Facing Facts.
Facing Facts.
I’m writing with a sense of urgency. A sense of need. And I know what it’s like when I get like this — when the words spill out of me. It…
I’m writing with a sense of urgency. A need. And I know what it’s like when I get like this — when the words spill out of me. It feels raw. It feels real. I’m no longer curating myself, subconsciously or otherwise. I’m just being. And there are pitfalls of that, of course — or at least, there may be. But this is the price that I, we, pay for authenticity.
And breathe. A reckoning. I want to do more. I need to do more.
Pretty words are just not good enough. They are implicitly, intrinsically, performative. We use words to explain and justify what action alone, with all its myriad opportunities for (mis)interpretation, cannot.
I cannot sit and watch.
As someone who carries trauma with her every single day, as someone who has (had to learn) to sit with her own pain, and as someone who has had to do so her whole life… I care deeply about injustice. Inequality. Suffering. I care deeply about this, about what’s going on, about moving beyond inept but well-intentioned gestures to drive real change. Because Black Lives Matter is so much more than a cute hashtag.
I know that I will never understand this type of pain, this type of trauma, what it means and feels like to be a Black person in a world that instinctively, intrinsically, has been built to prefer white — but I also hope (and perhaps this is just hope at this point) that at some level this doesn’t matter. That this doesn’t have to inhibit me or us.
Because what I do understand is pain. What we do understand is pain. What we as human beings have in common is an intrinsic awareness of and wish to avoid pain and suffering. What we have in common, for better or worse, is fear.
And what I am processing and trying to reconcile myself with right now is how best to approach my own and other people’s fears. What’s going on is destabilising, and we are all at different points in our journeys. We all come at this from different places. I am lucky — privileged, even —in so, so many ways, but what I would like to focus on here is the privilege I hold around having had the opportunity and space to deeply reflect on myself and my identity in ways that many have not up until this point.
I can hold multiple apparently contradictory truths in mind simultaneously and accept them as is. I can understand that I am racist without internalising the judgement, shame and self-hatred that comes with this label. And my ability to do so is what will allow me to continue in my work to actively be and become anti-racist.
I’ve had some really difficult, frustrating and painful conversations over the past few days. Conversations that have left me feeling emotionally exhausted and despairing. If this is how I feel as an ally, advocate, bystander and perpetrator, I cannot even imagine what this must feel like for my Black brothers and sisters. For all my inept phrasing, for all the ways in which I, too, contribute to the problem and for all I have to change and learn in myself — I hope you can see and feel that I am committed to this process. My heart goes out to you.
What I have been reconciling myself with is the fact that I cannot change other people’s minds, and that this is their own process to reckon with. I am not, and cannot be, a a saviour — whether of Black or white people. That’s not my job. That’s not my responsibility. My responsibility is to work on myself and lead by example. We cannot force people to change, and often using force is counterproductive.
Yet where does the backlash come from? Fear. Just fear.
Misplaced fear (in my opinion), but fear nonetheless.
And I can understand that even if I don’t agree with it. I can do my bit to challenge it, and challenge others in the process, and stand up for and speak out about what’s ‘right’, but I cannot do other people’s work for them.
And maybe a part of me wishes that I could.
But this is important too: compassion. An ability to transcend your, our, circumstances and trust that something good, something meaningful, something better will come of this pain.
Empathy creates community.
In the words of the late Ram Dass, “we are all just walking each other home.”
Sending love, peace, strength and hope to all beings.
It’s the least I can do.