." She had clearly been expecting a fight, but by meeting her accusations with honesty about my class privilege, she lowered her defenses and even shared her own struggle with guilt as the recipient of money from a series of court cases she had won. I saw this willingness to share as a validation of my belief that by speaking openly about class, we can overcome social barriers and allow ourselves to be changed. *An older man who was a Vietnam veteran. He saw Ivan's Muhammad Ali sweatshirt and shared his experience watching the fight live on TV. He said it was an "invisible punch" that ended the fight, and mimicked the punch to my face, pulling away only at the last couple of millimeters! We walked back to my car with our chairs and our sign. We hadn't received an "answer," but we had been a part of conversations that had crossed American dividing lines. One week ago, we took a road trip to Madison, WI. "We" is myself, Don Hernan (my father-in-law) and Ivan, my...dude. We are 23, 31, and 76 years old. Things changed. Over the course of the 40 hours of driving, and the gas stations, and the bathroom breaks, and the honesty, and the laughter, and the music, and the yelling, things changed. I began to know intergenerational power. "Los Tres Reyes Magos," Don Hernan named us. The three kings, sent bearing gifts to honor a birth. We laughed, not knowing what birth we would witness, but the name fit. Three men, at different stages of life, from different countries (Cape Verde, Peru, and the United States), from different class backgrounds, coming together to find...something. We found intergenerational power. I learned that the presence of an elder can change the group dynamic in beautiful ways. Don Hernan refuses to consider himself inferior or superior. He knows who he is and so he needs neither to talk himself up nor put himself down. Maybe that's a key to elder power--the paradox of simultaneous peer-peer and student-teacher dynamics. Don Hernan is my friend and brother--we are both men, we want to have a good time, we make mistakes, we have insecurities, we feel strong emotions. Yet he is also a father, an uncle, a grandfather. He's seen, done, and been a part of such a wide range of experiences that are unknown to me. When there is a tough question about defending a friend, being faithful to a significant other, knowing what it means to be free and yet respectful, Ivan and I put it to Don Hernan. He invariably gives an indirect, long-winded answer that points in the right direction. And Ivan and I play an important role for him as well, especially with technological aspects of the trip. At 76, maybe an automatic sugar dispenser in a gas station is too much. Or using a cell phone. Or driving a car. So our skills and experiences interlock, to allow us to deal with any situation that arises. When, in a relationship between an elder and a younger person, this paradox can be upheld, the elder power is unleashed, and that created the intergenerational power that became magic for everyone present on this road trip. With intergenerational power, we are completed, our flaws and faults mitigated by the wisdom, experience, and naivete of those around us. But it's not just multiple generations--there needs to be a sense of both confidence and openness in all of the people, or it just becomes domination. When there is openness, confidence, and trust, it's an intergenerational Voltron. What if I could approach all interactions with elders with the genuine belief that I could connect with them both as a peer AND as a younger student of their experience and wisdom? Part of the ManKind Project's processing involves exploring the "shadow" within each of us, which refers to the part of a person that is hidden, repressed and denied.
The "shadow warrior" is that part of us that fights back against our conscious efforts to do good in the world, whether it's internal or external. My mission is as follows: "I strive to create a powerful, diverse community by inspiring myself and others to reach across the lines that so often divide neighbors." How can I create that world if I am constantly judging? Doesn't judgment achieve the opposite effect, creating a world of separation and hatred? Judgment is saying "I am not like you, you are bad and so I am different from you." This, I realized, is my shadow warrior. While I fight on the surface to create interpersonal connections across all kinds of divides, my shadow warrior fights just as hard to create and maintain a world of withdrawal and isolation. This past Sunday night, I returned home after a 48 hour retreat in Oxford, MA. The group that holds these retreats is called the ManKind Project, and I went because one of my most trusted friends told me of the power of the experience he had had there. So I went, despite my hesitations, and came back renewed.
A poem that I hope captures my experience: I turned off my phone. I put away my clock. I dropped off the map. I saw men laid bare and raw. I heard beautiful truth that scratched throats red and swollen. I felt my tears stream down and did not wipe them away. I looked deep into men's eyes without threat. I saw my culture's stream of judgment exposed for what it is. I heard my own judgments ringing hollow and brittle in my head. I saw men telling their truth. I saw paradox held up and embraced. I felt trust that can't be earned in a lifetime of acquaintance. I was allowed to not know. I saw every man both flawed and whole. I met someone I hadn't met in decades. I named my demons. I smelled my body unwashed and felt cleaner than I had in years. I heard chatter fall silent. With the help of processing from the ManKind Project retreat, I realized that every day, all day long, I hold judgment against other people. As soon as someone is in my line of vision, whether physically or just in my mind's eye, I quickly form judgments about them. Then, I spend energy trying to confirm those judgments, wanting desperately to be "right" about the conclusions I've come to about other peoples' character, opinions, background, style, or anything else. I know I am not alone in this!
When I am "right" in my judgment, I feel great for about 3 seconds. Then it's gone and I'm on to the next judgment, unless there is someone else around who I feel like will enjoy hearing about my "correct" judgment. When I'm "wrong" in my judgment, I mentally shrug my shoulders and move on to the next judgment. Of course, I am not exempt from my mind's constant judging. I subject myself to vicious, unfair evaluations constantly, beating myself up for perceived failures of all kinds (moral, logistical, emotional, cognitive, etc.). So no one is spared. I realize I'm not the only person who puts themselves in the role of judge. And I knew I judged unfairly before the ManKind Project retreat. What was revelatory for me was the visualization of the form of these judgments. At first, I saw two streams of judgment emanating from me; one directed at all the other people around me and the other directed inwardly to myself. While sharing this visualization with a friend, he suggested that the stream could be visualized as running along beside me, like a stream of water, instead of emerging from inside me. "After all," he wondered, "Aren't these judgments part of our society?" He was right. As an American, I've marinated in a stew of judgment since the day I was born. Race, class, sex, gender, sexuality, religion, culture, language, appearance...what ISN'T up for judgment in American culture? So instead of visualizing the judgments as coming from inside of me, I realized that when I judge, it's more like choosing to jump into the stream of judgment, which offers me security and pre-emptive defense from possible harm. Having named, visualized, and thus in some way contained this cancer, I felt liberated. The stream of judgment will never go away, but I know that I have the power to not jump into it. Indeed, if I am to succeed in my life mission, then I will have to learn to not jump in. I now see that for years, I've lived inside of a trap of my own making. The only way out is to see it for what it is--a trap. On one side, there is a voice that says: As a person of privilege, accept the fact that everything you do is inherently violent. Even when "helping," you are simply reinforcing the status quo--people with power maintaining their power by forcing their will upon people with less power. So if you want to "do good," work on yourself. And on the other side, another voice responds: "Work on yourself?" What a ridiculous expression of privilege. Yes, great...go on a retreat, take meditation class, go swimming, write in your little stupid journal. Just do all of these luxurious, indulgent things to "discover" yourself. Screw you, you privileged jerk. Get off your ass and DO SOMETHING to actually rebalance power instead of "learning about yourself." This is the internal conversation that has been following me around since college, although only now can I see it for what it is: poison. There is nothing in that conversation that helps anyone. Now I see it for what it is and I know where these voices go now (see picture). ...HOWEVER... Despite how unhelpful these voices are, when muffled by the plastic walls of airtight brain tupperware, they do bear two gentler kernels of truth that I will not and must not ever forget.
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AuthorAbe Lateiner Archives
May 2014
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