CLAP BACK!

There comes a time when time itself is calling for change.                                   

When personal and public violations must be addressed.                                            

When human dignity is defiled; and human rights are denied.                      

When the foundation upon which a great country, even with its flaws is being decimated and dismantled.                                                                                          

There comes a time when conciliations and concessions are out of order.                          

When we stand up in the face of oppressive power and say…Oh No! Hell No!. 

I have often thought that the most difficult thing I will ever do in life is to be in a meaningful relationship or in authentic community.  I imagine that when I cross over, God will say” well Lutricia, it looks like it could go either way heaven or hell. Is there anything you can say that might help us decide?” And I hope I will be able say, well, I was a lover; and she will say go to heaven.

I heard in one group a word play on the term community, as Come-Unity. And it occurred to me that what is asked of us in almost all of our relationships, is to come to unity…come to love. And for me that is the best definition of community … coming to unity or love.

I am an angry Black woman. It is not all that I am but for now this is the part of me I want to address. I do so because I refuse to become the thing I hate. That is I refuse to become bitter, closed minded and mean. I have heard from three people who matter to me that it is important to make space for those with a different way of being or have conflicting views.

Now I have always been proud of my ability to do that. But their ideas have caused me to reflect. Am I open to views that run counter to my own? Am I blaming people for my frailties and shortcomings? Am I open to other’s point of view? Or do I dismiss them? Am I harming people?  Am I too quick to judge those I identify as members of a group that have the systemic power to cause suffering to others?

I grew up in the basement of America’s promise… a small, segregated community in the upper state of South Carolina. We did not have the privilege of prosperity, and power enjoyed by those of the top floor of America. Our wealth, our blessings, in the basement, existed in relationships, shared struggle and shared life.

The hypocrisies, absurdities, and cruelties of a Jim Crow culture was the context I faced. But I grew up with people who, no matter the hardships or the struggles, managed to care for and love each other. We were not perfect people.  But we knew we belonged to each other and whatever happened with one of us belonged to all of us. I learned that my actions did not only reap benefit or consequences for me, but for those around me who I recognized as kin.

It is time that someone said it. And I don’t want it to be me. But here it is, the truth, as I see it. A truth that I believe must be known and understood if we are to save ourselves.  The American body politic is suffering from a serious illness…brain damage. I know that just saying something like this will outrage many of us. I regret that. But I believe that a proper diagnosis of an illness leads to proper treatment. I have lived seventy+ years as a Black woman in America. I have seen and experienced the effects and outcomes of America’s brain damage.

On election night I went to bed but knew I would not sleep. The pain, disappointment, and sadness would not allow for a halcyon rest. Kamala had lost. All l could do was feel it. I had no words. A searing pain that settled in my chest along with a heavy lump in my throat had become my companions. It seemed that all I had hoped for, had faith in and given my life to was gone. I was an activist at 14 with sit ins, picket lines, being chased by an angry mob, being locked up. I believed in what America could become… a more perfect union a Beloved Community. But as I lay in bed on election night pondering the awful result; I heard America say No! It feels like a moral trauma.

There is a Chinese symbol that depicts both crisis and opportunity.  We are living in momentous times. There are practices, policies and laws that have been in place for most of our lives and that we’ve come to take for granted.  Bedrock legislation is now questioned under a conservative plan called Project 2025. Brown Vs. Board of Education, immigration, voting rights, and even the use of contraceptives are just a few of the issues targeted to be eliminated by the Heritage Foundation and the MAGA campaign. 

There is something to be said about “sleeping on it.” Last night I went to bed caught up emotionally in the drama of campus protests that appeared to be spiraling out of control. In my distress I  blamed everybody…students who seemed so entitled that they were failing to recognize and understand the thoughts and feelings of those with whom they share a community…university leaders who in my mind were trying to cover their behinds and were making bad decisions. And we Americans who had failed to resolve our most intractable problem, understanding who we are to one another. That is what I took to bed with the question what can I do?

Viola Fauver Liuzzo  1925-1965

Viola could have stayed home. No one would have criticized her. After all, she was a white housewife with 5 children. The last place her presence would be expected was Selma Alabama at the height of racial tension and violence. But that is where she went…to Selma. She heard the call of Dr. Martin Luther King. And traveled from Detroit Michigan to Selma in the wake of the Bloody Sunday attempt to march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge.

Viola Fauver Gregg was born April 11, 1925, in the small town of California Pennsylvania. During the Depression, work was hard to come by. So Viola and her family lived in poverty… one-room shacks and no running water. The family moved to Tennessee where she had first-hand experience of the segregated nature of the South. This deeply impacted her and would significantly influence her subsequent activism.