Humanity is my tribe
(The following transcript is from a rally after the Women's March in Newark, DE, January 21, 2017. Rev. Andrew Weber of the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship of Newark and I combined our efforts, sharing our time at the podium rather than speaking individually as is usually the case. Lines in bold we said in unison. The video of our presentation can be found at the end of the post.)
What bothers me the most about that sentence is the entire sentence.
I don’t have to worry or think about any one of those identities in my day to day life.
The first time I realized that I was white was at a Food Pantry after college.
I was in my twenties before I even consciously thought about the color of my skin.
My supervisor was a woman of color. She was a paid staff person and I was a volunteer intern.
And when she told someone they couldn’t have more food, they got upset.
She asked me to step in. I said the exact same words. The response was “oh, okay”.
Was the difference that I identify and present as male?
Was it the color of my skin?
Why do I have more authority than an experienced professional?
The first time I really understood the privilege of being male was even later in my life.
I was talking with a female friend about using a headlamp when I go out at night or early in the morning for a run.
“But what do I do about safety?” She asked. “What, you mean in case I fall? That’s why I have the headlamp, so I don’t trip.”
Oh wait, she meant safety from other people. An issue that never even crossed my mind.
It didn’t need to cross my mind. That bothers me.
There are cop shows where a victim of abuse is found hurt in the woods, by a runner or a dog walker.
I sometimes think about what I would do if I came across someone who was hurt.
My friend sometimes thought about what she would do if she was that person who was hurt.
This is my identity, these are my privileges.
The privilege that I don’t have to think about my identity.
The privilege that I can read a book or watch a TV show and see people who look like me.
The privilege that I feel safe and secure in this culture.
The privilege that ongoing discrimination of marginalized people will only benefit me.
But I am more than my privileges. For the more I learn about them the more angry I get.
I am a human being, and I refuse to let divisions come between me and other human being.
I am a white, middle-aged woman.
What bothers me most about that sentence is that I am middle-aged.
And it bothers me that that’s what bothers me most.
I’ve never really had to think about being white.
Or what being white afforded me.
I grew up in an alcoholic home, in a small house, and not a lot of money.
Both my parents went to college.
My father had a graduate degree.
There was no question that I would go to college.
My parents got divorced when I was twelve.
And even though my mother had to work two jobs and got mono,
Even though we used food stamps for a time,
Even though neither of my parents couldn’t save a dime for college,
I still went because my father was a veteran.
And I got a graduate degree.
I thought it was luck. Or God. Or both.
Now I know a lot of it was and still is my white privilege.
I could’ve fallen through the cracks
if it had not been for my class and my skin color.
But I’ve known what it means to be cisgender female,
or rather, what it means to be me all my life.
To be friends with boys because the girls are mean,
until that one boy punched me hard in the stomach to win a fight.
To be eight years old and indignant when the babysitter told me
on a hot summer’s day
that I couldn’t take my shirt off
like the young man walking in front of my house.
To be ten, and know what shame feels like the first time—the first time
I felt ugly in my body.
To be twelve, and be told I look like a boy and be hurt by that.
To be thirteen, and know what it was like to have a trusted elder man
try to kiss me, force his tongue between my hard-pressed lips,
and feel my budding breasts.
And no one to tell.
To be eighteen, and so desperate for a guy’s attention, it never occurred to me
to say ‘no’ to a hand job
because I was worth more
than 5 minutes of his pleasure.
To be twenty-two, twenty-five, and have my ass grabbed on the subway,
in a crowd, now vigilant, now frightened, now pissed off.
To be a middle-aged white woman and own that this is part of what formed me, angry that this is considered ‘normal’ and yet it is nothing compared to
friends who have been gang-raped
and have managed to make a whole life
despite a justice system that failed them,
gay friends ostracized by their parents, their church, their seminary, their country,
who still loved Jesus and wanted to serve him anyway, and some that didn’t,
a black man convicted of a crime he did not commit,
still serving 23 years out of 25,
married and fathered two children while incarcerated,
and yet still has faith in God, in his family and friends, and in humanity.
Fear thrives on division.
Love dares to understand.
Humanity is our tribe.
CYNTHIA (Andrew's witness):
I march because I am anti-hate.
I march because “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”
I march for all of us who will benefit from a government based on oppression and marginalization.
I march because I refuse to let my privilege define me and I refuse to consciously let my actions oppress others.
I march for all of us who will will be further pushed to the margins and who fight to be heard.
I march because our system rewards bullying, racism, sexism and ableism.
I march because I’m disgusted and angry and we need to show the world that there are people who care about equality, peace and justice.
I’m marching because voices of peace and justice need to be heard, people promoting love and equality need to be seen.
I’m marching because I don’t agree with policies or systems that keep people oppressed based on physical characteristics.
I’m marching because I have faith that a more just world is possible and it starts with those who care.
ANDREW (Cynthia's witness):
I march for the pre-existing condition called humanity.
I march for those who are fearful, angry and in pain and I march for those who are hopeful, glad, and curious.
I march for climate deniers as well as climate scientists and polar bears and the Arctic sea ice, for coal miners and pipeline workers as well as water protectors and wind farmers and solar innovators, and all of us addicted to easy energy.
I march because of our self-imposed, winner-take-all economy, because we can’t serve both God and money yet we find it all too easy to chuck God; for all of us afraid to lose whatever wealth we’ve acquired and think we’re entitled to, as well as for those who deserve a living wage, safe housing, clean water, and an equal education.
I march for parents who can’t understand, love, or accept their LGBTQIA child as much as I march for the child.
I march for those who suffer from depression and anxiety and other mental health concerns, for quality care and removal of stigma.
I march for spoonies and for the differently abled.
I march for the prisoner, the refugee, the outcast.
I march for the rights and sovereignty of Native Americans as much as I march for all of us immigrants.
I march for the liberation of the oppressor and the oppressed, to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
I march for agnostics and atheists, for seekers and questioners, for the spiritual and the religious, for the freedom of all to worship or not as they choose, to remember it’s not about what we believe but how we live.
I’m marching for the next four years as much as I’m marching for the previous 8 years. We’re just getting warmed up, right?
I’m wondering if we would’ve marched if someone else had been inaugurated yesterday, because the same problems would still be here. It’s likely we would’ve felt safer, protected. We would’ve been happy to witness that shattered glass ceiling. We would’ve felt relieved, as with a narrow brush with disaster. Maybe, after the inauguration, we would’ve returned to our lives and just been disgusted with the news of sexism and obstruction in Washington. Would we have been as fierce and fired up and awake as we are now? Would we be as ready to work and for the long haul? Would we have known how deep the wounds in our nation go?
TOGETHER:
Fear thrives on division.
Love dares to understand.
Humanity is our tribe.
- switch back stoles -
C:
I dream of a day when a woman, a Latina, an atheist, a Muslim, a Jew, a lesbian, the most qualified person holds the highest office in our nation.
A:
I too, dream.
I dream that one day the color of your skin won’t mean people treat you differently.
C:
I dream of a day when everyone recognizes and honors that the sovereignty of a woman’s body is hers and no one else’s. As well as a child’s body, a man’s body, anyone’s body.
A:
I dream that one day what I say won’t have more clout just because what I look like.
C:
I dream of a day when every child is wanted, loved, cared for, educated equally, and finds purpose, meaning and joy in this world.
A:
I dream that human beings learn to live with a vision of how our actions impact all life.
C:
I dream of day when all people, all genders, all colors will be liberated from stereotypes, norms, and assumptions, when none will feel the chains of oppression nor inflict others with violence and hate.
A:
I dream that gender expression and sexual preference will not change our access to freely love.
C:
I dream of a day when the earth can breathe freely, our energy comes to us peacefully, sustainably, our frenetic pace slows to a walk, a gentle roll, and everyone knows the farmer from which their food comes.
A:
I dream that we get past oppression, past tokenism, past stereotyping and pigeonholing.
C:
I dream of a day when power is shared, when authority is found both within us and in community, when freedom is understood in the context of responsibility, when heart and mind and spirit are realized to be inextricably connected, and every living thing is precious and cherished.
A:
I dream that we can get past defining people by one label or another. And that we can get to a place where we define people by both their common humanity and the unique individuality.
C:
I dream of a day when we are one people living on one planet with one future.
A:
I dream of a world where the inherent worth, dignity and divinity of everyone is celebrated - both our unity and our individuality.
TOGETHER:
And I have faith. I have a deep, strong faith which transcends all evidence to the contrary.
I have faith that these dreams can become reality.
I have faith that how we live and how we act makes a different.
I have faith that you and I and he and she and them and us can live and love together working toward a world transformed by our care.
I have faith because we are here and we are in DC and the work of peace and justice is just starting.
Fear thrives on division
Love dares to understand.
Humanity is our tribe.
-
swap stoles and physically change places -
CYNTHIA (Andrew's witness):
I
am a white, middle-class, cisgender, straight male.
What bothers me the most about that sentence is the entire sentence.
I don’t have to worry or think about any one of those identities in my day to day life.
The first time I realized that I was white was at a Food Pantry after college.
I was in my twenties before I even consciously thought about the color of my skin.
My supervisor was a woman of color. She was a paid staff person and I was a volunteer intern.
And when she told someone they couldn’t have more food, they got upset.
She asked me to step in. I said the exact same words. The response was “oh, okay”.
Was the difference that I identify and present as male?
Was it the color of my skin?
Why do I have more authority than an experienced professional?
The first time I really understood the privilege of being male was even later in my life.
I was talking with a female friend about using a headlamp when I go out at night or early in the morning for a run.
“But what do I do about safety?” She asked. “What, you mean in case I fall? That’s why I have the headlamp, so I don’t trip.”
Oh wait, she meant safety from other people. An issue that never even crossed my mind.
It didn’t need to cross my mind. That bothers me.
There are cop shows where a victim of abuse is found hurt in the woods, by a runner or a dog walker.
I sometimes think about what I would do if I came across someone who was hurt.
My friend sometimes thought about what she would do if she was that person who was hurt.
This is my identity, these are my privileges.
The privilege that I don’t have to think about my identity.
The privilege that I can read a book or watch a TV show and see people who look like me.
The privilege that I feel safe and secure in this culture.
The privilege that ongoing discrimination of marginalized people will only benefit me.
But I am more than my privileges. For the more I learn about them the more angry I get.
I am a human being, and I refuse to let divisions come between me and other human being.
ANDREW (Cynthia's witness):
I am a white, middle-aged woman.
What bothers me most about that sentence is that I am middle-aged.
And it bothers me that that’s what bothers me most.
I’ve never really had to think about being white.
Or what being white afforded me.
I grew up in an alcoholic home, in a small house, and not a lot of money.
Both my parents went to college.
My father had a graduate degree.
There was no question that I would go to college.
My parents got divorced when I was twelve.
And even though my mother had to work two jobs and got mono,
Even though we used food stamps for a time,
Even though neither of my parents couldn’t save a dime for college,
I still went because my father was a veteran.
And I got a graduate degree.
I thought it was luck. Or God. Or both.
Now I know a lot of it was and still is my white privilege.
I could’ve fallen through the cracks
if it had not been for my class and my skin color.
But I’ve known what it means to be cisgender female,
or rather, what it means to be me all my life.
To be friends with boys because the girls are mean,
until that one boy punched me hard in the stomach to win a fight.
To be eight years old and indignant when the babysitter told me
on a hot summer’s day
that I couldn’t take my shirt off
like the young man walking in front of my house.
To be ten, and know what shame feels like the first time—the first time
I felt ugly in my body.
To be twelve, and be told I look like a boy and be hurt by that.
To be thirteen, and know what it was like to have a trusted elder man
try to kiss me, force his tongue between my hard-pressed lips,
and feel my budding breasts.
And no one to tell.
To be eighteen, and so desperate for a guy’s attention, it never occurred to me
to say ‘no’ to a hand job
because I was worth more
than 5 minutes of his pleasure.
To be twenty-two, twenty-five, and have my ass grabbed on the subway,
in a crowd, now vigilant, now frightened, now pissed off.
To be a middle-aged white woman and own that this is part of what formed me, angry that this is considered ‘normal’ and yet it is nothing compared to
friends who have been gang-raped
and have managed to make a whole life
despite a justice system that failed them,
gay friends ostracized by their parents, their church, their seminary, their country,
who still loved Jesus and wanted to serve him anyway, and some that didn’t,
a black man convicted of a crime he did not commit,
still serving 23 years out of 25,
married and fathered two children while incarcerated,
and yet still has faith in God, in his family and friends, and in humanity.
Love dares to understand.
Humanity is our tribe.
CYNTHIA (Andrew's witness):
I march because I am anti-hate.
I march because “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”
I march for all of us who will benefit from a government based on oppression and marginalization.
I march because I refuse to let my privilege define me and I refuse to consciously let my actions oppress others.
I march for all of us who will will be further pushed to the margins and who fight to be heard.
I march because our system rewards bullying, racism, sexism and ableism.
I march because I’m disgusted and angry and we need to show the world that there are people who care about equality, peace and justice.
I’m marching because voices of peace and justice need to be heard, people promoting love and equality need to be seen.
I’m marching because I don’t agree with policies or systems that keep people oppressed based on physical characteristics.
I’m marching because I have faith that a more just world is possible and it starts with those who care.
ANDREW (Cynthia's witness):
I march for the pre-existing condition called humanity.
I march for those who are fearful, angry and in pain and I march for those who are hopeful, glad, and curious.
I march for climate deniers as well as climate scientists and polar bears and the Arctic sea ice, for coal miners and pipeline workers as well as water protectors and wind farmers and solar innovators, and all of us addicted to easy energy.
I march because of our self-imposed, winner-take-all economy, because we can’t serve both God and money yet we find it all too easy to chuck God; for all of us afraid to lose whatever wealth we’ve acquired and think we’re entitled to, as well as for those who deserve a living wage, safe housing, clean water, and an equal education.
I march for parents who can’t understand, love, or accept their LGBTQIA child as much as I march for the child.
I march for those who suffer from depression and anxiety and other mental health concerns, for quality care and removal of stigma.
I march for spoonies and for the differently abled.
I march for the prisoner, the refugee, the outcast.
I march for the rights and sovereignty of Native Americans as much as I march for all of us immigrants.
I march for the liberation of the oppressor and the oppressed, to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
I march for agnostics and atheists, for seekers and questioners, for the spiritual and the religious, for the freedom of all to worship or not as they choose, to remember it’s not about what we believe but how we live.
I’m marching for the next four years as much as I’m marching for the previous 8 years. We’re just getting warmed up, right?
I’m wondering if we would’ve marched if someone else had been inaugurated yesterday, because the same problems would still be here. It’s likely we would’ve felt safer, protected. We would’ve been happy to witness that shattered glass ceiling. We would’ve felt relieved, as with a narrow brush with disaster. Maybe, after the inauguration, we would’ve returned to our lives and just been disgusted with the news of sexism and obstruction in Washington. Would we have been as fierce and fired up and awake as we are now? Would we be as ready to work and for the long haul? Would we have known how deep the wounds in our nation go?
TOGETHER:
Fear thrives on division.
Love dares to understand.
Humanity is our tribe.
- switch back stoles -
C:
I dream of a day when a woman, a Latina, an atheist, a Muslim, a Jew, a lesbian, the most qualified person holds the highest office in our nation.
A:
I too, dream.
I dream that one day the color of your skin won’t mean people treat you differently.
C:
I dream of a day when everyone recognizes and honors that the sovereignty of a woman’s body is hers and no one else’s. As well as a child’s body, a man’s body, anyone’s body.
A:
I dream that one day what I say won’t have more clout just because what I look like.
C:
I dream of a day when every child is wanted, loved, cared for, educated equally, and finds purpose, meaning and joy in this world.
A:
I dream that human beings learn to live with a vision of how our actions impact all life.
C:
I dream of day when all people, all genders, all colors will be liberated from stereotypes, norms, and assumptions, when none will feel the chains of oppression nor inflict others with violence and hate.
A:
I dream that gender expression and sexual preference will not change our access to freely love.
C:
I dream of a day when the earth can breathe freely, our energy comes to us peacefully, sustainably, our frenetic pace slows to a walk, a gentle roll, and everyone knows the farmer from which their food comes.
A:
I dream that we get past oppression, past tokenism, past stereotyping and pigeonholing.
C:
I dream of a day when power is shared, when authority is found both within us and in community, when freedom is understood in the context of responsibility, when heart and mind and spirit are realized to be inextricably connected, and every living thing is precious and cherished.
A:
I dream that we can get past defining people by one label or another. And that we can get to a place where we define people by both their common humanity and the unique individuality.
C:
I dream of a day when we are one people living on one planet with one future.
A:
I dream of a world where the inherent worth, dignity and divinity of everyone is celebrated - both our unity and our individuality.
TOGETHER:
And I have faith. I have a deep, strong faith which transcends all evidence to the contrary.
I have faith that these dreams can become reality.
I have faith that how we live and how we act makes a different.
I have faith that you and I and he and she and them and us can live and love together working toward a world transformed by our care.
I have faith because we are here and we are in DC and the work of peace and justice is just starting.
Fear thrives on division
Love dares to understand.
Humanity is our tribe.
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