This poem was shared with the people of Mountain Vista Unitarian Universalist Congregation at the time of their vote to purchase a new building. It was written one year prior as a reflection on those “in-between” moments that require our waiting, our faith, and then our vulnerability to risk imagining a different future.
Place Between Shells
There are times when you find yourself in the house of a crumbling promise: broken tiles, ruined doorways, busted windows.
It may be hard to dream a different future from such a place.
It may feel foolish to proclaim architectural imaginings when you still sleep where the rain seeps in, a bedroom with no ceiling.
Prophecies proclaimed may feel like lies said through teeth filled with longings for some bones to believe in.
What can broken houses teach us about broken hearts? What does the snail say about the moment between shells?
There are many ways to leave what no longer shelters you.
Sometimes you wait, sometimes you must stay still, captivated by water that drips through cracks in old ways of being, captivated by the light of distant stars.
Sometimes you are compelled by a knowing that you can be grown again: you can almost picture it, your spiral doorway, your blueprint flows out of you.
And sometimes you must go exposed, you must be the soft body, pressed to the earth, unsure yet unwilling to carry the heavy pieces of your last year’s best intentions.
Mountain Vista UU – “Let Us Be Moved” Sermon – November 17, 2019
“Toward” is a posture. She is an open body. He is an attuned heart. They wait with loving response.
Toward says, “I will face you, I will come near to you, I will look lovingly, even when it is hard to look.”
When Toward sees your tears, she does not rush to your face, a linebacker armed with Kleenex. She doesn’t say “Shut up,” or “Stop crying.” She doesn’t say, “Ah, it will be okay, don’t worry, I’ve been through it, I totally understand what you are experiencing.”
Toward says: “Ah. Tears are visiting. They come to this world to say something important. I honor your tears. “
When Toward hears the story of your hurt, he does not fear that acknowledging your pain somehow diminishes his. No. He witnesses you as flesh of this world. He leans forward because your experience in your embodiment is wise and he wants to hear it.
Toward is the one who comes over to your family’s home overly enthusiastic about looking at your baby photos. And, after dinner, they do the dishes.
Toward trusts that, if they can just lean into that space between you and them long enough—over the sink, over the hole that was the ground of your earlier life, the dying fire that was the marriage, the frayed trust that was the friendship, the accident, the violence, the vote, the loss, the daily moment-to-moment heaving heaviness that is class, race, and gender—if they can stay on the edge of their knowing in a way that centers your experience, if they don’t rush in to fix, if they don’t flee from disgust, that they will witness something emerge that is sacred.
Toward is one who knows how to wait for what is emerging from the cracks.
In fact, Toward is one of those fools with a succulent garden. Because, you know, drought tolerant planting. And, because he loves a good metaphor about beauty that emerges from rocky soil.
When Toward goes out to dinner, they prefer the stuff that gets sent back to the kitchen because it wasn’t “quite right.” Toward finds the nourishment on every plate; even the stuff that’s a little burned, a little runny, a little unsure of itself, bits of other people’s lives and truths that can be hard to stomach.
Toward drives for Lyft occasionally. They come to you. They pull up to you. Then they ask you “where do YOU want to go?” and when you answer they go with you.
When people say “this campaign… this effort… this movement… may take a long time,” Towards signs up first. To the defectors, she says, “Anything worth doing requires constant movement. If it was simple, it would have been done already.” Toward knows that what is worth doing takes each generation to carry forward. We may not arrive. We must keep moving toward it.
Toward does not need guarantees of success to make something worth doing. She delights in the possibility of holy failure. After all, each plate has nourishment.
Toward makes a promise that when everyone else leans back they’ll lean in.
If Toward is the direction, Just is our compass. And our compass is future-focused.
Just is a SciFi queen. A futurist. They go to ComicCon. And they dress up for it.
Contrary to crime television, Just does not ask “Who done it? What’s their punishment? Who gets to punish them?”
Just asks, “What would it look like if we survived this? What would it mean if we came out of this more deeply related? How could this tiny moment be one step towards creating that world we dream of? What is needed from each of us to take that step now?”
Just refuses to give over their imagination to an unjust world. They are notoriously off-script. They are the overly-enthusiastic improvisation coach in your high school theatre program that is always on the verge of losing its funding from the state. Just asks us to do something in this moment that is a little unrealistic, a little impossible, a little improbable, a little ridiculous, such that the new world we long for has a big enough crack to enter in through.
This is not child’s play, and yet this is a child’s play: this radical imagining is what will keep us alive. It is the only thing that has.
Because, in this world, you have to have Just’s radical imagination to stand outside of a Police Commission hearing, week after week, with an image of your daughter who died in police custody pasted onto a poster, and believe that you and your daughter’s life are worthy of being listened to and will be. That’s a radical imagination guided by Just.
In this world, you have to have Just’s radical imagination to believe that you and your family and your church and your social movement can survive conflict or sexual harm and come out more connected, more strong, more healed, more accountable, and more related than before you began.
In this world, you have to have Just’s radical imagination to believe, as a teenager, that you and all your friends and all their friends could challenge the NRA.
In this world, you have to have Just’s radical imagination to believe that the stigma of mental and physical disability can be transformed into living in environments and communities that no longer disable you because of their stigma towards you.
In this world, you have to have Just’s radical imagination to believe that your town deserves clean water, that your family deserves nourishing food, that some day you could get sick and will have immediate access to the highest quality health care right there in your own damn neighborhood.
Those dreams are the work of Just’s radical imagination.
In a dominant culture of laws, procedures, and rules, Just turns over the table and tosses out your paperwork. Just is the auntie who speaks in tongues before dinner. He is the mumbling prophet who cries, “The end of THIS world is near!” and means it. A new world is coming, and Just is guiding us there. She is arriving in the moment at every moment—if you’re paying attention and know what to look for. If you are willing to see it, and feed it with your own imaginations.
Just is the creative imagination of a world committed to warm unfolding against all of our attempts to freeze it and each other, control it and each other, and script it and each other.
Just is the monarch butterfly. Imagine being a caterpillar, eating everything in sight, getting bigger than ever to the point of being immobile, and when people ask you “What are you doing?” your response is, “I’m thinking of flying to Mexico! To the birthplace of my parent’s parent’s parents! They never made it back there. I want to see it.” Then, when you go to wrap yourself into a silk sleeping bag, and people ask you “What are you doing?” your response is, “I think I’ll hang upside down, disintegrate into soup, and wake up with wings.”
No, really. Picture it. It’s ridiculous.
That is the work of Just.
Just is a quality of being where we are committed to the possibility of ours and each other’s wingedness. Nothing less than fullness, nothing less than belonging, nothing less than dignity, and nothing less than care. [And, in the case of the butterfly, nothing less than silk.]
Just doesn’t settle for how can I hurt you to show you how badly you hurt me, Just doesn’t settle for “well, I guess this is good enough, I guess this is all we deserve, lets go home,” Just isn’t here for a buffet of bones.
Just is here for the feast of our profound belonging. And she begs us not to give up our imaginations to a pre-scripted world of domination and violence.
Science fiction author Octavia Butler remembers a story that took place when she was nine-years-old: it was 1954, and she went to one of her first B-movie films. She remembers, quite clearly, coming out of the theatre saying: “Someone got paid for writing that story!” and “Jeeze, I can write better than that!”
Indeed. People are getting paid for writing the story we are living in now.
Just says to us, “We could be writing this better.”
“I Need You To Survive” as performed at UU General Assembly
“I need you to survive.” This is such a tender, theological commitment.
I love you, you are important to me, I need you to survive– this is true in our most intimate, relationships.
I won’t harm you, with words from my mouth, I love you, I need you to survive– because our social movement depends on you and us. Our community depends on you and us. Because you are not just important to me, but to us.
“I need you to survive” because you and I are both the flesh of this world. There is no other world beside the one in which we are embedded in the thickest possible web of relationships. There is nothing that falls outside of our relatedness.
The space we tend between us is a portal to the world we are creating where we survive.
When we say, “We imagine a world with clean water. With no prisons. With health care. With reproductive care. Without gun violence by the state or by each other. With good food, with loving bodies, with beautiful shelter.” We are not talking about a world that will make it possible for someone out there to be more alive—we are talking about the people in this very room.
In this very room are those of us stigmatized for our disabilities. For our genders. In this room are those of us who lack secure housing, health care, meaningful work, a living wage. Us, our families, have been impacted by mass incarceration, guns, racism, sexual harm. We struggle with the PTSD of foreign wars, we breathe smoggy air, we cope under the strains of capitalism and the legacy of colonialism that leaves us struggling to stay connected to each other. We’re not just talking about some of our beloved people in some distant out there somewhere (although they are included): we are talking about us, the people seated next to us right now. We honor the people farthest away from us by honoring the people nearest to us.
But we don’t know that about each other unless our religious practice is to live in relationship with each other. We don’t know that unless we treat each person, each relationship, like a sacred portal to the world we are building. We don’t know that if we buy wholesale the dominant culture’s argument that problems happen to individuals who behave badly or just don’t try hard enough. We can’t see the etchings of systems of harm on each other’s bodies if we refuse to get close to each other.
“I need you to survive” begins the moment we say, “I’m gonna make this personal.”
When we say, “We go out and love the world from the heart of Pasadena,” we are saying “At Throop Unitarian Universalist Church, our religion is to make this life and this place personal.”
Personal—which is not to say “make it private.” It is to say, make it “particular.” It means that I can picture the particular face of the one I love who is most impacted by this issue because I know them and love them intimately. I can picture the dirt and soil and water of the place I live that is most impacted by this issue because I know it and love it and put my hands in it and grow my food in it.
I have moved toward what I love and imagined a future where they survive and I will fight and create for that future.
It is personal. It matters to my person. I have a stake in it. Our relatedness is not just a theory to me. It’s personal. I am close enough to my own self, and to this person, to this place, that I can see the etchings of a system on their flesh that is my flesh, and I love them, they are important to me, and I need them to survive.
So I’m gonna show up, I’m gonna give, I’m gonna be uncomfortable, I’m gonna be scared, and I’m gonna do it, because its personal.
“I need you to survive” means I take your future as our future personally.
What would it mean for us to take that to heart?
How could we each carry that knowing closer and closer with us in our bones?
“It goes on one at a time,” says Marge Piercy…
“… it starts when you care to act, it starts when you do it again after they said no, it starts when you say ‘We’ and know who you mean, and each day you mean one more.”
30 Days for the Earth at Throop: Challenging False Separations
As part of our religious community at Throop Unitarian Universalist Church, we spend thirty days each year intentionally focused on rededicating ourselves to people, place, and planet. To kick us off this year, we focused in on the watershed of philosophical, structural, and systemic culture that we find ourselves swimming in.
We reflected on the ways that the dominant culture’s—white, Western, European, colonial culture – relationship to the “natural” world is one that has at its root a belief that informs all else: some of this world is alive, some of this world is dead. Some of us are classified as beings, some of us are classified as non-beings. Non-beings, that which is dead, that which is without power, that either needs to be useful to that which is alive—laboring, procreating, reproducing—or at least needs to be protected because it is interesting, exotic, and useful for its purity to us.
We acknowledged that this even informs how we approach “getting back in touch with nature” today: that even as we resist over-exploitation (i.e. the idea that nature and the wilderness is something to be used and consumed by human beings), that the tendency was towards “conservation, preservation”—that suddenly these wilderness landscapes needed to be protected, preserved, pure, virginal, untouched.
These options: exploit, use, and abuse or protect, defend, and maintain as pure—don’t have anything to do with being in actual relationship. Both of these postures, the posture of “you’re mine and I’m entitled to you” and “you need to be protected and only I know what is best for you” have at their root, a common ethic: the ethic of control.
There is something more generative, more worthy of our worship, and more real than control: an interdependent web of life is not about control. Living in the web of life is about saying “I am related to you.”
We are asking ourselves these 30 Days: how do I remember and re-embody my profound relatedness in the body of all life? How do I remember my place as part—not as separate from, or seeking to transcend out of—this world? What does it mean for how I live my life—my relationship to people and planet—to live with this knowing in my bones?
California: “Land of Fire” and the Fire Suppression
Plant scientist Kat Anderson writes that early Spanish colonizers saw the “California poppies set a tilted mesa north of Pasadena aglow with their blooms in springs” it was actually visible by ships more than twenty five miles away. They called the coast “The Land of Fire.”
Anderson tells us that fire shaped this land:
Fire was common—the same acre was expected to burn every ten to fifty years.
California species survive fires and some actually require fire in order to complete their life cycle and remain generative—one ecologist postulated that fires were responsible for shaping ¾ of all California’s vegetation.
Pyrodiversity—the diversity of “frequency, scale, season, and type of fire”—leads to biodiversity.
Indigenous peoples in California had maintained the art and science of controlled and regular burns, right alongside fires by lightning strike for centuries.
But, lets just say that hasn’t been state policy.
Laura Cunningham, a field biologist, tracked these state policies. By 1905, the Forest Service outlawed fire on public land. One “early-twentieth century federal forester disdainfully described Indian burning as ‘Ancient notions of ‘Piute forestry’ whose deep fire-scars remain upon so many of our giant landmark pines and sequoias.’ He disparaged this ‘unscientific’ old way of setting ‘light surface fires’ aimed a ‘producing a smooth forest floor.’ They wrote:
“The Forest Service is solidly opposed to every sort of ‘light burning’ because they have seen it in practice many times, under all sorts of conditions; so are the foresters of all civilized nations… The underlying principles of all scientific forestry however, are these: Save the young growth as well as the mature trees; protect the soil; encourage reproduction; fill up all possible gaps in the forest cover—do not make more by surface fires—fight all fires to a finish.”
Do you hear those key words? Save. Protect. Reproduce. Fill up. Fight.
By 1935, there were state and federal governments that began a paramilitary-like program to quickly stamp out wildfires through “rapid mobilization of firefighters, equipment, and technology.”
Economics drove land relationships, land classifications, land science, and land policy. Increased density of trees led to more money for foresters. Fighting fires to a finish led to saving buildings—saving private property. I also imagine that there is something so powerful, so sacred, so transformative, so unwilling to be controlled by fire, that it was an affront to an ethic of domination and control. If you do not have a relationship with being out of control, if you are used to being in control, you won’t make friends with fire.
With land relationships driven by a belief in the inherent separateness of beings and non-beings, with the removal and genocide of indigenous people driven by a belief in separateness and non-being, and with economics in the drivers seat—California lands, California trees, lost one of their primary partners in creative collaboration: human beings.
The ecological results of fire suppression were enormous. Forests clog. Young saplings, unchallenged by regular fires, suck up all the water leaving old trees stressed and susceptible to attacks by bark beetles. In one study, fire-suppressed San Bernardino had 300 trees per acre—a similar stand of trees in Mexico, left for natural fires, had 60 per an acre. The Mexican trees were healthier and survived the beetles. One biologist called the number and mortality of North American trees “stunning”—revealing the underlying attitude of our culture that more is somehow always better. Catastrophic fires, thriving on the build up of twigs, branches became the new norm—but do not have the same benefits. Their heat, their magnitude devastates rather than regenerates.
And what about those very trees, those Giant sequoias, that all those men tried to save and protect from other men who might use, log, and exploit?
Those trees require fire to release seeds from their cones. The cones require ash and open gaps in the forest. Due to fire suppression, “small cones hung on the trees for years, waiting for the heat of a fire passing below to open the cone scales and release a seed rain as great as eight million per acre.”
As a result of these policies, Sequoias stopped producing.
The trees needed sky to set fire, or they needed humans to set fire. They were in a relationship. The very trees that some men set about to protect from other men who set about to exploit them, are the very trees that required the co-created generation of sky fire (lightening) or people (fire).
Without interdependent relationship, without fire, no Sequoia. No relationship, no tending, no transformation, no heat, no flame, no Sequoia.
It appear that that pristine wilderness landscape that had enchanted so many, that so many people wrote about, photographed and painted… and then protected from human beings… was actually, Anderson writes, a cultural landscape. It had been co-created.
The Fire Inside
What does this mean for us, in relationship now, here, in this place, with this people?
My friend Daniel Francis has been working with fire for most of his life, particularly fire by friction. Fire by friction reminds us that at the heart of any fire, is the art of teasing out the sun’s sacred energy from another being.
“The sun’s energy is stored in the body of all living plants as carbon. This reminds us that in the body of all beings lies a transformational potential. Fire-making teases out this stored energy (carbon), transforming it into heat and light. This is how all of ancestors managed to get us this far: fire to cook our food, to warm ourselves, to protect us from predators and to illuminate our way through the dark. Equally so, we need fire for ceremony, to see this same cycle as fundamentally a part of our own cycle. From a star’s light, to a living plant, to a burning flame, to ashes and back again. Magic.”
Fire refuses a philosophy of separation: that some is dead and some is alive. Fire says: I’m in everything, it is all alive.
And saying, “It is all alive” is a theological commitment.
To believe and to treat this world and other people as fundamentally alive—as on fire, as transformational, as powerful— is a theological commitment.
What are some ways to live with that commitment to an alive world in our bones?
Depth psychologist Joe Coppin, speaking of the work of archetypal psychologist James Hillman, once described to me that to be in an “alive” world requires moving in that world with a kind of sensibility that imagines that the world might have a better idea of what you should be doing than you do.
This is captured in archetypal psychology in the phrase “noticia” – which literally means “to notice.” It means you are available to the world because matter is wise. For example, you might leave here today and walk by the nasturtiums in the Throop Learning Garden. And you will be struck by those nasturtiums. But you will not be struck by them because you noticed them—you will be struck by them because they noticed you. It is a quality of availability to the world where your baseline assumption is that the world is alive, the world has wisdom, and that which is Other to you in the world has a right to your attention.
This right to your attention, and this aliveness, is also some of what
is core to the most sacred and important justice movements of our time right now. To say, “Water is Life” at Standing Rock is a theological commitment that the world is alive, water is alive, and that indigenous people have a right to self-determination of their own, and for those of us who are indigenous, our own, lives.
To say, “Black Lives Matter,” is a theological commitment that believes black bodies—all black bodies: black trans, queer, disabled bodies—are alive, are wise, are self-determining and have a right to people’s attention, and have the right to change you—or, for those of us who are black, trans, queer, and/or disabled, that we have a right to self-determination and the power to transform you and this world.
To say: It is alive. They are alive. We are alive. I am alive. And we will transform this, and we will be transformed, and you will transform, and I am transforming. These are theological commitments about how you will be in the world.
And here is where our responsibility comes in. To tend a fire, to create fire, to keep fire, you have to be in a responsible relationship with heat and transformation. To build it from something small to large, to keep something going, to soothe, to excite; you have to be responsive to what is actually in front of you. To notice the world, you have to be responsive to the relationship that is actually here.
When I say “responsibility” I do not mean moralistic duty. I mean it in the way of sacred responsiveness to one another.
Philosopher Kelly Oliver actually splits that word into two: “response” and “able.” Response-ability asks this: is what I’m doing creating the possibility of response from the one who is in front of me? Is the way I am approaching, speaking, showing up, noticing, responding, creating possibility—or closing off possibility?
Is what I am doing opening up, like a seed rain, the possibility of transformation of me from the one who is in front of me?
Is what I am doing making it possible that I will hear the call of a world and a people that have a right to my attention and a right to change me?
This is, as Oliver writes, what “love beyond domination” looks like. And this is our task as a people swimming in a culture of domination: we are learning to love in new ways and old ways that do not require us to rely on false securities of being “in control” for us to be in relationship with people and planet. We are learning to love beyond domination.
If the root of an ethic of separation is control, then the root of our ethic of relationship is the possibility and willingness that I will be changed by you; that you and I co-create each other; and that I will act in service to the possibility of that co-creation.
It means I will act in service to the possibility that you will transform me.
It means for social relationships that have been harmed by domination and histories of control, I will act in service to tending the harm, to healing, such that trust is possible, such that response-ability is possible between us, such that transformation is possible.
It means I will notice you, I will respond to your call, and I will go with you.
Conservation biologist Edward Grumbine writes, “Biological diversity will not be sustained if new ways of managing nature do not transform how we experience our place in nature…”
We have a theological statement to make and practice together: that our place is to be part of an interdependent planet, not separate from it.
At the University of Ottawa, Canada, June 2017 for the Society for Community Research and Action (SCRA) biennial conference, Siva Mathiyazhagan (PhD) and Samantha Gupta (MA, M.Div) discuss their process of uncovering a “grounded ethic” from their experiences working together translocally as youth community organizers and friends from India and the USA since 2009.
[Publication of “Poittu Varen! Ethics for Translocal Partnerships” forthcoming.]
This presentation was at the University of Ottawa, Canada, June 2017 for the Society for Community Research and Action (SCRA) biennial conference. The original filming was from the conference via Facebook Live.
Last week I participated in the National Association of Community and Restorative Justice conference in Oakland, CA. Powerfully held by the local organizing team, every session included recognition of land, ritual and ceremony, music, and art. Keynote and plenary sessions were led by and centered people who live in the work and are most directly impacted by the systems of oppression we are working to transform: women and LGBTQ leaders of color and indigenous people, formerly incarcerated leaders and organizers, children, youth, and grandmothers and grandfathers.
Over 1200 Participants! Over 100 formerly incarcerated folks. About 70 youth! Major Key! #NACRJ
I have typed up the scribbled notes from my personal notebook into this blog post of key themes and quotes in the hopes that some of the wisdom shared in this convening continues to move through the collective.
(Where I have the name of the source, I will quote the material and provide the name. If I do not have the name of the source, I will leave the statement in quotes—if you know the source, please tell me! Statements that are my thoughts in dialogue with the conference are left unquoted as “mine”… in that collective consciousness way.)
Opening Dr. Gail Christopher, Vice President for Policy and Senior Advisor for the WK Kellogg Foundation’s efforts on racial truth and reconciliation processes:
We are hungry for compassionate response: “We are hungry for compassionate response… … those who carry out terrorist acts have within themselves a devaluation of their own humanity. Be restorative in your posture and say ‘there is so much more here than this act.’” – Dr. Gail Christopher
On the Both/And of Cultural Healing and Structural Change: “Structures need to be dismantled… and I must say there is something persistent about structures. If you don’t have a replacement, that structure will come back… … (for example) we didn’t address the fundamental consciousness that addressed why there was a need to segregate children based on race, nor did we enforce the rulings that would have dismantled it…” – Dr. Gail Christopher
On why “transformation” rather than “reconciliation:” “Truth, racial healing, and transformation—its not about reconciliation. Reconciliation implies a going back. Lets get real: we were never together. This country was founded and sustained on a fallacy—its about transformation—its about making it anew.” – Dr. Gail Christopher
Paraphrasing from time with Chris Marshall, Tom Noakes-Duncan, and Ted Lewis on “The Restorative Church”:
The Paradox of Vulnerability Leading to Life: In Jewish and Christian scriptures, there is the “paradox of vulnerability leading to life.” Unfortunately, our church communities can become “regressive subcultures” that rely on retributive discipline to address disputes and harms—and the ways these two (disputes and harms) begin to hybridize. In Chris Marshall’s book, Beyond Retribution, he relies on two parables—the prodigal son and the good Samaritan—as dialogue partners to show the ways we are called to show compassion to both “offender” and “victim/survivor.” Chris refers to the prodigal son as a “re-entry” parable of what, in that historical context, was a “serious offender.” In Hebrew and Christian scriptures, “God refuses to give up on the relationship God has with the offending party.”
Communal practices for restoration in churches: [before disputes/harms] (1) prevention, formation of restorative theology/practice, pedagogy; (2) decision-making and discernment; [after harm/disputes] (3) intervention, reconciliation, and problem-solving; and (4) post-incident healing with closure and the creation of a shared narrative.
Paraphrasing the “how to” of a “Restorative University” with Lindsey Pointer, Chris Marshall, Haley Farrar (New Zealand):
Chris described the “restorative university” as one “where all policies and practices impacting and related to staff and students are grounded in restorative principles and values.” This first meant examining student disciplinary policy and working to make “restorative process the default option.” This is always posed as a question—because RJ is always voluntary—but that student disputes and harms are addressed at the “lowest level possible” (when appropriate) with direct participation, facilitated, and with consensus-based conversation about ways that things can be “put right.”
Residence Halls are thought of as “Restorative Communities” and circle practices, trainings, and an ethos/values system of these practices becomes foundational in the Hall. Emphasis is put on building real, invested relationships and investment in the hall: knowing that (imagining a pyramid) (a) relationship building is the base, (b) relationship maintaining is the middle of the pyramid, and (c) relationship repair is the tip of the pyramid. The more energy we put into relationship building and maintenance, the more effective (and less energy) we’ll have to put into repair.
They shared a recent event in which a “drunken party” made the news, and they led simultaneous circle processes on all of the floors (200 people involved).
From Judge Andrew Becroft (New Zealand Children’s Commission) and Judge Heemi Taumaunu (Founder/Presiding Judge of Rangatahi Court of New Zealand):
Judge Becroft said clearly: “a monocultural system will fail.” One successful tactic in New Zealand is “don’t charge” provisions for teenagers to ensure teenage disputes/harms are worked with and maintained at the lowest level possible. The NZ youth offenses and institutionalization graph is OPPOSITE to the graph in the United States (read more about the 2002 Youth Offending Strategy and the graph below, here). Even with these successes,New Zealand still charges and incarcerates Maori people disproportionate to their population.
Judge Taumaunu helped developed a set of courts that are rooted in the cultural practices and beliefs of the Maori. These courts “speak in the language of one’s people” – in tongue and in embodiment, and include elders working alongside judges, ritual, song, food, and time for cultural guidance, support, advice, and encouragement. “Pepeha” occurs in which all participants (including outsiders and visitors) identify themselves with the mountain, river, and tribe they come from as a valued cultural introduction with the goal to affirm identity, belonging, and located-ness in the community. Read more here.
From Mike Hinton and Naida Glavish on the topic of restorative processes in New Zealand and their possibility as collaborative or colonial:
In New Zealand, every case that goes to district court has to be considered for RJ—this is a national law. Yet, RJ is always voluntary. The role of the RJ facilitator is “to create the safe space for a conversation to happen—but its not the facilitator’s conversation.” As for the colonial aspects of RJ in New Zealand, as RJ has become more and more part of the legal process, it becomes more prescriptive and requires certain “check boxes” and timelines are to be met (in the name of “accountability”)—which can be counter to the responsive, improvisational spirit of being with the actual people in the actual room with the actual situation. Furthermore, in an effort to prove the cost effectiveness and evaluate RJ, “RJ over-evaluates based on offender’s behavior and the cost-savings of the process—they are not calculating whether or not the victim can get out of bed and go to work. The valuing is one sided.”
On language, says Mike: “As part of a colonization process, the thing you can take to destroy a people and an identity is their language.” Restorative processes include language.
Naida describes that the reason RJ grew in New Zealand is because indigenous people brought THEIR practices into the space of the legal system, filling courtrooms where young Maori people were being tried by non-Indigenous people and demanding to speak to the young people: “We brought our practices from home into the court system… we have the power to deal with issues in our own communities before it gets to the courts.”
In response, a participant was moved to remind us that culture must be at the center of RJ processes. They responded to Naida by saying: “RJ is becoming a ‘trend,’ a process, a protocol, a script. We forgot it is about our principles as related people and getting back into our relationships. This is a lifestyle, not a ‘practice’ or a ‘program.’ We need culture at the center.”
From “White Fragility to Truth and Reconciliation,” paraphrasing from Kusum Crimmel and Arianna Caplan:
Kusum and Arianna explored racial justice and whiteness from the perspective of the common questions of restorative justice: (1) what happened, how did you feel/think then, what do you think about it now? (2) How were you impacted? (3) How was everyone else impacted? (4) What do you need to do to make it right?
Kusum and Arianna relied on Robin DiAngelo’s “white fragility,” as well as her listing of behavior patterns of whiteness, which remind me of the work by Tema Okun. For DiAngelo, these patterns include:
entitlement to experiences of racial comfort
constant messages of superiority
A restorative justice lens keeps our attention on the system of harms that lead to individual behavior. In the words of DiAngelo, “The most effective adaptation over time is the idea that racism is conscious bias held by mean people.” This adaptation keeps us distracted, focused on individuals as supposedly independent moral actors, and perceiving racism as a conscious moral choice rather than the system that we live in.
From “Acknowledging Ancestor Wisdom: Honoring the Roots of Restoration and Transformation” with Jerry Tello, co-founder of the National Compadres Network and Director of National Latino Fatherhood and Family Institute:
There are so many gems from the gifted, funny, sacred storytelling, poetry, and ethical weavings of Jerry Tello. Here are some of the ones that made it through my hand and onto the paper:
You are the Dreams of Your Ancestors: “…your grandparents had a dream that you would have less suffering and more blessing.”
On Evidence-Based Practices of Young People: “Our youngsters have an evidence-based practice too. Their practice is: do you see me? … do you see that I am the dream of my ancestors?”
Restore to What? “When we restore, what do we restore to?”
If not a Blessing, its Just a Practice: “If you are not connected in some way, not blessed up and prayerful, then this stuff is just some practice.”
Embrace: “The most significant thing you can do for a child is to embrace them as yours.”
From David Anderson Hooker—quotes posted online and quotes overheard:
“Racial justice must be RADICAL: relationally constructed, authentic, dignified, ideologically transformative, connected, affirming, legitimated.”
On language: “How do we illuminate (an idea/phenomena) without limiting it?”
“On the Spot Responses and Practice Through an Equity Lens” with Cynthia Zwicky and Yaniah Pearson
“How can we turn a moment of conflict into a moment of realization?”
Cynthia and Yaniah were playful dialogue partners in exploring the ways people resist, ignore, and avoid conflicts—especially based on issues of equity—and the work they do to address conflict as a moment of realization in schools.
The Work is Slow: Yaniah reminded us: “The work is slow.” Even though we long for a 3-hour-training we could provide every person who interacts with young people, that would not be the solution, nor would they become instantly “restorative” in their responses to the world around them. Unlearning what we’ve learned from a society that is retributive and conflict-averse, as well as learning to skills for the moment, as well as conflicts themselves, take time.
Some Resistance as Lack of Confidence: “What is the embodied experience of someone who says (about an equity problem), ‘It is not that big of a deal’? At the core of it is actually about personal ability—resistance is so often actually a lack of confidence.”
Maintaining Relationships Makes Repair Easier: Circle processes—ongoing, commonplace, reliable—allow us to make our mistakes sacred and a source of connection with one another. When we have regular places where (teachers) can go and share who they deeply are, those spaces can turn into spaces where they could also say, “Wow, I was a ‘bad’ teacher today, I need support.”
Listen in Conflict—You’re Hearing Values: They shared a quote from Hildy Gottlieb in the spirit of seeing the potential for realization in the midst of conflict: “When people speak in outrage and anger, when they talk about arguments and conflicts, listen carefully. They are telling you what is important to them. They are telling you their values.”
When Talking Race (particularly in classrooms, institutions): When discussing issues of race with others, particularly across identities and power differentials, the conversation “requires ground rules, a shared language, and a recognition of power.” Furthermore, “Institutionalized racism has a historical basis. The personal is historical.”
Closing Plenary on “Restorative Responses to Mass Incarceration: Formerly Incarcerated Persons Moving from Margins to Center” with George Galvis, Albino Garcia, Tina Reynolds, Jerry Elster, Julie Arroyo Guzman, and Troy Williams:
Activities that are criminalized are activities that are normal response to experiencing violence: In response to what others called “acting out” or “criminal behavior,” Julie noted, “I was actually having a normal human reaction to experiencing violence.”
Who is leading the movement? Jerry Elster challenged the audience about the RJ movement, particularly, whose voices and experiences are centered, who is considered “expert,” and who is leading the movement. He asked: “Who is leading the movement? Who are the gatekeepers? Let those who have been directly impacted lead.”
In response to a question from the audience asking if the leadership is going to be those most directly impacted, what should those of us with different experiences do as part of this movement. Jerry replied, “This movement is for everybody—just stay in your lane.’
Tina Reynolds shared about her experience of re-entry and her work creating spaces where formerly incarcerated people can be their whole selves: which includes not only them, but their families. She also challenged the gathered community to move beyond tokenizing most-directly impacted people, saying: “We keep being asked to show up rather than asked to be part of.”
Stop Taking Credit for Other Peoples’ Transformation and Inherent Power: She also talked about the tendency for non-incarcerated people to take credit for the transformation of others inside prison: “You are patting yourselves on the back… thinking they didn’t come in with their own power.”
What does racial justice look like in predominantly white, rural communities?
(Co-authored by Samantha Gupta and AJ Bush)
From the death of Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri in 2014, to the contentious presidential election of 2016, the legacy and present day realities of race and racism in the USA have reached an even broader, national focus.
While there have been organized responses to these issues in many urban areas, rural communities have been disconnected from such movements. For many — including community activists, pastors, scholars, and concerned citizens — 2016 was a “wake up call” to this reality as brightly colored electoral maps created visual representations of a “rural”/”urban” divide.
Although this was a “wake up call” for some, this was a clear, present, lived, ongoing reality for so many, many others– including people of color, undocumented community members, LGTBQ community members, and Muslim community members.
We know that electoral maps oversimplify the complexity of the people and the lives in every community– and in every state– and knowthat we need rural and working class white people to organize for more just, more safe, and more inclusive communities. Informed by this belief, the following questions have emerged in dialogue between pastors and organizers in urban and rural communities:
What do inclusive and just movements look like in rural communities– across history and today?
How do white folks in rural and working class communities understand their lives and struggles as related to racial justice?
What kinds of spaces and shared experiences can be created that help support the consciousness, dialogue, and action of white community in building a more just, more safe, more inclusive world in partnership with, and led by, people of color in their towns– supporting the power, health, and well-being of all?
Rural Race Dialogues: “Welcoming the Stranger”
Engaged by these questions, AJ Bush, a United Methodist Pastor in Gillette, WY invited colleague Samantha Gupta, a Unitarian Universalist community organizer and scholar of white identity from Los Angeles, California, to imagine what might be possible in her rural church.
During her time as pastor in a rural Wyoming congregation, Bush personally saw a need to engage church members and people in the community in conversations about “difference” and “otherness” — whether that be immigration, race, or religion. Sensing a disconnect from experiences and language of difference in rural contexts and many racial justice curriculums, Bush became interested in finding ways to create space for dialogue around these issues.
Combining their passions, Bush and Gupta held the first “Rural Race Dialogue” event on Dec. 4th, 2016 in Gillette, Wyoming.
The event was a public event, hosted by Bush’s church and entitled “Welcoming the Stranger: The Stories We Share.” The short, initial program was designed to nurture skills for openness and curiosity through the practices of self-reflexivity, self-compassion, and direct experience with difference. Self-compassion for one’s own experiences and identities, Bush and Gupta sense, is a bridge to compassionate curiosity, dialogue, and risk-taking for the “Other.” The audience focused on “regular folks in the pews” who sense the issues of exclusion and disconnection in their community, but feel unfamiliar (and even uncomfortable) with how to engage racial justice issues and take next steps.
There were three key movements during this introductory event:
Group activity that simulated the experience of white ethnic European immigration and assimilation to the United States in the 1800 and 1900’s. In this simulation, each participant was assigned to family groups, given information about the prejudice their family faced upon arriving in the US due to their ethnic identities, and the difficult choices they are forced to make (and identity they are forced to give up) to survive. The activity was designed by Clare Fox as part of the Alliance of White Anti-Racists Everywhere-Los Angeles (AWARE-LA) as part of their annual “Unmasking Whiteness Institute” offered in California each summer. Bush and Gupta adapted the activity to include specific histories and testimonies of European immigrant experiences in the Wyoming context.
A facilitated dialogue and reflection on the simulation experience, bridging white ethnic European histories of immigration to current, local and state-based stories of immigration by people of color. This component featured videos and testimonies of neighbors in their community who have recently immigrated or who represent a different racial/ethnic identity.
Through this experience, participants were able to connect with their own family history and the experience of their family as “the other” as a bridge of empathy and curiosity with the experience of immigrants and those “Othered” in their community today. It also built empathy for such experiences, as participants could now relate to the loss and struggle of assimilation in their own family. In the words of one participant, “I begin to see that (our) identity had to be given up to avoid prejudice.”
In feedback, participants described renewed curiosity for the experiences of their own families (“This event made me wonder more about my grandparent’s experience when they came to the United States”), as well as for immigrant families in their town– reporting that they wished they had “more time” to hear more stories of local issues and imagine “possible action plans.”
Other participants appreciated the time to be in community with other people in their town who are also willing to engage difficult issues in new ways: “I appreciated getting people together face-to-face in a safe, respectful environment and being guided through a non-judgmental exercise,” one participant wrote. “This helped us focus on loss(es) as a way of feeling empathy for the stranger.”
Bush and Gupta imagine this series of activities to be supportive to church leaders who would like to engage their congregations on racial justice and identity, and need ways to begin the conversation with congregants. For Bush, her congregation plans to facilitate a book study on race and identity development as a next step to mobilizing more congregants in local organizing efforts in partnership with communities impacted by local hate crimes.
Cultivating curiosity and compassion for self and other are important skills for healing/bridging the divide between and within rural and urban experiences of difference, race, immigration. For Gupta and Bush, this work is important as we strive to establish justice, mercy, and beloved community within our world. The two plan to continue doing this work in rural areas, and are interested in engaging with other churches/communities in the Midwest on these kinds of conversations/events. They are willing to travel and consult.
If you are interested in more information about these types of dialogues in your community, email ruralracedialogue [at] gmail [dot] com.
Reflections on a journey in support of indigenous community action, after church call draws some 500 clergy as “protective witnesses”
Two weeks ago, I woke up in a tent in North Dakota.
At 6 a.m., the only light that visible poured in from across the Missouri River, a set of mega floodlights illuminating the ongoing construction on the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL).
Less than a quarter mile away from me, a 70-year-old elder sat near the central fire and coaxed us awake into an amplified microphone that echoed through the fog and across the camp.
“Wake up… wake up! The Black Snake is creeping across the river! Sun Dancers! Pipe carriers, smudge your pipes! Christians, dust off your Bibles! The water is warm. We are here for a purpose!”
By 9 a.m., I was gathered alongside over 500 clergy from across the United States, representing over 20 different faith traditions. Surrounding us and continuing their day of work, recuperation, and prayer, people at the camp numbered in the thousands.
We circled around the fire in our sacred clothing—robes, stoles, albs, protest-prayer signs—and observed, as representatives of our faith traditions stood alongside several indigenous elders from the #NoDAPL camp. Each of the represented traditions had repudiated the Doctrine of Discovery in their denominations, and read aloud from those repudiations into the microphone ringing over the camp. (Written by Pope Alexander VI in 1493, the Doctrine of Discovery formalized into writing a set of patterns of domination that became the basis by which European monarchies claimed lands and resources of indigenous peoples. Ultimately, land was deemed “unoccupied” if it was not settled by Christians. The doctrine has been cited in court decisions as recently as 2005.)
After their statements, a copy of the Doctrine in the original Latin was given to the elders, and then burned in an abalone shell among the ring of people near the central fire.
Each of the 500 of us were smudged with sage by local community leaders as we made our way along the road to Backwater Bridge where police waited, in long lines inside cars, and watched us from roads and hilltops. The bridge was the location where, one week prior, 141 indigenous and ally Water Protectors were arrested by militarized police in riot gear.
We wept, we raged, we prayed, we sang as police helicopters flew overhead, snipers watched from hillsides, and the Missouri River wound its way over the horizon.
“Wade in the water!” we sang, each of us holding the other. “God’s gonna trouble the water!”
It was only one week prior to that moment that Father John Floberg—a man who has served for 25 years as the supervising priest of the Episcopal churches of Standing Rock—put out an email to several clergy networks, calling upon clergy of all faith traditions to come to North Dakota and serve as “protective witnesses” with the Water Protectors.
He had only expected 100 of us to respond.
Father John was also clear: The actions of we 500 witnesses would reflect on the Standing Rock Sioux and their allies, long after we left. He and the elders who stood beside him asked for four things of all of us: “that you remain prayerful, peaceful, nonviolent, and lawful.” And most of all, that we return to our communities and call upon our people to join this protective resistance.
Standing near the fire in my stole that morning, an elder from the camp approached me and expressed that our presence was a welcome pause in the recent escalations of violence, a chance for the community to regroup. He shared that he hoped we would carry prayers that the community of leaders at Standing Rock maintain their spiritual structure as they are continually battered, instigated, and even infiltrated by DAPL security or police forces. As clergy wandered the camp, police presence was minimized for the day—with fewer helicopters, airplanes, and drones. Some expressed how this was a welcome pause in the ongoing assault of the senses and the spirit.
For others whom I didn’t speak to our presence, I suspect, was complicated, if not painful and enraging—particularly as representatives of religions that have undergirded, if not outright orchestrated, native genocide. Alongside the stories I’ve heard before arriving, I have personally experienced the ways white, non-native visitors occupy space at the microphones, or take up resources without return or regard. As white folks, we have so much work to do to “call each other in” as white people, to unlearn entitlement and domination, and to learn new patterns of relationship that generate life and honor the sovereignty of that life. This shows up in the ways we reach for microphones, to the ways we use policies to grab resources for profit. This is an urgent task.
It is urgent because Standing Rock is not only a specific struggle in North Dakota—Standing Rock is everywhere we are. It demands of us, particularly as community psychologists: Where do you come from? Whose land do you occupy, whose land do you call home? Who were your people? And who are your people now? Perhaps, in the time of Trump, we might add: What life and whose life experience have you disregarded, and what are your relational obligations for restoration?
It’s personal, it’s communal, it’s ecological, it’s economic, it’s political, it’s ancestral, and it is work that requires us to be where we are, right now. Be with one another, right now. Practice accountable relationship, particularly with the indigenous communities where we live, right now. Not as a task to complete, but as vocation—as in vocare, that sacred call—that we are responsive to for the rest of our lives.
As a community psychologist and a theologian, I understand that our role is to make visible that web of relationships and issues that connects each to all, such that this sacred web becomes actionable and our role within it becomes strategic, intentional, resilient, and restorative.
Will we take up our role?
What is needed at Standing Rock: Please visit their websites to know what they are asking for. They need ongoing financial support as they prepare for winter (portable restrooms and trash services alone cost $1,500 per day), advocacy/direct action at local, state, national, and corporate levels, and bodies—especially humble bodies capable of listening and learning, with offerings for healing, feeding, building, and the ability to be arrested.
As community psychologists in the field, in non-profits, and in academic institutions, we are uniquely positioned to bring embodied awareness to the patterns of “discovery” and colonization that have informed our lives and our field, to learn in community and model the life-generating alternatives, and to put our bodies on the line to bring that alternative into reality.
May we respond to such a sacred and necessary call.
This post has been featured in the following places:
Society for Community Research and Action “Personal Stories”
Read more here.
UU Young Adults for Climate Justice. Read more here.
In late May, I was a participant in the 2016 International Conference on Community Psychology in Durban, South Africa. This year’s theme was “Global Dialogues on Critical Knowledges, Liberation and Community.” I will be publishing a few blogs on the experience, this one highlighting my presentations at the conference. Future posts will highlight other contributing scholar-activists and notes from presentations I attended.
Interested folks can also check out the video made by the conference organizers, highlighting the keynotes and key themes that emerged:
I made three presentations at the conference. I give BIG thanks to the mentors, professors, family, friends, colleagues, and cosmos– all of whom have initiated, contributed to and helped further these ideas. Heartfelt thanks.
Decolonizing Reconciliation Processes for Historical Harms: A Dialogue for Action
This presentation emerged from my experience as part of the Fellowship of Reconciliation (FOR-USA) delegation to Japan at the invitation of the Japanese Fellowship of Reconciliation (JFOR) in recognition of the 70th commemorations of the use of atomic weapons. The question being asked here is, “how do we mobilize across racial, ethnic, and class communities to create consensus around processes of reconciliation… especially if those events happened before our lifetime?” As intergenerational communities seek to do repair for historical wrongdoing, psychological cultural-workers must also negotiate their current diverse positionality in contemporary and historical webs of violence as the basis for reconciliation.
In other words, when a hibakusha (Japanese term for “bomb survivor”) begins their testimony of the bombing by imagining their place and their ancestor’s place in relationship to the harms cause by Japanese imperialism on Korean, Chinese, Pilipino… even USA… citizens, they are locating themselves in a web of relationships. Many Hibakusha use this awareness as the beginning of their testimony.
In the case of our FOR delegation, we realized that if we were to do similarly—if each of our delegation members “located themselves” in the web of relationships (positionality) as racialized, gendered, economically-informed beings, particularly around issues of racialized militarization in the USA, we would each be led to different ways of responding to the people in front of us, even if our intention (reconciliation and healing) was the same and our sense of wrongdoing about the use of nuclear weapons was the same.
Social location—naming and claiming our relationships and differences—matters in reconciliatory work.
Why is this important?
It challenges the belief that reconciliation requires a coherent consensus of a history, an individual or an organization. In fact, it relies on us emphasizing the differences, contradictions and complexities in order to and as part of really get to the interconnectedness.
It also decenters the overemphasis that can occur to “find the similarities” when doing difficult relational work.
In our experience in dialogue with Japanese activists, the most impactful experience was our willingness to share our ancestral and present locations and speak from that experience.
Reconciliation is not about a fantasy future of unity or an imaginary past “before” the rupture—rather, it involves standing in our particularity in order to accurately imagine and/or re-member the threads that connect us. In the words of Watkins and Lorenz (2001), it is about gathering around the “rupture” to see what new possibilities may be emerging.
II. Life in the Rupture: Towards an Eco-Psychological Sense of Community (EPSOC)
My second presentation focuses on some of the ideas within the field of community psychology itself.
“Psychological Sense of Community (PSOC)” is a model of measurement that has been described as a “lynch-pin” that holds the field of community psychology together. It has been used as a tool by community psychologists to determine the aspects of community that create the feeling of community, roughly grouped into (1) membership, (2) influence, (3) integration and fulfillment of needs, and (4) shared emotional connection (McMillan and Chavis 1986).
While PSOC has led to innovations in analysis and measurement in efforts to replicate what exactly makes community “work,” there have also been critics that name that the ways PSOC breaks down component parts of community might not capture the essential quality of an experience of community that we are all working hard to identify and move towards. For example, communities with a higher level of homogeneity (for example, the KKK), will likely score higher on PSOC than a community with more racial and ethnic diversity (which may be labeled a “disordered” community by these measurements and by some measurers). In response to these kinds of critiques, McMillan acknowledged that PSOC will never quite capture the “spirit” of what the we are really talking about—and, further, that PSOC “is a theory to describe reality, not a theory to prescribe reality” (2011).
However, for community psychologists who value interrupting and disrupting systems of power and domination that are part of our described reality, we may be seeking to measure and move towards a different kind of PSOC—something that does guide us towards nourishing and sustaining communities that honor and engage differences and interrupt oppressive power dynamics.
I think Hughey and Speer (2002) move us closer to the “spirit” in their use of network and systems analysis to demonstrate that actually healthy environments require “individuals and groups to develop and exercise features of social networks that function to position themselves at the boundaries of networks” (p.74). Here, boundaries and edges are opportunities—opportunities to access different kinds of resources, build resilience, and generate the changes that allow for communities to survive. By bringing their language into dialogue with PSOC, we can challenge metaphors and models that value or prioritize “orderly,” linear, homogenous, progressive and cohesive patterns—we can create measurements that value the seemingly disordered, the diverse, the creative and the boundary-crossings that make life evolutionary. This is a language often used to describe aspects of ecological systems—a system that requires the edges, the chaotic and the adaptive in order to survive and thrive.
With guidance from these critiques and some support from depth and liberation psychology (Watkins and Lorenz 2001), here is where we might imagine an “Eco-Psychological Sense of Community (EPSOC).” These contributions to the language of PSOC suggest that there is something beyond the component parts of being an individual as part of a cohesive system—even hinting that the fantasy of a cohesive system (and “orderly” communities) is not a universal reality at all, nor would its measurement and duplication make meaning out of the diverse locations and experiences where healthy community happens.
Perhaps “E” stands for “Eco” or perhaps “E” stands of “Edge”—no matter what, it means we engage the way our measurements maintain rather than interrupt systems of power and domination.
Why is this important?
PSOC as a measurement model may not go far enough in (a) the decolonial project of deconstructing the fantasy of a unified, progressive self or community nor (b) sufficiently valuing the rupture of that fantasy (and the role of conflict) as a sign of life within a social system as an ecological system.
We need to acknowledge the implicit values of our “measurement tools” in our field—and re-imagine what we are really looking for as signs of health and vitality that support us in interrupting status quo power dynamics.
Community psychologists should be looking for edges as a sign of health and well-being—edges are where our vitality, creativity, and resilience emerge.
III. Eve, Adam, Snake and the Garden of the Global North: Decolonizing Theologies Through Theatre
This presentation was an “Innovative Presentation”—a part of the conference that allotted me a ninety-minute session to use theatre, story and movement to engage issues of coloniality in theology.
This presentation might be captured in a pseudo-mathematical equation:
(Scriptural exegesis of Genesis II) + (Anti-Racism) + (Bibliodrama) + (Academic and faith-based interrogation of borders, walls, and border-crossing) + (Theatre of the Oppressed techniques) = The Real Story of Eve, Adam, Snake and Tree
I relied on writing from Rev. Rebecca Parker’s essay, “Not Somewhere Else But Here: The Struggle for Racial Justice as a Struggle to Inhabit My Country” from Soul Work: Anti-Racist Theologies in Dialogue. Parker imagines the ways that the story of “The Fall” in Genesis II acts in support of white privilege in that it describes a relationship with God where to know one’s self as capable of both “good” and “evil” is to lose one’s relationship with God—to stay obedient, innocent and pure is to stay in relationship with God. Yet, in the work of anti-racism, we need white people who are able to see ourselves and our history more clearly and more honestly.
Parker’s writings are supported by Chicana scholar-activist Gloria Anzaldua’s work on the seven stages of conocimiento from “Now let us shift… the path of conocimiento… inner work, public acts”—a coming into consciousness that requires the bridge-builders, the in-between walkers, that are willing to have reality torn apart and brought back together in new, more life-giving and more generative ways. She writes, “According to Jung, if you hold opposites long enough without taking sides a new identity emerges. As you make your way through life, nepantla itself becomes the place you live in most of the time— home” (p. 548). We need the tearing apart of what isn’t working as part of creating something new.
Anzaldua’s imagining of the border as something to bridge makes for an interesting dialogue partner with Wendy Brown’s Walled States, Waning Sovereignty. The wall around Eden and the wall through the southwest deserts of the USA are a form of “psychic insulation,” maintaining USA fantasies of purity, innocence and goodness—keeping the privileged and abundant lives of those within it without a horizon worth questioning and the people beyond it as invading, marauding, evil force to be stopped (Brown, p. 120-121). This, embodied in the Judeo-Christian story of Adam and Eve, becomes a theological value. While Brown does not go so far to make the theological connection that Anzaldua makes in her first movement towards consciousness, both are seeking a bridge over the wall—and Parker’s Eve is alongside them.
Bibliodrama and Theatre of the Oppressed techniques (Peter Pitzele 1997 and Augusto Boal 1993) give us a way to engage this story as both problematic and potentially generative.
Methodologies: Sharing a new version of the story generated from my time in seminary that imagines Eve, Snake and Adam as escaping the garden to go beyond the wall—with the possibility that there had been people on the other side of the wall along—is the starting point for our embodied play using character embodiment, followed by character interviewing in dyads, and an “empty chair” technique to imagine the characters who are part of our story. Each person in the workshop takes an empty chair, embodying the character with a pose. We then imagine the internal longings associated with that character to understand more clearly what they may be trying to tell us and make those statements to one another out loud.
Having told this new version of the story in different contexts, sharing it in the South African/international community psychology context led to important conclusions and realizations:
It was an important revelation to interrogate the wall in the Garden of Eden: what is this wall? Who is outside the wall? Who built the wall? Who does the wall serve? What would the wall say to us now as we deal with issues of borders and walls in our communities?
Workshop participants longed for a more equitable relationship between Eve and Adam—even in my own re-telling, my story chooses to center the story on Eve as agent of social change as an anti-dote to the dominant narrative that tends to degrade her being. Still, what would be a more satisfying relationship between the two?
One workshop participant who expressed a “resistance” to changing the story, acknowledged that in his role as “the fruit,” he felt a strange and unexpected longing to be eaten. How might we activate and animate the “non-human” creatures and beings in the garden and what might they tell us? What voices have been left out by our over-emphasis on human voice?
I look forward to bringing this story and workshop methodology to other communities as dialogue partners in re-imagining this story—clearly, there is much more to be said by many more of us.
The next ICCP conference will be held in Chile in 2018.
How do we show up when a hurtful situation so often lends itself to freezing? So much emerges: the feeling of the offense, the desire to say “the right” thing, the fear of relational or social fallout.
Not only is it hard to observe a microaggression– it is also hard to figure out how to respond in ways that both honor the target of the aggression and “call in” the aggressor into right relationship. This is difficult to do effectively without the conversation (1) forcing the target of the aggression to “teach” or “take on” the work of fixing the situation or (2) centering the group’s attention on the hurt feelings or defensiveness of the aggressor.
In light of that, I found this article and these materials (including a video of a panel on microaggressions and microresistance!) helpful.
Some highlights from their post:
“Try Moving From Reacting to Resistance”
Learning about microaggressions has allowed you to see previously unrecognized hostility in your department’s environment. Right now, the way you understand your role in these interactions is “reacting to microaggressions.”
What would happen if you reframed your role? Instead of defensively reacting, what if you saw yourself as engaging in “microresistance”? In other words, instead of reacting to an individual’s bad behavior, what if you proactively worked toward an equitable environment for everyone in your department?
I don’t know how this sits with you, but I love this reframing of my own behavior. When I understand myself as actively engaging in microresistance, it has a different energy than reacting to microaggressions. It keeps me focused on the structural nature of the problem.
In other words, it’s not just one person acting like an asshole; what’s occurring in everyday interactions is a continual manifestation of privilege. As such, my words and actions matter to the higher-level goals of equity and inclusion. Microresistance empowers me and makes me feel that my daily choices contribute to the overall climate in which I’m embedded.
“Practice “Opening the Front Door””
Ganote, Cheung and Souza taught us a technique called “opening the front door” (OTFD) as a first step to engage in microresistance in the kinds of contexts you’ve described (such as faculty meetings, hallway conversations and informal gatherings). It’s quite simple:
Observe: Describe clearly and succinctly what you see happening.
A pastoral prayer inspired by the work of Urban Partners Los Angeles, a ministry of the First Unitarian Church of Los Angeles, prepared for worship at UULA on April 19, 2015.
Pastoral Prayer for Cities, for Los Angeles By Samantha Gupta
Spirit of Cities,
We are gathered in your concrete
in worship and in gratitude.
You who are worthy of our loving attention, Hear us.
We gather in sorrow for what aches and moans
Beneath the weight of sky scrapers,
Bank buildings, pay checks,
Food trucks, dandelions in the cracks of cement.
Crushed beneath the weight,
Sometimes the shadows of these too-tall-trees
leaves us wandering if we are seen at all,
if any light will come. See us.
In times of shadow, we gather around this chalice
with reverence for those who make themselves known.
Graffiti prophets tagging story and name to wall
refusing to go quietly.
And corner prophets singing praises to a God
they know who might see them.
And the mothers and fathers and children who live each day
wondering if the day will come where life moves with a greater gentleness.
And the lives of the women and men
who sat in these rooms, responsive to what they heard outside them. Guide us.
Spirit of Cities,
Spirit of Life,
Lady of Los Angeles,
Open our ears that we may hear more deeply the sounds of these streets,
Our eyes that we may see more clearly the stories of these faces,
Our hearts that we may respond from a place of connection
The connection that we may know in our bones, whispering: We belonging to these people, We belong to this place.
Spirit of Life, of Cities,
Teach us how to be at home, and how to be a guest in the homes of others.
Right here. Right Now. Amen.