Race – Page 2 – Big Topics Blog

June 9, 2017December 18, 2019

The Bigger Story of Hate and Heroes

On August 20, 1965, Alabama resident Tom Coleman, a white-skinned vigilante, aimed his gun at seventeen-year-old, black-skinned Ruby Sales and threatened to blow her brains out. Jonathan Daniels, her white-skinned companion in the Southern Freedom Movement, threw himself in front of Ruby and was killed instantly.

In a recent On Being interview, Ruby Sales reflected on the larger context of this incident: “When you signed up to be a part of the movement, it became very clear that we were willing to die. Not because we were suicidal but because we believed so much in the work that we were doing that we did not believe that death was the end.”

As a correction of how the story of Jonathan’s murder is usually framed, Ruby said, “Truly I am grateful that Jonathan saved my life and truly that was an important event. But at the same time, the narrative must include the profound impact that local black people had on shaping and stretching my life as a young black woman in the south.”* Jonathan’s heroic act was one small part of a larger justice movement that had been active for generations both in Ruby’s community and around the world.

I thought of Ruby’s words recently when a raging White Supremacist yelled anti-Muslim vitriol at two teenagers, one wearing a hajib, and then killed two white men and injured another who stepped between hatred and those threatened. Ruby’s words remind me that the horrifying event that occurred in my Portland, OR neighborhood on Friday, May 26, 2017, was one part of a nation-wide pattern where other Muslim, Black and Brown people (among others) experience violence.

Racial slurs and violence toward Muslims and non-whites aren’t new. Killing unarmed black men and women isn’t new. Injustice from the “Justice” system isn’t new. Prejudice and threat of deportation to immigrants aren’t new. They are, however, becoming more visible … to whites like me.

The incident in my neighborhood a few weeks ago isn’t an isolated event. It is part of a much larger story of hatred and violence that still festers at the heart of our nation. It is also one part of a long, powerful movement for compassion, justice and equity that many have bravely walked for hundreds of years.

The larger context is important. Oregon was founded as a white supremacist state: black-skinned people were barred from living within our borders. The KKK long supported our governmental leaders. Today, green and progressive Portland is one of the whitest big cities in the nation.

I am grateful for the heroic deeds of Ricky, Taliesin and Micah, and for the heroic deeds of millions over the centuries who have stepped forward to follow the leading of their hearts and courageously stand for compassion and justice. I am saddened by the impact of hatred hurled at two teenage girls, and for millions over the centuries who have long been the brunt of prejudice, inequity and hatred. The power to transform our world’s injustice and stark divisions lies in our ability to see these individual incidents as one part of a much larger movement.

This is a journey of transformation that we must take together. This is not a time to deepen our divides, even if the divides are between oppressed and oppressor. This journey requires us to all step courageously into the gaps that divide us. Standing together in the midst of both hatred and the compassion, each of us can begin—or continue—to look inside our own skins and root out assumptions, stereotypes and fragments of the “isms,” then take the risk to actively build the world that best serves all of our children, now and for generations to come.

Otherwise, actively or passively, we are complicit in supporting the underlying generational behavior that erupts into violent and hateful deeds.

*These critical words of context for Jonathan’s death were cut from the finished Krista Tippet’s On Being interview of Ruby Sales. For that reason, I recommend listening to the uncut version.

This blog is one in an upcoming series of “The Bigger Picture” blogs.

April 17, 2017December 18, 2019

Be Careful What You Say to Men

When I was young, Mom warned me watch what I shared with Dad. I no longer remember the details, but the implication was clear—my problems would add to Dad’s already demanding work life. He wasn’t strong enough to handle anything other than his own concerns.

Somewhere along the line, that warning spilled over into many of my relationships with other men. Since my local inner circle of family and friends was predominantly white skinned, this precaution focused on white men specifically.

It is a strange contradiction that I am both an outspoken woman and one who is sometimes hesitant to speak openly with men. Not all men, and not all of the time, but the warning bell rings loudly when I get near an invisible line.

Howard and I married when we were twenty-two. My confidence that I was a liberated woman of the ‘70s didn’t silence the clang of Mom’s warning bell ringing in my head.

For conversations with any emotional charge, I worked diligently to find the perfect time—i.e. when Howard was well rested and in the midst of a calm day—when I assumed that he had the capacity to deal with my conversation. Unfortunately, if my sharing included the impact of something he’s said or done, too often he slipped into guilt or regret or shame. I’d scramble to reassure him, and the conversation I’d wanted would too often got derailed.

Over our forty years of marriage, I’ve learned how to speak up earlier and address the topic regardless of what emotions arise, but it was a bumpy learning process. In that process, I discovered that Howard (like my Dad) was indeed strong enough to meet me in conversation.

My learning was slower with other men. I’ve too often stepped out tentatively, lightly touching what I’d like to say, then gone silent if my point wasn’t quickly understood or listened to. I too readily questioned myself, especially if my thinking was nuanced and spiraled rather than linear.

I knew I wasn’t alone in this struggle as women talk to each other about this tendency. Recently, a group of my women friends were talking about who to include in a newly forming group, when one of them said, “Let’s keep gathering as just women, because a man would try to take over the group.”

All of us have had experiences that would confirm the wisdom of her suggestion. But we were also all related to men whom we loved—either as husbands or sons, fathers or friends. Is it true that there is little chance for equitable participation when men are present? Are we women incapable of showing up in ways that are powerful enough to shift the behavior without excluding or attacking the men? Was this also inevitable with the men we loved and respected?

Stepping out of patriarchy requires me to be in a different sort of partnership than my mother taught me or than my women friends imagined. While being clear about the ravages of patriarchy in our culture, I must make a choice about how I choose to be in my relationships with white men—the men close to me as well as men in the community.

When I am silent, whether because I don’t want to upset a man or because I feel intimidated, I am fully participating in patriarchy by behaving as if their voice is more important than mine. When I lash out, throwing my anger at generations of gender injustice at the man in front of me, I am also participating in patriarchy by stereotyping men and then attacking them as if they alone were the problem.

I don’t want to perpetuate any of these patterns interfering with equitable partnerships with men. As always, I must start with myself.

I want to take responsibility for how I am with men, taking a risk to speak respectfully and clearly when an interaction feels like “power-over” or sounds like “mansplaining.” I want to share what is happening to me: to articulate the impact of disrespectful behavior; to listen to what is behind his actions or words; to acknowledge his feelings if shame emerges, but to then return to our conversation. I must honor myself enough to insist that I am treated respectfully, and I must honor my relationship with the man enough to see if there is a possibility that we can find a way to relate that is outside of patriarchy.

You taught me many wonderful things, Mom, but your advice to me as a preschooler about relating to men doesn’t serve me or the men in my life. I’m sixty-two now, and I know better.

March 24, 2017December 18, 2019

Knowing What is True About Myself

I have been stumped about how to write what I want to say. As soon as I complete one paragraph, I know that the opposite has to be addressed. Therefore, I am writing “in conversation” across my paradoxes.

I am a better partner in diverse collaborative ventures when I know for myself if I am acting in integrity or if I am caught in racism.

Who but me can know what is at work within my words or behavior?

To even suggest that I have to take responsibility for myself and personally know what is true about my racism feels risky. Like many other white skinned people, it took a long time for me to notice the profound bias towards whiteness in my nation and, thus, in myself. How will I know that I am not just blind to my racism?

I have a responsibility to know for myself. When I am buffeted around with every accusation and assumption, abdicating my responsibility to know what is true about my actions, I have nothing on which to build a partnership.

But what if I am unaware that my action is a result of donning my white-colored glasses and my words or actions are actually racist and out of alignment with my values?

I am responsible for seeking out a broader picture of history, one that includes the silenced voices. I am responsible for knowing myself, outside of the distress of oppression. And for holding what I believe is true about me lightly, with openness to the possibility that I might be wrong.

It is true that white people for centuries have been oblivious to their racism. Why should my self-knowing hold any weight against such an overwhelming history?

When accusations come that something I said or did is racist, completely in line with the behavior of generations of other white folks like me, who am I to disagree? Maybe something is still lurking in the shadows, and the accusation just might be true.

I am not just one of a group of folks acting just like so many have acted before. I am a unique individual, in a world of unique individuals. It is disrespectful to lump everyone into a group, wiping out an individual’s unique humanity.

I’ve walked it both ways. In a nine-year cross race and class collaborative process, I have spent far too much time reacting to and wobbling whenever something I said or did was assumed by someone to be racist (or classist). I’ve reacted. I’ve become afraid and stepped back. I’ve looked at all of the reasons the accusation was or wasn’t true. In the midst of that swirl, I’ve stepped out of partnership with the collective and slowed down our process.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I learned to listen, really listen, to the assumptions about my actions. I’ve honestly asked myself what was true about me and what wasn’t. Sometimes it was an opportunity for self-correction. Sometimes, however, it was a time to claim what was true about me.

Always open for new revelations, when I stand clear in what was true about me I participate in relationships in a way that allows me to stay fully engaged in the process, bringing my own thinking and intuition to the conversation as one part of the whole.

Waking up and stepping outside of my personal and the cultural distress of oppression isn’t easy, but it isn’t impossible either. It does require me to take a huge amount of personal responsibility. I will stumble from time to time. But walking this paradox keeps my feet on the path of truth.

January 27, 2017December 18, 2019

Led by Women, The March Goes On

Almost three million women, children and men took to the streets around the globe on January 21, 2017. But they weren’t the only ones involved. Millions of others were intimately connected—marching in their hearts while working at their jobs, caring for themselves or others who weren’t able to participate, praying or otherwise participating at a distance.

Like mother bears roaring to protect their cubs, voices rose from the streets in a fierce love to protect and nurture all of creation from Mother Earth under our feet to all of our global family.

We the people, we the women, have too long been in a strange mix of hibernation and fighting. The problems loomed so large, while our perspectives shrank too small. But millions of us have awakened, ready to follow in the footsteps of our grandmothers who broke rank from the powers that be and sought justice, respect and equity for all.

In our years of hibernation or activism (or whatever it looked like for you), many of us practiced listening for inner guidance—that inner voice of guidance nudging us toward the unique role we were to play at this moment in history. Since that voice is often at odds with cultural expectations, we’ve been strengthening our courage. Knowing how much harder it is to work in isolation, we women have joined together to support each other.

Nowhere is mutual support more needed than in our compassionate support of each other as the shards of our cultural training of racism, sexism, classism—and all of the other ways we’ve been taught to divide and separate—work their way out of our bones to be transformed. Unfortunately, these shards often show up in unconscious beliefs, words or actions that are profoundly in conflict with our conscious values. Horrified, it is easy to act defensively or with anger. My prayer is that we can act like compassionate mothers or midwives, supporting each other as we honestly examine and then remove these shards. Freed from outmoded and unjust shard after shard, together we can become the just people we were created and long to be.

In the mean time, emotions are high. Anger boils at words tweeted and political nominations put forth. Rage explodes as dreams collapse. Frustration burns at the slow movement toward justice.

These are real and understandable feelings. But they can also destroy our forward movement.

In the midst of the tension and chaotic energy swirling now, it is easy to let our differences explode into conflicts that shatter friendships and partnerships. Butting heads without listening to each other is precisely what has brought our world to this dangerous point. In order for something different and more beautiful to emerge, we women must lead by responding to clashes in relationships by hanging in there with honesty and remembering the bigger picture of our human connection.

Hanging in there doesn’t guarantee that the relationships/partnerships can always be repaired in the moment. Everyone has free choice in how they get to participate, and some differences make active partnership impossible for now. Nevertheless, when each of us personally acts compassionately and with integrity, it opens the door to something new emerging. When we enter the fray and then walk away, we close the door to the possibility for transformation.

The Women’s March organizers struggled with this. My hope is that the millions of marchers that were brought together on January 21 will take the next steps of collectively working together as we all continue to awaken to the impact of an unjust history and to the possibilities of a just future.

The march isn’t over. Every day our feet touch the floor (or our wheelchair footplates or the bed or…) and we can choose to listen to our mother bear hearts and our wise belly’s intuition and begin to weave a more equitable and just world.

I have deep gratitude to all of the women who marched in the streets or in their hearts to “stand together in solidarity with our partners and children for the protection of our rights, our safety, our health, and our families—recognizing that our vibrant and diverse communities are the strength of our country”*…and our world.

*Mission of the Women’s March on Washington

November 26, 2016December 18, 2019

3:00 a.m.

I am no stranger to middle of the night risings. Too often I am wide awake at 3 or 4 a.m., filled with a mix of fear—of real possibilities or something wild from my imagination—and creativity. For much of the fall, however, I cozily slept past my usual time of night risings.

That shifted after the election. Real fears, imagined fears and creativity all swirled together, leaving me unable to return to sleep.

Real fears threaten my dreams of justice for our world. I must continue to wake up to both historical and current realities in the world around me, laying aside well-worn sound bites of misinformation. Starting with myself, I must notice when the cultural shards of fear and hate show up inside me, and take quick action to align my heart and behavior. Then, I must speak what is mine to say and take the action that is mine to take.

Imagined fears roil one after another. Here I easily teeter at the edge of a nightmare, too paralyzed or horrified to move.

Creativity dances in the middle of it all. For decades I’ve been practicing creative ways to communicate across differences, to embrace diversity and to act in alignment with my values and heart. This moment in our nation’s history demands profound creativity. Playful innovation, even in a time of crisis, has the power to break through our divisions to let something unexpected emerge.

I have spent my entire life honing the skills and practices I will need for this very moment. Nevertheless, part of me doesn’t feel ready. But epic adventures usually start without completed preparation—Hobbit Balbo Baggins left without his pocket-handkerchief and Queen Elise was taken, kicking and screaming, wearing a silk nightgown. Their fictional adventures support my in-the-flesh adventure of living my own life.

This is a moment that requires me to stand steady in the paradoxes of this scary midnight hour. I have to hold onto my critical thinking and seek facts rather comfortable, well-worn arguments. I have to hold onto attentive, conscious listening, especially in conversations with those with whom I disagree. I have to be creative in seeking partnerships across what feels like an abyss of difference.

Years ago, in the middle of a Harvest Time sacred play ritual, I sat at a table with a group of characters. We were invited to don any of the costumes strewn around the room and come to the table dressed as the part of us that always felt excluded from the party. I don’t remember my outfit, but I clearly remember the name I gave that hidden part of myself—Abyss Walker.

Today, I honor the abyss walker part of myself. As much as I may go kicking and screaming, complaining that I am not up to the task, I know how to walk open heartedly across an abyss, the deep fissures that cut deeply across our nation and world.

First, I keep my heart open and grateful. Next, I listen—really listen—to others. This is the sort of listening I’ve been practicing in the Be Present Empowerment Model—listening to the other while simultaneously listening to myself. I need to know when the voices in my own head have grown louder than the person I am trying to listen to. Those inner thoughts are legion: My rebuttal; my fears; my corrections; my facts; and my horror. Pretending to listen when all I can hear is my own inner voice is disrespectful and leaves me with no ability to hear what is actually being said. The partnership across difference that I seek requires that I am consciously hearing the person I am listening to, and that I do whatever I need to do to keep my attention on her/him.

This sort of listening requires a level of personal responsibility that often pisses me off. It isn’t fair. Why do I have to listen so respectfully when I don’t feel respectfully listened to?

Why indeed? The only person I am responsible for is me. I have a clear choice. I can feel virtuous in my beliefs and only listen to people with whom I agree, but that choice will allow the divisions to grow and deepen. Or I can honor my values, my spirit and my faith and act in ways—in this case to listen—that flow from my deepest desire.

And yet, I can’t abdicate responsibility for showing up in the world in the fullness of my personal leadership. We need every one of us fully present, each stepping into our full leadership. I have been given a perspective and longing that must be spoken, and acted on. This is no place for silence, for playing nice.* It is a time for respectful conversations across our differences—seeking places of common ground that may be hidden by the passion of our beliefs, and refraining from demonizing the other person—all the while, sharing the perspective that is mine to share.

I have spent most of my adult life working for root level change—of our hearts, spirits and of the society. I do believe that our democracy has long been broken and filled with historical and current injustice. Profound change is needed. This election showed that millions of Americans agree that root level change is needed.

I believe that trying to change our nation from the top down, as we have done in this election, is the hardest way. But here we are. Abyss Walker will take me where the more timid parts of myself fear to tread. Who is the brave adventurer inside you, ready to lead you on the sacred path that is yours to walk for the good of our world?

*Nice is a word that has too long been held as a virtue for women, despite the fact that the origins of the word “nice” includes stupid, ignorant, incapable, silly and coy.

Novels mentioned are J.R.R Tolkien’s The Hobbit and Rae Carson’s Girl of Fire and Thorns

October 25, 2016December 18, 2019

Giving our Allegiance

It was a quiet statement, probably unnoticed by the people standing next to me. One hand holding the Sunday hymnal, one hand holding onto the church pew in front of me, knees shaking slightly at what felt like disobedience, I scanned the creeds and hymns to see which parts I could honestly say or sing. I’d decided not to speak the parts I no longer believed. It was the best way I knew to stay inside of my spiritual integrity. I knew these were ancient words, loved and honored by Christians, but I had too much respect to utter ones that no longer felt true.

Forty years later, I don’t remember exactly which phrases I refused to repeat. But I do remember the conviction that I could no longer go along with the crowd and speak what was out of alignment with my beliefs.

I’ve thought of my quiet protest, one that was heartfelt but required little public notice, in these months as people are taking similar—but very public—actions regarding our national anthem.

I know it is easy for white skinned people like me to feel included in the words of the national anthem. Francis Scott Key, the author of this anthem, believed blacks to be “a distinct and inferior race of people, which all experience proves to be the greatest evil that afflicts a community.” Most EuroAmericans at the time agreed with him.

That sort of blatant racism is rare today but it is far from gone. The black community and other communities of color have felt its brunt continuously since Key wrote the anthem. Far too slowly, racism in America is coming out of the shadows, finally forcing white skinned people to examine the generational impact of decades of redlining and limited access to education and jobs, mass incarceration disproportionately of blacks, and police shootings of unarmed black men.

Even today this nation’s laws, and how those laws are carried out, is set up to make sure that light skinned people are freer than those with darker skin. Unfortunately, our US culture still keeps us divided, thus hindering white skinned people from knowing the reality of the lives of black and brown people–and so many people who look like me deny that this injustice still exists.

Colin Kaepernick could no longer in integrity stand during the national anthem, an anthem that never included him. Neither could the Beaumont Bulls. These, and others like them, are standing in good company of those across the generations along side others who have loved the soul of America enough to call her to truly become the land of the free for everyone.

Protesting the national anthem to stand against racism and violence against black youth and adults is a brave and patriotic act. An act of the brave among us.

I am grateful. Thank you, those who kneel during the national anthem, for calling our country to finally live into the beautiful values of freedom and justice for all.

October 3, 2016December 18, 2019

All Lives Matter/Black Lives Matter

Do black lives matter?

Yes.

Do all lives matter?

Yes.

Since black lives are obviously part of all lives, why is it important to highlight that black lives matter?

In America today, blacks are far too often treated as if their lives don’t matter as much as white lives. It’s been that way for a long time, but lately it is becoming more obvious to whites like me.

It is popular for liberal white people to claim to be “colorblind,” affirming that all lives matter, regardless of color of skin, simply because we are all humans together. Unfortunately, the horrible cost of a white person being “colorblind” is that this point-of-view can effectively blind white people to injustice within housing, medicine, schools, courts, law enforcement and employment (to name a few places).

A very sophisticated system has been in place since America’s beginning to try to ensure that whites don’t notice this bias based on skin color. Whites were trained to believe that race, and “the race problem,” was a black (or non-white) thing. Consequently, as a child, it never occurred to me that I had a “race” or that the color of my skin had any affect on my life. Many of us white-skinned people paid scant attention to reports of racial injustice or saw each event as an isolated and explainable case.

Effectively woven into the structure of the United States of America from our inception is our national “race problem”—the centering of power, control and access within those with white-skinned while, in later years, trying to maintain the appearance of inclusion.

When police killed unarmed black men, one after another, Black Lives Matter rose up as a powerful corrective for democracy-loving America. The problem was clearly not just individual policemen but also bias throughout the law enforcement and court institutions. The string of killings was horrifying enough, but that wasn’t the whole story. Fellow officers didn’t stop their partner from using an illegal and deadly chokehold (Eric Garner), disrespectfully leaving the dead victim’s body on the sidewalk for overly long times (Michael Brown) and were unnecessarily harsh and heartless in their treatment of grieving families of the victims (Tamir Rice). For generations, police violence has been disproportionately used against blacks without legal consequences. America needs to start acting like black lives matter as much as white lives.

In truth, none of us is free until all of us are free. American roots were wrapped tightly around racism, sexism and classism. In that system, it was critical for one group of people—white men—to have power over everyone else. That strict hierarchy is inherent in patriarchy and structural racism, and part of the reason that we need to be reminded that black lives matter, women’s lives matter, brown lives matter, poor people’s lives matter…

It doesn’t have to be that way. As a woman, I am affected by the fact that in our culture women’s lives don’t matter as much as men’s lives. But when I assert that women’s lives matter, I am not saying that men’s lives don’t matter. Men are part of my life—my son, my husband, friends and relatives. When I stand up for women, I am standing up for justice for all.

For black Americans, the separation between black lives and white lives is often complicated. Many blacks are mixed race and have a white parent or grandparent. For a black person to say that black lives matter doesn’t mean that they believe that non-black lives don’t matter. Rather, it is a much needed corrective, a reminder that the individual and structural behaviors and beliefs need to change now, and we need to act like America knows that black lives matter.

This injustice affects the soul of America, and that includes me. My freedom, your freedom, is intimately connected to everyone being free. Working together in diverse partnerships, we must unearth, then eradicate, at its roots, the racism built into our institutions and laws.

I look forward to the day when our nation embodies the truths claimed at the founding of America—Liberty and Justice for all. For all lives to matter, we need to first heed the reminder that black lives matter.

This is one of several blogs that got its start listening to The Seattle Times Under Our Skin: What do we mean when we talk about Race? video. I wanted to explore how I would respond to their inquiry.

August 26, 2015December 18, 2019

Go Set a Watchman: Critical Warning for Whites Like Me

Atticus, To Kill a Mockingbird’s small town attorney, was one of my childhood heroes.

My girlfriends and I—white girls who rarely thought about race but considered prejudice ghastly—were deeply moved by Atticus. He was clear, inspiring and willing to stand against the racism of his Alabama neighbors.

We hadn’t noticed signs of racism around us in our white schools, churches and neighborhoods. I was glad that my family was respectful to our black maid, Mary, the only black person I knew.

We might have been polite, but none of us girls ever wondered why we carefully called all white adults by the formal Mr. or Mrs. followed by their last name yet referred to Mary by only her first name.

Oblivious to our contradictions, we distanced ourselves from the handful of openly racist students we noticed in our schools and believed that racism was on its way out.

In her recently published novel, Go Set a Watchman, Harper Lee paints a more complex—and more believable—picture of Atticus. And of us all. It is time to make room for a bigger, truer picture.

Atticus was a man of values who lived by the letter of the law. He had an unusual level of respect for all his neighbors, regardless of their behavior or skin color. In To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus honorably defended Tom Robinson, an innocent black man. Unlike many of his neighbors, who believed that any black person accused by a white person was automatically guilty, Atticus stood on the side of truth.

Go Set a Watchman takes place in the mid-1950s, two decades after To Kill a Mockingbird. In the midst of a tense disagreement with his adult daughter Scout, Atticus asks, “Do you want your children going to a school that’s been dragged down to accommodate Negro children?” (page 246)

Scout snapped back about the low quality of her white school, but I focused on Atticus’s words and cringed at his racist assumption.

Unfortunately, some white people are still asking Atticus’ question today—people who would deny that they were tainted with racism.

My friend Sarah recently bought a home in Portland. The neighborhood school where her daughters will attend is 77% non-white (45% Latino, 17% Asian, 13% Black, 23% White and 2% Native American). Many of Sarah’s acquaintances and friends have responded with surprise that she would consider sending her children to school there. Unspoken, but implied, is that this is “a school dragged down to accommodate Latino, Asian and Black children.”

Schools were more integrated 40 years ago than they are today. Sarah’s children’s school is one of the few Portland schools with marked racial diversity. As a racially diverse elementary school, their classrooms will mirror the growing racial diversity of our nation. Children can learn their A, B C’s and also be exposed to a diversity of ethnicities, perspectives and cultures.

The issues, of course, are complex. The US has a long history of some public schools—more often in whiter and wealthier neighborhoods—getting better funding, staffing and parental time and financial support than schools in less white or affluent neighborhoods. Less affluent parents often work multiple jobs, have positions with limited job flexibility and have less money to invest in programs at their schools. Though the intelligence of the students may be equivalent, the opportunities diverge widely.

I remember being a mother of young children, and I worked hard to support their education. But any time my fight focused solely on what was academically best for my children and ignored the bigger picture, I actively perpetuated inequality and segregation.

The question for Atticus and for us today is not how to make sure our white, upper middle class children get the best possible education but how, together, all children get the best possible education.

Go Set a Watchman sounds a critical warning for whites like me. We need to begin to notice racism and its impact on people of all races, including ourselves, and learn to distinguish when our racial bias is active and when it is not.

The race problem isn’t “over there across the tracks,” as I naively thought as a child. The problem is in the middle of society (including our public schools) and in the midst of our own minds. Moral outrage or a good personal conscience isn’t enough. All of our children, black and white and brown and…, are harmed by racial inequality.

Sarah’s daughters will grow up with a diversity of people I couldn’t have imagined as a young girl. In order to support her children’s thriving, Sarah was wise enough to know that she needed support and training* to hone her own skills for living values values that empower all people in the middle of a world, and a school system, that has been divided by race, gender, power and class.

Now is the moment for clear sight and honorable action as together we turn the tide toward justice and equity in our own hearts and in our nation. What does that look like for you?

*In college, Sarah used skills gleaned from the National Coalition Building Institute to present prejudice-reduction workshops for her peers. As she prepares for her oldest child to go to kindergarten, she is joining a Be Present Peer Led Support Group.

June 23, 2015December 18, 2019

Double Helix Transformation

Science has affirmed what I know intuitively—genetic changes happen throughout our lifetime, can affect our behavior and are passed from one generation to another.

In the last few decades, epigenetic research showed that epigenetic changes (molecular methyl groups attaching to our DNA) occurred during one’s lifetime. In the middle of writing Big Topics at Midnight, I discovered the work of Barbara McClintock exploring changes in a gene in response to environmental stress. In my book I noted, “Dr. McClintock had won the 1983 Nobel Prize for her discovery that stress to a corn plant caused genes to change their position on the chromosomes. She proved that genes, the genetic building blocks passed through the generations, were mutable and could be changed. If this change could happen due to stress, I presumed it could also happen due to a positive stimulus. It appeared to me that generational healing through changes in our DNA was scientifically possible.” *

When my ancestors began to share their stories with me, and then wanted them woven into my social change memoir, I knew experientially that transformation was possible not only in my own life but also genetically in my family line.

Often we trace physical characteristics back to our families: creative like Mother; stubborn like Grandfather; walk like Dad. But the similarity can also flow into emotional states: fear, anxiety, optimism. There are also behaviors to consider: control, integrity, obsessive tendencies.

In addition to family patterns, we also carry the imprint of the culture’s influence on our ancestors over the generations. For me that has included guilt around playing when there is work that needs to be done or dissatisfaction with my body. Culturally we also have the stain of sexism/patriarchy and racism/white supremacy woven into our DNA (both conscious and unconscious).

Trauma, nurture and emotional patterns of all sorts can be passed to us through our genetic make up at birth. However, genetic and epigenetic research both point to the fact that change is possible within our DNA itself and/or molecular attachments to our DNA.

Some of the characteristics I’ve inherited, I want to keep. Others I’d like to shift, such as generalized fear, feeling inadequate and unconscious use of excessive power and control sourced merely on society’s inaccurate and unjust bias toward those of us with white skin.

Every choice I make can have genetic/epigenetic consequences. When these choices and changes are sustained over a period of time, I believe they will support healthy genetic evolution.

I want that change to improve the integrity of my life, to be sure. But I also want to make changes in my life that will support generations that follow me.

Here is where my understanding boldly steps beyond scientific proof. I believe that these genetic changes move both directions in our family lines, affecting our ancestors and those descendants who are already born and those yet unborn. In addition, I believe that this shift can change the culture as well as individuals

Maybe one day science will catch up. Maybe not. Either way, I chose to believe this intuitive knowing that my efforts to shift entrenched, generational patterns—familial and societal—are part of my love and service to the world.

* Thurston, Nancy. Big Topics at Midnight (Portland, OR: Rosegate Press, 2012) pages 205 and 206.

June 12, 2015December 18, 2019

Grandmother Ann Takes the Lead

“I loved the idea of grandmother and granddaughter dancing together, plaiting beauty across the tears in the fabric of the world. Together we twirled, hoping beyond hope that our dance across the generations would serve those yet to come.”¹

Ann Cahoon Mathys take the lead:

Unlike some of my ancestors, I avoided epidemics, early widowhood, shipwrecks, Texas and prisoner of war camps.² Nevertheless, I shared my family’s determination to better life for myself and others.

After High School graduation, I bucked tradition and headed off to college. I graduated from Milwaukee Downer in 1913 with my Bachelor’s degree, and from University of Wisconsin in June of 1915.

I knew I was born for such a time as the opening years of the 20^th century. From my family’s experience as Welch immigrants to my volunteer work at Milwaukee’s Settlement House, I understood that “my people/our people” included far more than my family or nation. Many families, like mine, came to this country in the midst of tragedy and poverty, needing a compassionate helping hand. I was glad to offer mine.

Personally, and through my teachers and fellow students, I also knew that the boundaries of intellect didn’t end at the edges of a man’s mind. Despite the belief that higher education was a waste of time for a woman, I couldn’t wait to become a scholar of both the intellect and the body.

The intellectual narrow-mindedness of the world around me also needed to expand politically. I joined other Wisconsin women to fight for our right to vote. I wanted to bring my wisdom and knowledge to the legislature and make a difference in the world.

Nancy, as a child and teenager, you thought I was a boring old woman, but now you know better. I am delighted that when you came to your senses, you too caught sight of the possibility of a just world. That is good, as you are living in the early years of the 21^st century—a moment of history that is even more in need of awakening than mine.

Nancy follows Ann’s lead and steps into the dance:

Grandma, I have gladly stepped into your dance, plaiting justice and faith, compassion and equity. I know my approach and beliefs are different than yours, but we both loved to stretch the boundaries of our day and wanted to serve the larger community around us.

I knew so little about you when you were alive. Even when I walked across the stage to get my master’s degree—wearing the same gown you’d worn seventy years earlier—I knew little about the world outside my neighborhood.

I now see a bigger picture than I did during my university days. For example, I understand that doors opened for our educations because of our intelligence, to be sure, but also because of the color of our skin and the financial support from our family. Though today gender and race don’t usually affect admission, going to college too often results in substantial debt as well as a degree, strapping graduates financially for years.

The vote you helped secure wasn’t available to everyone for decades. Even today we battle voting irregularities and gerrymandering. The candidates on our ballots are just beginning to cross gender and color lines but have been much slower to cross class lines.

We as a nation seem to have forgotten that most of us came here as immigrants. Over the years our national racism controlled who was welcome—usually those with white skin—and who was not. We Americans enjoy the fruits of immigrants’ labor eating the food they grew, traveling the roads and railroad tracks they constructed, enjoying motel rooms and houses they cleaned—then turn around and threaten deportation, pay unjust wages or speak as if these newer immigrants are lazy.

In the midst of these two centuries, we’ve both listened for the song of justice playing beneath the inequities. This month it has been 125 years since your birth and 100 years since you graduated with your master’s degree. I am delighted to reach for your hand once more, and join you in the dance of Life.

¹Thurston, Nancy, Big Topics at Midnight, page xviii

²Ann would love to share the details about these events at another time…