Injustice will hold the reins until we are less committed to the American dream of prosperity and property than we are to the American dream of liberty and justice for all.
black painted silhouettes of his tools. There were about six rows of ten, organized according to type, a row for wrenches, a row for pliers, a row for hammers, and so on, with a hook in the top of each tool’s image. I was five, and I was replacing a tool to each assigned home as he handed them to me. He was at the front of the garage and slid underneath a car he was repairing. He could not see if I was doing the job properly but had said, “I trust ya to do yer best.” To do my best, I had to stretch across a worn bench in front of the wall, and my belly had become plenty scrounged from the routine. My arms and knees looked like Rorschach blots of coal dust and motor oil. On one swipe back, I spied a nickel wedged in a crack in the bench, and I dug it out. I wiped the buffalo on it clean with my thumb, and thought, “Finders, keepers.” Bamp always paid me a nickel for helping him, and now I’d have a dime. In 1956, you could buy something with a dime, and I thrilled at the thought of a paper doll book at the neighborhood confectionery that cost exactly that. It was the Lennon Sisters, and everyone in my kindergarten class had one but me. I began looking for a place to hide the nickel when I began wondering why I was hiding it. And, of course, even at five, I knew. It wasn't my nickel. I put it back on the bench with more than a little resentment. It was only a nickel. I only wanted paper dolls. How could anyone even know to whom the nickel belonged? It wasn't fair. But I was young enough to still think I couldn't take it just because my soul told me I just shouldn't. I told Bamp that I’d finished the chore, and I suddenly felt so peculiar that I didn't even want to wait for my “pay.” “Git back here, Mona Lynne. You forgot sumpin',” he called as he crawled from beneath the black and white Packard. He stood and reached in his coverall pocket with his right hand and then took my right hand with his left. He peeled open my fingers, placed a nickel on my palm, cleaned off the buffalo with his thumb and a grin and then folded my soiled fingers around it. I thanked him and was running out to play, but he called me back again. “You really wanted that nickel back there on the bench didn't you?” I looked down at my bare feet and played with a hole in the cement floor with my toes. “It was only a nickel,” I mumbled the lame defense of my near larceny. He sat on a stool and pulled me on his lap, “Oh Mona Lynne, it was way more than a nickel honey. It was your character that almost got stole.” I didn't get it, and I said so. So, he explained. “If you’ll steal a nickel, you’ll steal a million dollars. If you sell your character for a little thing, you’ll sell it for anything, because you’ll start to git used to puttin' your character up for sale. After awhile, you won’t think twice about it. I seed it happen to folks.” He put me back on my feet and before gently pushing me toward the door, he added. “Don’t make havin' stuff important, honey. It just leads to thinkin' you oughta have more stuff. And it don’t make you important, That’s the saddest damn thing folks wanna believe. Don’t let that happen to you. Yer as important as yer ever gonna be, which is mighty damned important, by the way. You can have everything in the world but if you got it by sellin' even a thimble of your soul, you don’t own nuthin'. I think that's in the bible, even, but I ain't sure.” I don’t know whether I believed him that day or not, but still I could almost physically feel it sinking in some place within me. Fifty years later, I believe it completely. I wish I could say I have never sold out. The truth is I can’t calculate the number of times I have. I called it “compromise.” I’d carry water for a boss’s error to keep a job or get a raise. I’d pretend I believed something I knew to be a lie to not make waves. I’d dance around some sycophantic Maypole, holding hands with others while we sang the praises of the powerful or the elite while they were in our presence, only to trash them like a stale ash tray when they left the room. For so long, too long, I wanted to achieve success and prove my worth, and I believed that without status and salary I could not do that. People made fun of people who lived on my side of the tracks. They believed we were lazy and stupid, and I wanted to prove they were wrong. I became too skilled at rationalizing selling-out for the sake of “progress.” I learned to dress like the elite, talk like the elite, and I kept telling myself that once I was inside, truly inside, then I could make good things happen. Sometimes it even seemed to work. I’d get some program in place that was a little better than the status quo, but only after it had been simmered-down for privileged palatability. On rare occasions, I suspected something was perverse in this method. During some of these cooking sessions I would swallow whole the stereotypical insults that were chewed in a meeting like canapés, e.g. “Do these people even want to learn? Why do we care what Joe Six-pack thinks? We’re doing them a favor by excluding them; they wouldn't feel comfortable with us,” etc. I began to recognize a pattern. Whenever I sold an idea, I never sold it on its merit, i.e. because it was the right thing to do. This was a particular nexus of my moral downfall in the dance. Worse, I took pride in my ability to fool them. I created my own repertoire of deceit and called it “cleverness. I only made “progress” when I tricked the power into thinking my proposal would be an advantage to them in money or status, whether it was or not. I became rather good at tricking them. (Though admittedly, after awhile, some did catch on to me.) I also began to realize the “real” world was actually very phony. I had also come to patently accept a cavalcade of lies. For example: “I deserve to earn more because I have academic credentials.” “I deserve more respect because I have academic credentials.” "I deserve more respect because of my professional or political position." “Lawyers deserve a high wage because we think about our jobs/clients a lot of times for which we can’t bill.” “I deserve my six figure salary because I earn every penny of it.” “People with more money take more risks.” “Powerful people have more to lose.” “It’s more stressful at the top.” “I deserve more because I have to make the hard decisions.” “This is the real world. I didn't create it, but I have to survive within how it works.” “There’s nothing wrong with having nice things.” There are more I could list, and all of them are fairly easy to dismantle with only a tack hammer of honest introspection, even if there is partial truth in some of them. Still, it’s simply not possible for a single one to ring completely true within any moment the heart cares more about people than status or possessions. In my own moral shame, I had an uncommon privilege and blessing, I’d failed to value. My grandfather. Sometimes when I was about to go too far or compromise too much, I would dream the memory of his placing that nickel in my hand. I would awaken to his witness. I couldn't deny there were people who cared more about people than status or stuff because I had known one. So times arose when I couldn't go that far or “compromise” without that shiny buffalo bouncing a beam off my conscience. So, a shamefully few handful of times, I stood up for something even though I thought it might really cost me. For example, in 1994, Bonnie Campbell sold out the lesbian, gay, bisexual and trans communities by stating in her first press conference after her gubernatorial nomination that she opposed same-sex marriage. Only weeks before she had taken checks from a gathering of LGBT folks while tearfully promising she would rather not be governor than not defend our equal rights. After her betrayal, she explained behind the scenes that she wasn't really against same-sex marriage but that she had to say so in order to win the campaign. Phil Roeder, one of her staff would remark to other staff, “Lesbian and gay people have nowhere else to go.” It was too much, and the nickel was too shiny. So, Richard Shannon and I went to her next fundraiser (ironically held at the home of a gay man), and I asked her publicly and in front of the press why she had done that. The reaction to my gesture was shocking to me and wrenching. People, whom I thought would agree with me, did not. Moreover, they shunned me. As I left the fundraiser, most would not make eye contact, and the few who did glared or scowled. That evening was a troubling and sad one because I intuitively knew that I had made myself somehow vulnerable to harm. Indeed, more harm would come. I was quickly branded a trouble-maker. Only a few LBGT equal rights supporters told me I had done the right thing, and I only know of two who said so publicly. Two of my critics bothered to advise me on how I had been wrong. I was told my timing was wrong, the setting was wrong, and that it wasn't what I did but how I did it. I asked how I might have done it right. I was told the fact that I didn't already know this demonstrated my inexperience in how to create change. It was also not so subtly suggested that I was socially awkward in the ways of educated society as well as politics, or I would have known that some things are just not done. I was most criticized for my failure to vet my actions past appropriate channels. In other words, I didn't know my place. Not knowing my place would be reprised in some version in each controversy I would be accused of creating. One piece of this however, (admitting this only to myself, having too much ego to admit it to them) I agreed was a fair assessment. I had never understood privileged society. Though I had become bilingual in their language, costumes, and some customs, their culture still did not make sense to me. This plus the fact that Bonnie Campbell was eventually made the White House human rights guru by President Clinton, while my salary increase was shaved for allowing politics to interfere with my work, left me knowing I needed more study. I bent over backward checking my tone, rhetoric, and posture and was more deferential in gatherings. I watched them more, listened more, and followed more. After a time, it would seem I was forgiven, and my participation again was sought by progressive organizations and initiatives. But justice has her own way of needling you when you've had my grandfather, and the shiny nickel would gleam again in my dreams, and I knew I would have to speak up for or against something placed before me. Once it was a faculty member who wouldn't hire gay men and one who sexually harassed his students. Once it was a nonprofit group that had dishonest employment practices. Once it was the university condoning homophobia on its Human Rights Committee. Once it was about an upper level female university administrator whose male underlings (quite vexed by this latitude) were trying to drive her out with lies. Once it was a political leader who was padding receipts to a non-profit organization for her personal profit. The pattern would repeat itself. I would be called a trouble-maker. People would hearken back to the time before I had done such a thing as confirmation. I would again be isolated for awhile. The consequences to my professional and economic stability would become increasingly harsh. Once I even got a death threat by phone, and the rear window of my car was bashed. Eventually, after one of these stances, I lost everything I owned but ten boxes of clothing and personal mementos. Sometimes I was not like Gandhi when I was experiencing disappointment in not feeling the support of community. A few times I was so disappointed or frightened that I expressed my frustration in ways that could have been a lot better. But only a few. I was certainly scolded, yelled at, insulted, bullied, and slandered many more times than the instances in which my behavior bore review. Others in the arena with higher status could lose their temperance with far more intensity and frequency than was in my repertoire of response and would be forgiven because they were “under stress.” My inability to be always poised was not so understood. Most of the time, I accepted what happened to me and moved on, and (with some inebriated exceptions I suppose) confiding to a few close friends that it had hurt. The irony in this was that when I was most ensconced on my pity pot and hiding, no one ever accused me of playing victim. That accusation only came after having removed myself from the pot and was controversially embroiled in actually trying to do something about it. This irony was so consistent that I came to expect it, and so I thought about this a lot. I knew for some reason, my actions warranted “special” treatment or extra scrutiny, but, except for again not knowing my place, I didn't know what that reason was. However, when you've failed as many times as I, there comes a day when you know these failures are not about “them,” but about you. When your life’s work at the age of 52 is reduced to ten boxes, you have to ask yourself what YOU did wrong. After you've worn out the grooves in your record, “I Got Hurt for Doing the Right Thing,” you have to look in the mirror. I finally did, and the woman looking back at me said, “You’re a big fat liar.” The lies I’d told formed a long parade around me. The times I’d been silent when I should have spoken up. The times I’d been tricky for my personal gain. The times I'd been self-consumed and self-indulgent. The times I did something for personal aggrandizement as much as for the “cause.” The times I’d glossed over a misdeed to avoid criticism. The times I’d failed my friends. The times I’d failed my children. The huge sums of money I’d spent on clothes (that I no longer had) to impress people when I could have spent it helping people. I had cut corners and cut deals when I knew better. I realized that I was at least as hurt I’d not been a professional success as because I’d been punished for the reasons I was. “Are you really so different from them?” the woman in the mirror asked me. And, I knew I was not. This confession did not make me feel better. In fact, I felt worse. I knew I needed to change my ways, but I wasn't sure how; and this was very confusing. Moreover, I intuitively knew I had still not faced the biggest lie. I could at least admit to myself that I wasn't sure I wanted to know what that lie was. In the early spring of 2004, I was riding a city bus while looking for work. I saw a woman cross the street, dressed smartly in a tailored herring-bone suit with a shiny mahogany leather brief case dangling from her trim shoulder. Her shoes matched the brief case. Her perfect haircut with perfect ends delighted in the breeze and framed her smile. I knew her. We’d been colleagues once. I watched her embrace a high level university administrator in the way they do, with elbows pinned to their sides and cheeks barely grazing. I’d learned to do that too. I watched them enviously and quietly sighed, “Why was I deprived that?” A quiet voice or a quiet knowing, I’m not sure which, began to whisper to me then and revealed my greatest lie. It didn't scold me, but seemed sad for me. “You weren't deprived of that, you were spared that. Why aren't you grateful?” I had been given this incredibly blessed life, and I didn't appreciate it. Had I been a professional success, I would have appreciated it even less. I would have believed I'd proven some ridiculous Horatio Alger myth and beaten the odds with my personal genius and prowess. I’d have been sitting around with others in my price range talking about how I’d earned my success and patting myself on the back for a crumb or two of justice we’d pushed through the barriers. I would be observing how anyone who thought I’d sold out didn't understand how things worked in the real world. I would resent that those still oppressed didn't realize how lucky they were that someone with my values was in a position of influence. I would feel a hole in my soul, a sense that something was missing. I would occasionally share that with an economic peer who would admit to feeling the same thing. We would decide we needed a vacation or a massage, a funny movie, a new hobby or an adventure, or maybe even a little therapy to feel better. Nothing, however, would ever really fill the hole for long, and I would vie for the next higher post on the ladder telling myself that more status would somehow prove something or at least make things better. And, if I got it, I would believe I deserved it. I would cheat more, lie more, and carry more water because I had a right to economic survival and that’s how it works in the “real” world. I would have become even more lost than I was. Despite my efforts to subvert it, I was fortunate to have instilled in me at the age of five a sense of value that was stronger than my personal greed. Even when I ignored that sense, It was a good student, taking notes of what I’d learned and storing it away for a time when I might be more responsible with the knowledge. Those few times when I did listen to that voice, it was not mindful of my professional success, because it knew such success was meaningless. It helped me to learn this too by sparing me too many confirmations of that lie. How impatient it must have been with my slowness in learning. I began to understand that the first breath of violence is wrought when one human being feels more worthy of possessions and status than another. It’s a story as old as Cain and Abel. Finally, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt lucky, utterly completely lucky. I felt the relief of someone who’d survived a car wreck after I’d been speeding. I saw the great fortune of my life, the friends who’d been there for me, the grandfather who believed in me, children who, despite my flaws, loved me deeply. I had never gone hungry, and I’d always been given a bed (or at least a couch) on which to sleep. On that bus ride I briefly emerged from the dark night of the soul to its broad light of day. I hadn't failed because I’d not achieved professional success. I’d failed because I’d lied constantly to myself that professional success was more important than people. I’d failed the times I didn't stand up for justice in order to protect my stuff and win the favor of those who were protecting their stuff. I had failed because I wanted a material pay off for doing the right thing. After that, I began to study those who’d been more selfless in the struggle for justice than I. Each book I read whetted an appetite for learning more. I also began to reach out for others who wanted to learn more and were as interested in character development as much as (or more than) economic or political gain. I found a few. Even though I’d said this often enough while waxing purist in the past, I began to internalize the truth that doing anything that might really bring about sweeping change is never immediately popular and more often than not apt to get you killed. I realized that for any slight I’d experienced, real or perceived, that my life had been a joyride compared to theirs. From King to Gandhi to Mother Jones to Tubman to Stanton, none were popular until after they were dead. The fact that I’d not been a total sell-out and had taken some hits for a few moments of meager courage was pathetic in comparison. I was humbled and challenged. I increased my studies and would recently tell a friend, “If King could take on the Alabama, Mississippi, and Arkansas National Guards to change a nation, I can certainly take on some nefariousness in Johnson County when all I have to lose is a job.” My growth has not been smooth. It’s been pretty rocky in fact. I still fall from or begin to detour the path. Old habits die hard. Sometimes the fear of losing or not being believed can pitch me into darkness and scare me out of my skin. I still catch myself taking shortcuts when I shouldn't. I still covet now and then a better job, matching dishes, or a nicer mobile home than mine. However, now I’m more willing, and sometimes even eager, to admit it. I still second-guess whether I’m doing the right thing, especially after I receive disapproval, and more so if the disapproval comes from someone I care deeply about. I still judge people too harshly and let others off the hook too easily. I still hedge or stay silent about some things to keep myself and others from harm. And, I’m never absolutely sure when my silence was the right or wrong thing to do. I seek the counsel of those who have lived more selfless lives than I, and then make the call. I’m sure sometimes my call is wrong. I can’t say that I know all that much about most things anymore. I don’t know what it means to be a Democrat, especially when of the top two contenders for governor this year, one is pro-life and the other okay with a death penalty, and both are more pro- corporation than pro-labor. I thought Democrats had different positions on those issues. I don’t know what it means to be a Progressive either (except that a Progressive is more apt to recycle) since a whole lot of Progressives seem ready to settle for that. I don’t know how someone gets accolades for “walking the walk” who leaves a cause simply for more money and status. I don’t understand the observation that we can’t keep good people in the Cause unless they’re better financially rewarded. I’m not saying this to be critical. I’m honestly confused. I’m not confused because people aren't living up to their values. I’m confused because I’m not sure what our common values are right now. We buy sweaters made by kids who don’t get enough to eat because we can have five sweaters instead of one. While thousands of children die from starvation each year and thousands more perish from curable diseases, we obsess about partisan politics and voting straight party tickets. We do this though we know there is scant historical evidence that partisanship promotes democracy or ameliorates suffering. Placing hope solely in that basket, however, lets us off the hook. If the system is too corrupt for us to change it, it’s not our fault. When all we have to contribute is a critique of what others should be doing, we’re not contributing much. When we’ll sacrifice a child rather than a third television, we participate in tyranny. When we squeal on a co-worker to make points with the boss, we prostitute our character. When we give our elected officials or a CEO a pass because we fear their disapproval, we renounce our citizenship. Injustice will hold the reins, until we are less committed to the American dream of prosperity and property than we are to the American dream of liberty and justice for all. When we prize each other more than property or status, we are amazing. And, sometimes we do. When we marched five days from Selma to Birmingham, we weren't looking for bullets on our resume. When we took in Jews in Nazi Germany, we weren't worried we were violating a corporate policy manual. Last September, in Washington, D.C., 300,000 of us showed up because we were fed up. As I write this Jill Carroll, whose fate is still unknown, has put her life on the line for truth and justice. The everyday struggles matter even more. When we stand up to the smallest injustice, we show the greatest courage. If we can’t stand up to the smaller things, we won’t be seasoned enough to tackle the bigger ones. When we object to a racist, sexist, classist, or homophobic slur, when we refuse to buy goods that harm people, when we buy recycled goods anytime we can, when we stop hoarding far more than we need, when we stand up to an abusive leadership, the world shifts, and nothing can stop us. It doesn't really matter if we’re called trouble makers, slandered, hyper-criticized, or dismissed with some silly psychoanalysis because we’re not worried about more “stuff.” What matters is that we know what really matters. We’re sane enough to want a better world more than better things. I know this is the way we want it. We’re too much in love with story of the one who overcomes to want anything else. We choke up too quickly when the underdog wins to root for any other dog. We’ll feel so much better when we champion the thing that can yield a tear of joy than one in which we wallow. Few have the courage to walk this path alone, but we don’t have to. Lots of others are ready to walk it with us. We can become the quality of person my grandfather wanted me to be in 1956. While we’re creating real change, we’ll sing together many hymns of overcoming, including my grandfather’s favorite, “It is well with my soul,” because if we don’t have our souls, we don’t have nuthin'. -Mona Shaw |
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Essays on Moral Courage