Your Life Matters: The Speech I Am Still Waiting To Hear

Last Saturday, my city’s heart stopped for a little while.  It stood still as we pieced together the early news that two of our police officers had been shot, as we learned they had lost their lives, and as we watched the chilling video of police officers turning their backs to the leader they felt so betrayed by.  It stood still as we learned more about the suspect, an allegedly disturbed man who used social media outlets to announce his horrifying plans.  And then, New York took a deep breath, uniting its millions of people for just one moment of solidarity, one moment of communal grief, and then got itself back to work.

Like my city, my heart stood still that evening too.  I kept my television on all night, anxiously awaiting to hear the calming, reassuring voice of a leader, any leader, who could help us make sense of such a tragedy.  A mayor, a governor, a president, a religious leader, a trusted news anchor, anyone.  I waited hours, days, weeks.  And it never happened.  But in that void, that empty space, something else happened.  Other voices began to fill it quickly and furiously.  Fingers were pointed in every direction, blame was tossed around without care or attention, and the little space left for grief was quickly taken up by politics, fear, and more violence.

When I discussed the tragedy with friends and family, they were surprised at the way I waited, optimistically, for the voice of a great leader.  They reminded me that issue of race and policing is complex and controversial, and no great leader could talk about it publicly and still maintain their political popularity and financial backing.

This, I suppose, is where we are right now.

I, however, am not ready to accept that.  If no one else is going to make a great speech that attempts to unite a nation, then I am going to try it myself.  I will start by reminding you that I am grossly under-qualified, my only qualifications being that I am a teacher who once had a course or two on conflict negotiation, and who uses these skills daily to help negotiate conflicts such as “you can’t come to my birthday party” and “she told me Santa is dead,” but sometimes as important as “he doesn’t like me because I’m brown.”  But, like many of us, I have friends and family on both sides of this conflict, I care deeply about the direction our nation is heading in, and I still believe in the goodness of the human spirit.  So here goes.  A not-so-great speech, in the void of a great one:

Hundreds of years ago, a dream was a born.  A dream of a place where every man and woman would be free to learn, to think, and to act.  A place where our tired, our poor would be welcomed and cared for.  A place of opportunity, where just being American meant that you deserved an education, a voice in your democracy, the respect of your neighbor, and the protection of your government.  A union that would strive every day to be more perfect.  This is my understanding of the American dream, the dream that fueled the development of a great nation.

It was, of course, never perfect.  We have faced great challenges and great setbacks, some of which made us stronger and some of which continue to challenge us today.

Today, we are at a crossroads.  We are facing a multitude of challenges that are threatening the very dream that holds us together as Americans.  Challenges that have already resulted in tragic loss of life and the division of our people.  And we have a choice to make, today.

Do we still believe in our dream? Do we believe that we have a duty to care for the tired, the poor?  Do we believe that it is still every American’s right to be free, to have a voice in our democracy?   Do we believe that all fellow Americans deserve to be treated with respect and dignity?  Do we believe, like so many before us, that we can do better?  That with progress, we can be more perfect?

If so, then let’s start by listening.  Let’s honor the voices of fellow Americans who are affected by these recent tragedies.  Black lives matter.  Blue lives matter. Let’s practice restraint for a moment to hold back our own opinions and experiences, and provide space to hear others.  In the last few months, I have tried to do this as best I could, acknowledging my own privileges and biases.  And what I am learning is this: we are not as divided as we think we are.

In the long and imperfect history of race relations in our country, even the most well-intentioned whites have enjoyed a set of unearned privileges, some obvious and some subtle.  People of color have been denied these privileges, and often face bias and discrimination every day, some obvious and subtle.  It has not been easy for us to talk about as a nation, and we have a habit of closing the lid and avoiding any discussion of race because it feels more comfortable and polite to ignore it altogether.  But so many years of privilege, bias, discrimination, and closing the lid have had tragic consequences.  The voices crying out that Black Lives Matter are begging our nation to understand that somewhere along the way, we have developed a subtle but pervasive belief that black lives are not as sacred as white lives, that black Americans do not deserve the same inalienable rights and opportunities as white Americans, and that millions of people are being excluded from the very dream that is supposed to hold our nation together.

And then, there’s another voice.  The voice of public servants.  The people who choose careers that put themselves and their families at risk every day, but are dedicated to ensuring that their communities are safe and their neighbors are protected.  Like teachers, they have survived waves of politics that have insulted their professionalism, ignored their voices, and swayed public opinion in and out of their favor.  Like teachers, their work continues to be more and more difficult as people and communities in most need have been ignored, segregated, and left behind (but no one really talks about that anymore, because it’s more comfortable and polite to ignore it).  As in education, the police officers that should never have entered the profession, the ones that have demonstrated racism or committed crimes, have broken the last threads of trust between police and the communities they want to serve.  They are not battling people; they are battling systematic failures, our failures to address racism, poverty, homelessness, mental health, and violence, to name a few.

Once we hear these voices, we can hear some common threads.  No American needs to turn on another, especially when we are actually asking for the same things: the restoration of basic human rights, an equal shot at the American dream, the acknowledgement that our life matters.

So let’s try.  Let’s acknowledge that our nation has big problems that won’t go away if we continue to put the lid back on.  Let’s take the lid off, and keep it off, no matter how uncomfortable and impolite.  Here goes.

Racism is real and has plagued our country even before our independence.  The American experience continues to be different for you depending on the shade of your skin color.  Poverty is real, and the gap between rich and poor is rising at an alarming rate.  We have turned our backs on people and communities that are in the most need.  Agencies that are charged with protecting and caring for the poor, hungry, homeless, and mentally ill are not provided with the time and resources they need to do their jobs.  Special interests that protect the most wealthy have limited the abilities of public servants and tied the hands of politicians.  We are losing our ability to listen to each other, honor each other’s voices, and come together in times of need.  For many people, the American dream feels harder than ever to realize.

And most frightening of all, we seem to have forgotten that such an idealistic dream takes uncomfortable, impolite work, and it doesn’t make you any less American if you believe that we can do better.

Your life matters to me, because you an American and you are a human.  And because you are American and human, I will not turn my back on you.  I will take care of you when you are tired, or poor.  I will listen to you and value your insight.  I will acknowledge that we have grave problems and I will honor your voice as we work together solve them.  Your life matters to me, and together we can begin to repair.  To heal. To come together bound by the same dream that we’ve always shared.  A more perfect union…uncomfortable, impolite, and perfectly American.

Your Life Matters: The Speech I Am Still Waiting To Hear

Want to change the world with me? A teacher to a police officer.

This has been a difficult few weeks for many of us.  At times it has felt so hard to know where to turn and what to do.  Acknowledging my own power and privilege in this difficult time, I thought it was best to listen.  And, when the time came, to humbly, respectfully, stand up in solidarity.

This Saturday, I chose to join my community in the Millions March.  For the most part, it was New York City at its best.  The leaders encouraged us to look around at each other, and to acknowledge that anyone who came out today would forever be our family.  And as a 25,000-strong family, we marched together through our streets with strength and grace.

As I walked up Fifth Avenue, I saw something intriguing.  A police officer quietly smiled as a little girl stood beside him.  She was holding a sign that read something like: “Sooo… want to change the world with me?”  I only caught a quick glance, but I could almost hear him thinking “I know, and I’m sorry.”  As we continued to march, I couldn’t help but observe the police officers charged with keeping the march safe.  So many of them seemed to say the same thing to me: “I know, and I’m sorry.”  I looked back and smiled at each one, whispering the same thought in return.

The next day, I challenged myself to think from a police officer’s perspective.  Not the ones who have committed crimes, or are responding to these tragedies with blatant disregard for human life.  Instead, the quiet ones, who, like so many of us, see a complex problem and want to be a part of the solution.  The ones who know, and are sorry.

I thought back to every time I turned on the news and saw a mug shot of a teacher who had put a child’s life in danger.  I relived the pain of knowing someone had jeopardized the honor of the profession.  I thought back to every time a politician publically denounced teachers as being lazy, uneducated, even greedy.  I relived the pain of knowing the people we serve every day are blaming us, and only us, for failing a generation of children.

Then, I remembered the relief of a seeing a rare news story in which someone dared to ask teachers their own professional opinions about how to improve education.  This question sparks dialogue about the real problems facing our educational system.  Are there a small percentage of teachers who are not working in their calling, and shouldn’t be charged with caring for children?  Sure.  Will their removal play a critical role in improving education? No. Not really.  Because there is so much more to fix.  The quiet re-segregation of communities and schools.  The slowly vanishing budgets of agencies charged with providing basic needs and protection to our most vulnerable neighbors. The stagnant salaries of the working poor amid higher and higher costs of living.  The loss of the teacher’s power to close the door and teach, heal, inspire.  A new industry rising from the dust of poverty and promising change through expensive new curriculum and assessments that just seem to widen our gap more and more.  Blaming teachers does nothing but cover up the things that are much harder to talk about, and far more difficult to fix.

Teachers know that pain all too well.  And I am willing to bet that many police officers are feeling that same pain today.  Sooo, want to change the world with me?  Tell me.  Tell me, with the respect and professionalism of your honorable field, what are we missing?  How can we make our communities safer, protect precious human life, and start to heal from this deep divide? I’ll listen.

Want to change the world with me? A teacher to a police officer.

The First Step

Like so many others, I have experienced a range of emotions over the tragic loss of life in recent police-involved incidents. Intense sadness, confusion, disbelief.  All the while knowing that the pain I have been feeling cannot be compared to the pain of the millions of people who have been victimized by discrimination, or the unimaginable grief of families who had to bury a child, a father, a lifelong friend.  Like so many others, I didn’t know what to do or where to turn.  So I chose to listen.

I listened to the news, all day. I read every post I could on social media. I listened to perspectives of victims and suspects, of strangers who felt compelled to share their own experiences of discrimination and violence. A public servant myself, I listened to perspectives of community leaders and police officers defending the honor and good intentions of their work.  I listened to the way that “experts” contributed their opinions on the evening news.  But as events unfolded, it became more and more difficult to listen.  Eventually, I reached a point of such disappointment and outrage that I couldn’t listen any more.  I reached a point where I couldn’t read another opinion of someone who skipped a very important step, the first step, of moving forward.

You see, when I decided to become a teacher, I went through a very uncomfortable lesson in both my undergraduate and graduate preparation.  I learned about the history of race, class, gender, and ability in our country. I was pushed through the very uncomfortable process of acknowledging my own unearned privileges and the inherent biases I was socialized to carry.  I carefully reflected on this new idea that just because I was always kind-hearted and well-intentioned didn’t mean I was immune from developing a set of biased beliefs about groups of people, some inherent sense of power or control, or the idea that all of my career and academic successes were earned by my merit alone.  It is a painful and imperfect process that I will continue to work on every day, but it is an essential process for anyone charged with caring for children.

This imperfect process has at the very least given me the tools to recognize situations in which I carry the weight of privilege, have an element of power, or even now the threat of biased patterns of thinking.  It is this process that has me looking at social media feeds, or watching the news, and screaming to myself:

“No! No! You cannot create a character of someone you have never known, who is no longer here to defend themselves!”

 “No! No! You cannot name the grief of a community that lost a child or loved one.  You cannot demand a community express their agony and grief in a way you think is polite.”

 “Please, please. At the very least admit that these stories might be different if the victims were white and affluent, and that means if you are white and affluent you need to speak with a humble respect for lives lost and community in heartbreak.”

We have all heard that the first step towards solving a problem is admitting there is a problem.  I have a long way to go in understanding the complexities of race and challenging myself to be an ally.  I do not consider myself an expert of any kind.  All I know now is that if I want to be a part of the solution, I need to acknowledge there is a problem, and I humbly encourage anyone entrusted with sharing news and opinions on current events do the same thing.  Admit to yourself that your perspective might carry elements of privilege or bias, and balance yourself by sharing your voice, and growing by listening to others.

I know what many of you may be feeling.  You don’t feel privileged; so many of us are struggling to make ends meet every day.  You don’t feel like you have biases; you might go to work every day with an open mind and willingness to serve your community.  But I don’t think that we can move forward as a country until we can all acknowledge that we are, and we do.  Once we do that, we might learn how to use language that respects the dignity and humanity of everyone in our communities.  We might learn to stop and challenge any biased thoughts or feelings that can creep into our views.  We might have the strength to be an ally, no matter how lonely and isolating that can feel at first.  We might improve our ability to help prevent tragedies that leave parents without children, and children without parents.  And if tragedy does strike, we might be able to grieve and respond in unity rather than division.  We just might begin to heal.

The First Step