I’m one of those lucky mothers, the kind whose grown children call several times a week, not only to share the news in their lives, but to talk about things like politics, social issues, and struggles they face. Yesterday my youngest son who is particularly thoughtful told me a friend at work had revealed the tragic death of his six year old son to cancer and how it haunted him every day. How do I respond? asked my son. What can I possibly say to people in such pain?
My son’s question returned my own memory to the darkest moment in my life. Four years ago I sat at the funeral of my newborn grandaughter Emery and felt the crush of the world on my shoulders. Her parents stood at the tiny casket and laid their hands on her one last time, an image that continues to haunt me. I felt broken. For the first time I was on the other side of grief, not the person who struggled to comfort someone else, but the person who needed comfort. Mostly there was silence, a silence I completely understood. What, indeed, do you say to people whose pain you have never experienced?
During the past few weeks, racism has reared its ugly head and floated to the surface of our consciousness. We who don’t face it personally know it’s there. We know it affects people we love, people we work with and admire. But like the people at Emery’s funeral, we have personally sidestepped the experience, and we are left speechless. Everything we conjure up to say seems hollow, just a slogan on a greeting card to make us look good and brush away the truth. Black Lives Matter. We oppose racism. We stand for equity, diversity, inclusion. It all sounds like cliches and disingenuous slogans coming from the people in power who have had ample time to change the culture. If we truly believe that racism is evil, why do our friends and neighbors continue to suffer? How have we participated in that suffering?
I was one of more than 50 people who attended a Racial Equity Institute at Carthage College in January. It was a history lesson of institutionalized oppression from colonial times to the present. The final question to each white participant was “What do you like about being white?” Most everyone said “power,” an honest answer after what we’d learned. I couldn’t bring myself to say it. “I don’t know,” I said in exasperation. “I never think about being white.”
The group leader slowly nodded his head. “And THAT is your power.”
I can’t remember one sentence having so much impact on my thinking. Most of you know I’m first generation German, growing up in rural Ohio with children whose parents had fought on the other side of World War II. I braced myself for conflict on a daily basis in my neighborhood and my school, but when I walked down the street in a different neighborhood or a different city no one knew my family’s history. No one knew I was “different.” No one who didn’t know me made me a target. My skin was white. I was poor, but I still held the power of my race.
So how do those of us who hold the power steer the future toward justice? We need to find the words. Not only the words of comfort to those around us who are targeted with injustice, but words that translate the experience of the targeted to a common experience.
Libraries hold an enormous opportunity to do just that. We are a place where community conversations can happen. We are the collectors of the human story, a rich tapestry of human experiences to share, to discuss, and to thoughtfully and deeply consider. We can steer the next generation to accept differences and appreciate their value in this rich human tapestry by including the stories of everyone in the books we lend. We can bring neighborhoods together that are often apart. We can deepen our relationships with communities who have not felt welcome.
To those of you who know the feeling of being targeted, of being marginalized and forgotten, I know only a little of what that feels like. But you are important to me. You are valued and appreciated and loved by your coworkers. You are powerful here. You are heard. Help me find the words to stand with you in the community. Help me use the power of the public library to steer this nation toward social justice.
Thank you.
Barb
