bethreflects

When I first started writing these reflections, one motivation was my frustration with how I saw Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day being observed (or rather, not observed) and trying to find a way to bring more gravity to the day in my own life. Now, twenty years later, I am still writing each year to ground myself in the values of the Civil Rights Movement with the resolve to continue to contribute to the ongoing work today. And I am less concerned about how individuals mark Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and more concerned with how we honor the legacy of the Civil Rights Movement every day.

I sometimes use a training activity to introduce the concept of implicit bias using bumper stickers. I show rotating images of different kinds of bumper stickers – from political to religious to silly.  I ask people to pay attention to their reactions as the bumper stickers scroll – any feelings, thoughts, images that come to mind. We debrief the activity by talking about the associations and assumptions we make, which usually generates good discussion. 

One of the bumper stickers I often include is an image of Dr. King with his hands up, being arrested. Next to the image are the words “Hands Up, Don’t Shoot. Black Lives Matter.” I’ve done this activity with folks in different parts of Colorado and the rest of the country. And often there is one person in the group that will mention that particular bumper sticker as one that stood out to them because they were offended by the use of Dr. King’s image with Black Lives Matter. Often the refrain is something along the lines of “that’s not what King stood for.” My experience has been that the person saying this is always white. While earnest in their reaction, I’ve been struck by the pattern. And the danger in what their reaction belies.

It is a danger we see every year at this time as people mark Dr. King’s birthday with quotes and platitudes devoid of the original context and molded to fit each individual’s worldview. The idea that King’s legacy is not inextricably linked to the current day fight to dismantle systemic racism feels outrageous, and yet, there it is. As we get further away from King’s life, we must protect against the ways his legacy is being perversely used to maintain the status quo. 

Dr. King is not a mirror where we can see whatever version of him we want reflected back. His legacy is not a cloak we can put on as comfort against the painful realities of our current struggle. We cannot look away from that pain and struggle.

We cannot forget that when Dr. King was alive, and at the time of his murder, he was not universally loved. During Dr. King’s time, a majority of people in the United States had a negative opinion of him and did not believe he was helping the Civil Rights cause. And after his death, a third of people in the U.S. even said he brought his assassination on himself. And, of course, The Civil Rights Movement was a protest movement, not universally supported or understood. 

Contrast that with the prolific use of his quotes and imagery and references to him today, not just on this holiday, but throughout the year, most regularly as a political tool and weapon. As time moves on, King’s legacy is often presented as if he spoke, shared a dream and everyone collectively said “Oh yeah, definitely, let’s do that.”  

Some of this is cynical political machinations; for others it is a sincerely held, misinformed understanding of King and the Civil Rights Movement (often informed by the cynical political machinations). And it matters, especially in our current reality.

We are living in a time where the false flag of Critical Race Theory is being used to stop the teaching of our nation’s history and promote not only an adulterated version of Dr. King but of the country’s history of systemic racism. We are living during a time when voting rights are being attacked and dismantled, threatening our democracy. We are living in a pandemic that continues to lay bare the systemic inequities of racism and classism. We are living in a society where the majority of our youth attend segregated schools and opportunity is predicted by zip code. All of these are part of the mechanisms to maintain the status quo of systemic racism. 

I hope that this Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, we will root ourselves in Dr. King’s legacy of disrupting the status quo and reject the current distorted use of his life’s work. 

In 2003 I wrote, “MLK Jr. was a pretty prolific writer and orator during his short life and he has much to say that is relevant to the world we face today: issues not just of racism but equity, socio-economics and war. Unfortunately, years after King’s assassination, concerns of civil liberties and freedom, racism and prejudice, fear and strife are very relevant in our lives.” Well, it’s now been fifty-three years since his assassination and the sentiment remains true. I hope that we’ll go back to the source- not just quotes and memes- but King’s speeches, sermons and writings. 

In them, we will find not a mirror but a clear picture of a movement for equity and civil rights that continues its fight today.

One final note:

Speaking of the fight today, Dr. King’s family has called on us to take action on voting rights, urging people to “call on Congress to enact changes to elections law nationwide, rather than honoring Dr. King with celebrations on the federal holiday that marks his birthday.” Contact your United States Senators and encourage them to support The Freedom to Vote: John R. Lewis Act when it comes up for a vote. You can learn more about how to advocate for this important right:

https://www.stopjimcrow2.com/

https://action.aclu.org/send-message/congress-protect-our-voting-right

https://p2a.co/PBvkmWI

The other day, I was talking to my friend Esther about the strange feeling of living through history. I know that technically everything becomes history and yet our current time is one that we know will be written about in history books. And I know that I personally am having a hard time processing all that it means amidst the mundane aspects of life – homework and dishes and grocery shopping – that still require attention.   

We are all carrying this heaviness of simply living in the midst of all that has transpired just in the last year: a President impeached (twice), a global pandemic, the renewed reckoning of our country’s racial injustice and terror after the murder of George Floyd and far too many more, and now we are faced with the fragility of democracy with an attempted insurrection and heightened fear as we ready for the inauguration. I confess I do not know how to make sense of it all. 

And so I’ve been trying to anchor myself in the things that feel more tangible; in places where I feel some sense of control. I reread my reflections since 2016 and found themes around how I’ve tried to make meaning of our current time and engage in action in the past four years.  And then, about a week ago, a friend on Facebook, Nimita, shared this:

And it helped crystallize for me one of those tangible anchors and choices I can make right now. I can choose to actively engage with other white folks to address our racism, rather than stay comfortable in my “bubble.” So this year’s post is for us white people, specifically. I am focusing on guiding reminders to keep me focused on dismantling racism in myself, in others and in our institutions. 

Passive pronouncements are just that… passive

We know (and were reminded this week) that social media is a powerful tool. It also fools us into thinking we’re “doing” more than we are. Passive pronouncements of our values, like “If you support racism, we’re not friends,” are still passive. And there is nothing more passive than telling someone “unfriend me.” That’s not even doing the work of actively hitting the unfriend button. And it certainly doesn’t do anything tangible to address racism. But it may delude us into thinking we’ve “taken a stand.” The same is true offline when we simply stop talking or engaging with others. Or when we join in calling out other white people and taking comfort in the fact that “we’d never do anything like that” or “we are appalled by that behavior.”  

Motivation matters

Especially in the last four years, I have seen and heard, as well as thought to myself, countless versions of “I told them the facts. I told them they’re racist and they didn’t change. I’m done.”  When my motivation is to change someone else, I almost always end up dissatisfied with the results. I have set myself up, because -simply put- I don’t have control over others.  

What I can do is offer an alternative, another perspective. If my motivation is to engage, my energy is different: I ask questions and seek to understand (not agree, but understand). I can recognize and engage with the cognitive dissonance and the resistance in others, when I remember that I’ve experienced them myself. 

Seeing myself 

White people, we are really good at playing the “I’m a good white person” game and trying to distance ourselves from other white people. But we must not be fooled; this is just another version of “rugged individualism” that maintains white supremacy. Separating myself from other white people serves my ego, not the cause.

When I find myself in that space, I will try to see myself in the other person and ask myself: How am I like them? When have I felt that way? In many ways, dismantling racism is an attempt to dismantle our own foundation. The desire to protect oneself, to take a defensive posture is understandable. I didn’t get to any place in  my journey on my own; I should not expect others to do so either. 

Reframe accountability 

As a society we don’t seem to know how to hold people accountable outside of a purely punitive context, without opportunity for repair or change. I think that’s why so many of our reactions are some version of “you’ve done bad, I banish you.” I am trying to reframe accountability and find ways to hold people accountable while holding on to their humanity as well as my own. That means being clear about the impact of their words or actions without denigrating them as people. It means requiring taking responsibility for their impact while leaving opportunity to repair. It means remembering that “we are all more than the worst thing we’ve done.” (Bryan Stevenson). 

Expect failure

If my fortitude is predicated on success, I will not persist. 

In addition to reframing accountability, I must also look at what it means to hold myself accountable –  to continue to make moral choices regardless of the immediate outcome, to persist through risk and failure. Sixty years after the Civil Rights Movement, I think Dr. King’s legacy is often condensed into his successes. And yet the reality is that there was never any certainty that the movement would be successful. For me, Dr. King’s legacy is in the continued effort, despite failures, despite risk.  

When I was in graduate school, my mentor and advisor, Mari Strombon Johnson once told me – referring to equity and inclusion training- “one person has to hear something 32 times before it will stick.”  Which means that there has to be 32 “messengers” willing to deliver the message to that one person. Thirty-two wasn’t a scientific number, but rather a reminder that we had to be in it for the long haul. Her point was that if you’re the 32nd messenger, the payoff is immediate, with the recipient responding with some version of “I get it” and it is easy to feel successful. More often than not, we will be messengers #1 – 31, delivering the message, getting resistance, offering a different way and trusting someone else will continue after us. There is no “payoff,” only hope that it will come. This also helps to keep me from slipping into the dreaded posture of “white savior” and a misplaced and dangerous belief that I alone must (and can) take it all on. 

Intentional engagement

For many of us, social media algorithms create echo chambers that manipulate us into thinking that everyone is already with us. Add in the bubble creator of a different kind- COVID- and we may be even more isolated. In these cases, rather than think “well thank goodness I don’t have those friends,” we may need to be more intentional and take additional effort to engage.

I also have taken note and understand the critique by some BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color) that white people are wasting our time with proverbial “racist uncles” and should focus instead on systemic change. I think it’s a both/and: we can engage with individuals one-on-one and choose to focus on systemic changes where we can have influence. We can address systems through our places of work, schools, religious institutions and organizations where we volunteer. There is no limit to the places where we can ask hard questions, challenge and hold leaders accountable, take risks, and address racial inequities. In many cases, a big part of that work is engaging with other white people. We do not need to compartmentalize, nor should we. However, we can and should be intentional about where we can have the most impact. None of us can do it all. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do something. 

I’m not naive. I am not suggesting that it is as simple as talking to someone. There are real challenges and a strong hold of disinformation, stridency and division. AND I also know that if as white people we turn away and simply wash our hands of other white people, while patting ourselves on the back in our circle of other “anti-racists,” we are most certainly not engaging in anti-racism. 

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day is one day. For me, it is a moment for reflection and recommitment. This year it is a day to pause and consider the places where I falter. And remind and recommit myself to the ongoing work that remains, every single day.  I hope you will join me.

The first time I remember learning about the Civil Rights Movement and the people involved, I was in middle school. I had to do a book report on a biography and I chose Coretta Scott King.  I was what many would have described as a voracious reader and remember middle school as a time of realization for me about a number of societal issues- historical and modern day. I began developing my personal values and social justice convictions through those stories and books.  

However, it was when I entered college at Texas A&M University in the early 1990s, that I first learned about Civil Rights leader, John Lewis. I was particularly taken because he was a teenager when he got involved in the Civil Rights Movement. And when he participated in the Freedom Rides and lead the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, he was the same age as I was in college.

I was enthralled with his bravery and drawn to his commitment, while embarrassed by my relative lack of “doing” at the same age. He ignited in me a dual sense of inspiration and inadequacy, that I still carry today. He was not just a historical figure; at that time, he was still involved in the fight as a Congressperson more than thirty years later. It was even more compelling to me that he had not put his marching shoes away and continued to get into what he called “good trouble.” He continued to march and fight for what he believed. 

I wasn’t someone who put Tiger Beat pictures on my walls or obsessed about the latest teen heartthrob. John Lewis was the closest thing for me of a “celebrity crush.” More accurately, I described him as my hero. And I still do today.

Fast forward to the early 2000s and I was working in education at the ADL. I found out that John Lewis would be speaking at the ADL’s National Leadership Meeting in Washington, DC – an event that education staff did not typically attend. I got permission to hear him speak at an ADL event, if I paid my own way, so I did. And after his speech, I snuck out and ran down the hallway of the hotel to shake his hand and get a picture with him. It was my “fangirl” moment and one of the best memories of my life.

However, I think it is important to reflect a bit more. This shouldn’t be understood just a story of my brush with my favorite “celebrity.” When I first learned about John Lewis, I had the feeling of connection and awe – the realization of what someone so young can accomplish and I think it was natural for me to try to see myself in him. Beyond that, I was taken by the other young people who were at the heart of the Civil Rights Movement. I tried to imagine myself in that space and time. Would I have had the courage that they did? What would I have done in the face of hatred, vitriol and injustice?  

Many people look at historical events and imagine themselves as among the heroes. They assume that they would have been on the “right side” of history. The reality is that there were far fewer people engaged in the Civil Rights Movement, or any other resistance movement, than those who either opposed it actively or were complacent.

And that is what I had to come to terms with. I was drawn to my hero because I wanted to see myself in him. I felt motivated by his story because I felt an affinity with his youth. I wanted so much to connect with the cause and relate to the people being oppressed; to relate to my hero. Yet, there was something that I had to reconcile.  

My race. My race as group membership. My race as a key element of my experience in the world.   

The reality is that my people – white people – are the oppressors in that history. I know that there were white folks who fought alongside black people during the Civil Rights Movement, but to only see myself in them and not in all the people who fought to maintain the status quo through laws, resistance, violence and complacency is dishonest and disingenuous. If I truly wanted to emulate the values of my hero, I first had to acknowledge who I am. 

And that has been my journey. To reconcile the ways that I benefit and reinforce white privilege and white supremacy, despite my beliefs and values is ongoing and hard. 

And it is mandatory, if I want to honor John Lewis and his legacy of good trouble. 

So, the reality is that I don’t know what I would have done in the Civil Rights Movement. It is much easier to cast myself as a character in the past – through a lens of history that makes everything and everyone more neatly defined – than to understand myself as a character in the present- where the view is much murkier. 

Mass incarceration of black and brown bodies. Police brutality. Detention camps and children in cages at the border. Racism and xenophobia as foundations to our current immigration policies. Looming prospect of war with Iran. Islamophobia as a foreign policy. Presidential impeachment. Anti-semitic attacks and hate crimes. The loss of protections for LGBTQ+ youth and the rolling back of progress we thought was institutionalized. The ongoing natural disasters in Puerto Rico magnified by the racist policies undergirding US treatment of its citizens. The murder rate of trans women, especially Black trans women. 

These and other injustices are all happening now. And that dual sense of inspiration and inadequacy are still with me today. Every day, I don’t know that I am doing enough. And I often allow myself to get stuck in feelings of helplessness. I am not at all sure that the lens of history will view me favorably. That’s the honest truth. And it is also true that I feel compelled to continue to try. 

I remain inspired by John Lewis’ life and legacy. I said that John Lewis is a hero. He is. But hero as a noun feels too passive a description. For John Lewis is really defined by doing, by getting into “good trouble.” John Lewis isn’t just a hero, he heroes (active, present tense). He has heroed every day for over 60 years. 

And he is a model for how each of us can choose actions to “hero” everyday, too. I endeavor to engage in actions each day that align with my highest ideals and cause “good trouble” – rooted in my identities. with my flaws. with conviction. 

I don’t always get it right. I fail a lot.

And with that mixture of inspiration and inadequacy, I promise to try again tomorrow.

 

 

Exhausted. Angry. Depressed. Resigned. Frustrated. Cynical.

I have felt all of these over the last year. I know you have too.

In the face of the explicit and constant hate, it can feel overwhelming and demoralizing.  The harm and deaths at the hands of hate are devastating. A lot of the rhetoric and energy over the past few months has focused on combatting hate. It is important and compelling.

And yet, as we approach Martin Luther King Jr. Day, the message most clear in my heart is this: the absence of hate does not equal the absence of racism. Or sexism. Or discrimination against trans people. Or the end of oppression for any marginalized group.

My concern is that a single focus on hate lulls us into ignoring the persistence of the system. If we truly ended hate, of course it would be positive. All of us would rejoice in a world that would surely see less vitriol and less violence. We would see the end of the singular extreme acts which many people have come to understand as racism. But we would not see the end of racism. Because hate and hate incidents are not the same as systemic oppression.

Hate did not create systemic racism. Hate did not create persistent educational inequity. Hate did not create the school to prison pipeline. Hate did not create the gender gap. Despite the horrible rhetoric we hear coming from the President, hate does not inform the country’s immigration policy which persistently marginalizes and injures people of color[i].  Hate does not maintain inequities in health care or real estate.

Ending hate is too low a bar.

And I fear that our attention on “hate” serves as a distraction.  It deludes us into believing that we are fighting the “good fight” without addressing the “good people” who maintain the system.  And white folks, the singular focus on hate serves us.

The idea that hate is the ultimate motivator of racism is cultivated to maintain the status quo.  By framing it this way, most white people feel exempt from any personal responsibility for racist behavior (“I don’t hate people of color”) while simultaneously feeling righteous in condemning individual examples of hate (“That rhetoric was abhorrent! I would never use that language”).

It’s a cycle that replicates itself and distracts from the racism operating every day. In other words, the stubborn insistence in the belief that racism is an individual act fueled by hate serves to maintain and feed systemic racism in our society.

If you’re starting to feel defensive or angry, please stay with me. I want to remind you of an important point I have written about in previous years that bears repeating: You do not need to be a person of ill will to perpetuate racism. The dichotomy of racist (bad person) and non-racist (good person) does not truly exist. You can be a good person and engage in racist behavior.

Robin DiAngelo writes “The most effective adaptation of racism over time is the idea that racism is conscious bias held by mean people. This ‘good/bad binary,’ positing a world of evil racists and compassionate non-racists, is itself a racist construct, eliding systemic injustice and imbuing racism with such shattering moral meaning that white people, especially progressives, cannot bear to face their collusion in it.[ii]” So, if we stayed locked in the belief that acknowledging our racist thoughts or behavior makes us bad people, we will be perpetually stuck.

And we will not see any meaningful change in our society. We will not see King’s dream fulfilled. We will not see the arc of the universe bend towards justice. We will not see the fruition of any of the other sentiments expressed around MLK Day each year, sentiments that become mere platitudes absent true reflection and action.

And what is that action?  The compelling antidote to hate we’re told is love. I don’t dismiss the power of love. But I do believe that we must interrogate what we mean by “love.” What is love? Is it simply an idea? A sentiment? What kind of love?

King himself distinguishes between types of love: “eros” – romantic love, “philia” – love for personal friends and “agape”- understanding, creative, redemptive good will toward all people[iii]. I gravitate towards Cornel West’s belief that “justice is what love looks like in public.” These manifestations of love – Agape. Justice. – assume action. They are verbs, not nouns.

And that action includes turning inward. This love challenges our perceptions of self and engages in the hard work of recognizing our part in perpetuating racism.

The kind of love worthy of fulfilling the promise of MLK’s dream is love which seeks to be much more than an antidote to hate, but instead, a force against oppression.

 

Endnotes:

[i] https://scholarship.law.berkeley.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1264&context=blrlj

[ii] https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/a-sociologist-examines-the-white-fragility-that-prevents-white-americans-from-confronting-racism?fbclid=IwAR2kM9lTSnNhCkNIFzPxWksaJeKdUaZucQtRkKLjxi9PyTSju4aOnaovjBY

[iii] “A Christmas Sermon on Peace,” Martin Luther King, Jr, 1967

I’ll be honest; I don’t know what to write.  It’s Sunday morning and I’m still drafting a reflection.  Usually I’ve been writing down notes for the past week and have it written by Friday.  This year, I feel stuck and sad and unsure and overwhelmed.

I am sad for many reasons. Most on my mind is the death of a wonderful person, Daryl Miller, who passed this week. Damn cancer.  I had the pleasure of getting to know and work with him through WPC and The Matrix Center at UCCS.  He was an amazing, sweet, kind person and he was also such a compassionate, thoughtful and committed “drum major” for justice (to quote King).  Truly. I don’t describe him that way lightly. This is not just a personal loss which brings waves of emotions, chief among them grief and regret; his was a loss to the world which feels even more devastating in our current times.

We need more Daryls.

Part of me just wants to end with that.

Because it’s true. And because I am unsure what to write that is useful and adds value. I am increasingly weary of platitudes and earnest, but ultimately useless, laments.

I am having trouble striking the right tone- each year I work hard to be contemplative and encouraging without coming off as self-righteous or too strident.  Partly this is strategic- people are more likely to read and be open to the content that way-  however, if I’m honest it’s also because part of me wants to be liked and I think that if I come off too strong, I’ll turn people off.  (This comes from a ton of gender messaging about how women/femme folks are supposed to behave. Plenty to analyze there, but I’ll save that for another time.)

At any rate, part of my trouble writing is that this year I don’t feel particularly conciliatory.  So rather than write from a place of suggestions and self-reflection, I’m just going to pretend like you asked and tell you what I really think.

This past year we had plenty of stark examples of how discrimination and oppression operate as systems in our country.  From the battle over who should be valorized and set as our heroes in bronze or stone (and what history we choose to tell) to the high-profile demise of powerful men engaged in sexual harassment and assault to the daily explicit examples of racism, we are surrounded.

While these are hard to ignore, they make it easier to ignore our own complicity. Make it easier to feel smug in our horror at what is happening and to ignore our own behavior.

By way of example, after allegations began to make headlines and it became clear that these were not isolated instances, and all could not be blamed on Harvey Weinstein, most men I know shook their heads and decried the behavior.  And that was it. That is not enough.

Men, you’ve ignored a sexist comment, you’ve laughed at a crude joke about women even when it made you feel uncomfortable, you were surprised when you encountered a woman in charge, you’ve ignored when a mediocre man was given a promotion and have acted out of an internalized belief that men are superior.

I know this because as I white person I have done the same around race.  Now it’s been a long time since I’ve let a racist joke go by, true, but that’s a pretty low bar folks.  Plus, the explicit is often actually easier to address and feel self-righteous about.  It’s all the other ways that I participate in the system that is the more insidious problem. Racism doesn’t happen because of individual racists.  Racism happens because of a system made up of individuals who are complicit.  As a white person, if I don’t understand my role in racism and don’t tangibly embrace racism as MY problem then it doesn’t matter how much head shaking and outrage-professing I engage in.

That goes for you too- in all the ways that you ignore discrimination and oppression because they don’t target your identity.

If all that happens is statues come down and we don’t talk about what they truly mean in terms of not just our history but our present, then nothing has changed beyond the symbolic.

If all that happens is men lose their jobs and we shake our heads, then the system doesn’t change.

If all that happens is that we read a list of names of people murdered, targeted because of bias towards their trans identity, but don’t seek to change the systemic reasons why transgender people are more vulnerable to violence, then nothing has changed.

If all that happens is we share disgust with the racist policies enacted and maintained by our government and do not demand change through all venues available as a democracy, then the status quo is maintained.

If all that happens is that we share some Martin Luther King, Jr. quotes out of context and don’t actually seek to dismantle racism in its current form, then it was just a holiday.

It’s time to RESOLVE.  Resolve to DO something. Resolve to TAKE actions.  Some of you already have.  It doesn’t hurt to do it again.

So, resolve. Today, every damn day, resolve.

White folks, resolve to make racism your issue.

Men and male-identified, resolve to makes sexism your issue.

Middle class and upper middle class, resolve to make classism your issue.

Cisgender folks, resolve to make transphobia your issue.

Straight folks, resolve to make heterosexism your issue.

Able-bodied, resolve to make disability rights your issue.

On and on.

RESOLVE.

 

The U.S. Department of Justice and the U.S. Department of Education just released an important document: guidance on school discipline that reaffirms what many of us have been concerned about for years- the disproportionate discipline rate of students of color and its contribution to what has been called the “school to prison pipeline.” It is no small thing to read a document from the federal government which states in plain language that “discrimination in school discipline is a real problem. ” It included data from the Civil Rights Data Collection (CRDC) that found African-American students without disabilities are more than three times as likely as their white peers to be suspended or expelled from school and that “the substantial racial disparities of the kind reflected in the CRDC data are not explained by more frequent or more serious misbehavior by students of color.”

This is important. This is recognition of the systemic nature of racism and its real consequences.

This makes clear that it is an issue that spans the country: across states, across both big cities and small towns, across school districts, across economic status.

And it is important because it lays bare the myth that racism is simply an act of “bad” individuals. No one can suggest that every school system across the country is made up of hardened, blatant racists who are intentionally discriminating.

No, we must understand that racism is much more pernicious than that.

Let me share a story:
A few months back I was visiting S at school during lunch. It was the end of the lunch period and the first grade children were lining up. The first child in line was a young African American boy. He was a little fidgety, but no more than any other first grader trying to stand still in line. The lunch monitor turned around, locked in on him and his fidgety body, and told him to get out of line and to sit at a table for the kids who “got in trouble.” He tried to protest that he didn’t do anything. The lunch monitor ignored his protests, just as she had ignored the two white girls talking and giggling behind him in line. The teacher came and his “behavior” was reported and once again he attempted to protest and was rebuffed. And then, as he realized it was futile, his shoulders slumped, his head dropped and a look of resignation settled into his face. It was a resignation that it didn’t matter what he said and it didn’t matter that he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. It was resignation that things were often not fair, not for him. I watched his face transform in a moment from indignation to resignation and it broke my heart.

Now, some of you will read that paragraph and immediately recognize the scene. You can see the moment and the look. And you understand.

Others will read it and the disagreement or justification will start in your head. The “buts” of argument. “but… you don’t know that was about race.” Or “but… being a lunch monitor or teacher is hard, they miss things sometimes.” Or “but… that’s just one situation.”

I don’t blame you. You’re right. I can’t prove to you that race was the heart of that encounter. And the lunch monitor? She’s not a “bad” person. In fact, if asked I am positive that she would protest and truly believe that race was not a factor. And it was just one situation, one moment.

The reality is that those single moments can almost always be “butted” away. And they are. All the time. Unless the presence of racism is blatant, it is so easy to dismiss (and even sometimes when it is blatant, we still do our best to deny).

And that’s how you have undeniable evidence of racial disparity in our schools without the recognition of individual acts of racism or identifiable racists.

And that’s because as a country as a whole, and in our media, we don’t understand racism in its complexity.

Racism is systemic, institutional, pernicious, deadly, engrained and unconscious. It is hypocritical and inconsistent: sometimes sneaky, sometimes bold, both subtle and blatant. It is empowered when ignored and emboldened when denied. (And so it thrives).

And racism is stubborn and entrenched because it requires deliberate engagement to be dismantled.

That’s why the Department of Education’s Guidance Letter is both so important and so meaningless. It states the issue so plainly but its remedy is not. Because, until everyone connected to the school system is willing to look hard at themselves and ask truly tough questions, and until each school staff person is willing to entertain the notion that they are engaged in the perpetuation of a racial inequity, whether conscious or not, those statistics will remain.

But this issue isn’t just about school teachers or staff. And it’s not an indictment. I am privileged to know and work with many dedicated, reflective educators committed to equity, including those at S’s school.

No, it’s about all of us. The entire community has to hold ourselves accountable, examine our own prejudices and ask ourselves hard questions. Who do we see as the “troublemakers?” How do we define “good” schools? How do you talk about “those kids” or “diversity”? Do we explain away racial issues with vague notions of good intentions? Will we be honest with ourselves? Will we require others to be honest as well?

If we do not, then we have chosen resignation that racism will continue to systematically disenfranchise our kids of color.

And ultimately here’s the point: the boy in the cafeteria? He was right. He didn’t do anything wrong. But I did. I watched it and didn’t speak up for him. I didn’t say anything because I felt uncomfortable interfering. I told myself it wasn’t my place.

That, too, is how racism is perpetuated.

So I am holding myself accountable.

This MLK Day, I refuse to be resigned.

Last weekend I was in Nashville attending a board retreat for a non-profit. On Sunday afternoon, I shared a taxi to the airport with two other board members. As soon as we got into the taxi, the driver started talking a mile a minute, talking about himself and punctuating every couple sentences with “seriously” and “no kidding, ladies.” I smiled at “L” the person sitting next to me and was secretly happy I wasn’t “P,” the “lucky woman” who was sitting up front in the passenger seat next to the loquacious drive.

“P” and I got out at the airport together. I said something about the taxi driver being a talker. P responds “My kids would have told me to stop asking question.” Then she paused and said “I think some people just want to be heard…in all these years there has never been a time when I didn’t learn something.” Then we said goodbye and went to on our way to our respective gates.

But her words had me rooted back in that moment. What she said was so simple and so powerful. “Some people just want to be heard.” I was humbled.

I started to think about who gets heard. And it made me think about the upcoming Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday and what it represents. Part of King’s importance was that he was an amplified voice for so many others who were not heard. He was the voice of those oppressed by our country’s long history of racism, segregation and Jim Crow. His voice was really the fervent chorus of thousands, and through him, an entire movement was heard. And that voice continues to echo today – continuing to remind us of the meaning and importance of the Civil Rights Movement.

But who are the people who are not heard today, even through a representative voice? In our country (and certainly the world) there are so many people and groups who, no matter how loud they raise their voice, are not heard. People ignored because they lack the agency of voice. People dismissed because of race, class, status, sexual orientation, gender identity, ability, religion, age or other aspects of their identity. People we choose not to hear.

We know that there absolutely is power in being heard. There is also power in truly hearing.

There are so many obstacles in our society and in our lives which interfere with listening. The constant, dismissive accusation that anyone who tries to address race in the public sphere is playing “the race card” stops us from hearing. The ubiquitous use of “media round tables” where everyone stakes out a side instead of putting stake in dialogue stops us from hearing. A media driven by profit, instead of human interest, and that chooses what is deemed as “noise” and what is worthy or attention, keeps us from hearing. The equation of money with power in politics prevents us from hearing. Our own hubris and privilege, which interferes with human connection, also interferes with our ability to hear. The absence of empathy shuts out the voices we most need to hear.

So, this Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I share the simple, powerful wisdom of my colleague “P” and ask: who will you hear and whose voice will we collectively demand be given agency and amplification?

For my part, as a starting point,

I will hear the anger expressed by my friend and colleague, Jason, who is fiscally impacted every pay check by a federally-codified discrimination (Defense of Marriage Act) which says that, as a gay man, he must be taxed for the privilege of providing his partner with medical insurance while straight couples are not. I honor his voice and recognize the daily impact of inequality.

I will hear the pleas of the high school student, Cesiah Trejo, who spoke at a press conference for the ASSET bill on Tuesday. Cesiah has lived in Colorado since she was a young child and cannot fulfill her dream of attending college, because she is undocumented. I will honor her voice and raise my own to pass the ASSET bill in Colorado and the DREAM Act nationally.

I will hear the choked voice of young men of color trapped in devastating mass incarceration policies resulting in African Americans being imprisoned at nearly six times the rate of whites, and Latinos at nearly double the rate.

I will hear the stories of a taxi driver in Nashville who immigrated to the United States in the seventies and wants to be heard. I will honor his voice by asking you to do the same.