I live in a multi- faith retirement community where one requirement for entrance has always been that one has made a significant long-time commitment to peace, justice, and/or the environment. We have sometimes been referred to as “The Conscience” of our town, since all of us continue to work hard and creatively toward a better world for all. And we do work hard.
So right now, the issue of racial justice and police violence is on our front burner, and if we weren’t already confined to our homes by Covid-19, our evening walks – – with masks – – were curtailed by a countywide 5 PM to 6 AM curfew in the face of the LA riots. We think of little else than the mob violence that has tarnished the peaceful demonstrations not far from us. When we aren’t watching local TV stations or listening to NPR for news, we are discussing those issues on our community Google group. Nearly everyone chimes in with their personal story. “I was on the march across the bridge,” writes one resident. “My arm was broken by the local police during the Chicago riots, ” writes another. “I tutored middle schoolers for years,” writes another. “My church ran an active social service center for the homeless,” says another.
I have my stories, too, I think to myself. I tick off on my fingers the Cambodian war survivors, the black Amerasian, the troubled teenagers that I foster parented or adopted. I know what it’s like to give my beautiful brown skinned son “The Talk.” I remember my terror when we were separated on a crowded New York City bus, seeing a deranged homeless white gentleman verbally assault him, and knowing that if the police were called, my son would end up at Riker’s Island for years before being charged.
But something doesn’t feel quite right about my impulse to share those stories. I think back on my many years as a hospital teaching chaplain. While it might have been helpful to tell a neighbor or good friend, “I know how you feel,” that statement could demolish a pastoral relationship. The best thing I did as a chaplain was to listen and to keep my mouth shut. If I absolutely could not tolerate that tension, I would say, “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
So now I wonder why we are so eager to tell OUR stories to those who have been beaten down for generations by violence and injustice. It feels akin to a grown-up version of the childhood claim, “I have an owie, too, as big as yours.” As a Catholic lay woman, systemic justice is always before me, but I have never been denied a home that I could otherwise afford, in a neighborhood that I liked. I have never been followed by security officers while shopping. I have never been pulled out of my car and arrested for driving with a faulty headlight. I have never had a teacher called me “stupid,” or refuse to help me with a lesson I found difficult. None of my schoolmates were ever shot to death. I’ve never spent whole years in solitary confinement.
It may be that the fairly recent recognition of white privilege might change the dialogue. With 200 years of being on top, I’m pretty pessimistic. Nevertheless, I found myself on the verge of contributing my stories to our Google discussion this afternoon when something stopped me. Of course, the difficult years are long behind me, and I am usually at peace with my children’s continuing sagas. But it does feel to me that contributing my story now and in this climate is defensive, and dishonors the stories of the people at the heart of today’s struggle. What would happen if I simply listened, then said, “I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”