Opinion

OPINION | GWEN FAULKENBERRY: What if nobody stands up for justice?


I am going to tell you a secret. Two secrets, really. The first is a thing I learned somewhere along the way that helps me with mental/emotional health. It has been significant enough in my life that, as with Jesus, family, America, great literature, rural Arkansas, public education, and, well, the Nordstrom Rack app, I am somewhat evangelistic about it. Because I want others to experience the freedom I have found.

But it is really more than freedom. It is a taking of this big awful ball of stress inside me and forcing it outside. It is having a thing I am scared to admit, that makes me feel shameful and stupid and small--something that makes me want to hide in my house and never show my face--and releasing it out into the open where I find that it mostly evaporates. And sometimes, even, that it liberates someone else.

Lest anyone misunderstand, I am not saying everything in our lives is for public consumption. Some things are only our business, or possibly appropriate to tell a trusted counselor. And some things--I think of these as mostly good things, secret delights--are private. Just for us.

Learning how to tell the difference is an art form I have not yet mastered. But I've found that if something makes me want to hide, it is usually not a thing I need to carry alone. I don't like anything to have that kind of power over me. So my way of usurping that power is to bring it out into the light where its own stupid small shamefulness shrinks. Like a boulder shattered by a crack hammer. I call this process shame-busting.

That's my first secret, an explanation of why I am writing about the second one, in case anyone ever wonders why I make a habit of showing my vast and appalling weaknesses, mistakes, vulnerability, and darkness to the world.

The second secret is something I realized in church today. The pastor announced that we'd be meeting in the church parking lot for a caravan to the Capitol to support teacher pay raises. He said the right meeting time but then looked at me as if to make sure. I averted my eyes. My daughter Grace nudged me. "Mom. Answer!" I just kept looking away. She grimaced at me like I was nuts.

While we sang the next song I evaluated whether maybe I was nuts. And I admitted that it was weird to look away and even kind of rude to this good minister who supports causes he deems to be obviously Christian. I wondered why in the world I would not want to show that I was the person who asked him to join us, who conceived of the caravans, and has a public role in planning the rally.

The answer crept into my consciousness like a spider from the periphery of my brain: I am afraid no one will show up. And if no one shows up for all of the caravans around the state, and for the rally itself, for kids and teachers, for justice, for what I think is right in the world and needed so much that I have poured my heart and soul into making it happen, I will be sad. Embarrassed. Hurt. I will feel rejected. And then subjected to the ridicule of sneering powerful officials--men mostly, but not all--in whose sides I am a thorn, who I'm sure would rather I didn't exist.

Gradually I will remember none of it is about me. Then I will spiral into despair for the betrayal of all of the children of this state, and the others like me who have worked so hard to advocate for them at great personal cost. I know myself. I have felt this kind of sting throughout my life at different times. And I do not want to feel it again. Ever. Yet I persist, when the way not to ever feel it again is to cease and desist. For better or worse so far, I seem not to be capable of that.

So the fear must be faced, the feelings of shame and stupidity and smallness. They must be exposed to the sun so they will lose their power like the vampires they are.

I have done this enough times now that it is not mysterious, though I wish it was more intuitive. It's just a drill, a ritual I must remember and put myself through to discipline my mind and keep my peace. An inner dialogue between me, myself, and God. It goes something like this:

Why are you part of this rally in the first place? Because I believe it is right.

Do you have selfish motives? Probably, but none I am consciously aware of.

OK, well, good effort at honesty. What are your known motives? To help kids. Help people. Make our state better. To do my patriotic duty and fulfill my role in preserving American ideals like Democracy. To hold leaders accountable and try to restore a sense of honor and public service to politics.

Are any of these things wrong? I don't believe so. I hope not.

Are you doing your best, recognizing your limitations? I am trying.

Can you control how many people show up? No, unless you count badgering everyone I know and some I don't.

We will file that under trying your best. But you have no control. Right. OK.

Can you control the outcome--what happens in the special session, how folks respond, if people misunderstand or dislike you, whatever happens next? No. More's the pity.

Can you control whether you sweat profusely, get tongue-tied, fall up or down the Capitol steps? Probably not.

What exactly can you control? I can control how hard I work, how much I study and listen, how willing I am to stick my neck out for what I believe. Basically I can show up and hope others do, too.

What if they don't? I'll be sad. Worse than sad. I'll be heartbroken. Devastated. It will kill my soul.

That's a bit dramatic. I know, but I can't help it. You made me this way.

(God takes a deep breath) I cannot be held fully responsible; but never mind. Is there anything you would do differently even if no one else shows up? I will wish I found a way to make them show up.

(God rolls eyes) Is there anything you can control that you wish you'd done better? Yes. Everything.

(God probably wants to choke me but refrains) Gwen. Have you done what you can do? Yes. Definitely.

Then you will show up. And the dream team will be there. And regardless of how anything else goes you will have done what was asked of you, what you believed was right, and you can be at peace. OK. Got it. I will be at peace.

And you will keep going. I will keep going.

No matter what.

No matter what.

Gwen Ford Faulkenberry is an English teacher who lives in Ozark and editorial director of the non-partisan group Arkansas Strong. (http://arstrong.org) Email her at [email protected].


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