After several interactions I’ve had the last few days, I
feel compelled to get something off my chest. The massacre in Charleston has
deeply affected me, both emotionally and physically. I felt connected to the tragedy
in many ways, resulting in an array of emotions – profound sadness,
frustration, and yes, even some anger. Nine people were slaughtered in Charleston,
my favorite city in the world, in a church that I lived across the street from
my junior year in college, one I used to walk past every day. They were killed
for no other reason than they were black. Among the extensive media coverage of
the horrific event, I watched a press conference where I saw the same coroner
who performed the autopsy on my cousin when he was murdered in the city I hold
so dear. The shooter was a native of my state, and by his own admission was moved
to action by hate speech spewed by the same right wing media sources many of my
neighbors consume on a regular basis.
There was, however, one bright spot in this situation –
folks in Charleston and elsewhere in the state came together in a display of
love and unity that awed the entire nation and the world. The families of the victims
exhibited a level of graciousness of which I am myself likely not capable when
they professed their forgiveness of the terrorist who murdered their loved
ones. Unfortunately, some have used those amazing displays to attempt to silence
the conversations about societal and structural injustices that created the
atmosphere in which this massacre occurred.
I’ve been very outspoken about the Charleston massacre on
social media, sometimes using pointed language to get across hard truths about
racism that need to be discussed. One of those truths, one of the most basic of
this situation, is that we have to deal with racist symbols that exist in our
society. The Confederate Flag flying on the grounds of the Capitol is the
first, and most obvious, of those symbols that need addressing, and I made
several posts about the issue.
In response to my posts, I received some messages that
attempted to silence me. In one, a link was posted on my page that was an
attempt to stifle debate wrapped up in the guise of praising the people of
Charleston and South Carolina. The message, however, was clear: stop talking
about topics which white people find uncomfortable. It demanded people not talk
politics in a situation that is overtly political, under the disingenuous plea
to “let the families grieve.” While I’m not surprised by attempts to silence
discussions about racism, I was infuriated that someone who was at one time a
close friend telling me how I should behave as if I don’t know what it’s like
to have a family member murdered. As if I were being insensitive for daring to
discuss removing a symbol from our Capitol grounds that flew as a cruel insult to
the nine people who were murdered by someone who proudly displayed that same
symbol.
I also received a message saying that I “should consider
being more positive” about the situation, that all my posts had been negative
and I was ruining the “beautiful thing” that had come out of this horrific
situation. That wasn’t a true statement, but that’s not the problem. This
message came from an acquaintance I barely knew in college who had the audacity
to try to tell me how I should react.
I want to make something very clear. I will not allow anyone
to tone police me. I will not be silenced. I will continue to point out the
hard truths about the vestiges of white supremacy and structural racism that
still plague our society 150 years after the abolition of slavery, and 50 years
after the Civil Rights Movement. I won’t bow to the covert racism that is
refusing to talk about hard truths because of excuses like “it’s too soon,” or “just
focus on peace and love.” If not now, when? I suspect for most people making
these arguments, the answer is preferably never. Delay the issue in hopes that
in our 24 hour news cycle that moves lightning fast, people will lose steam on
their desire to have a real debate. And if there’s anything the movements of
the 1960s and 70s taught us, it’s that love actually doesn’t conquer all, and
isn’t enough to enact real change in society.
I am going to divert slightly to tell a story. Well, part of
a story, as I do not have the emotional capacity to tell the whole story at
this time, and it’s not necessary to make my point.
My paternal grandfather’s family was from a town in
Lithuania called Dorbyan. His Jewish ancestors lived in the town for several
hundred years, until a fire burned most of the Jewish part of the town in 1882.
As a part of a large migration from the town in the following years, his
father, grandfather, and some of his uncles moved to New Jersey. Some of his
father’s immediate family remained, but because of the size and isolation of
the town, nearly everyone in the town was a part of his family tree. In June of 1941, there
were about 800 Jewish residents remaining in the town, including family as
close as my grandfather’s first cousins. Then the Nazis showed up.
The story of what happened to the people of Dorbyan is not
the typical story you hear of Jews who perished in the Holocaust at concentration
camps. My family never made it to the camps. Over the next several months, the
Nazis proceeded to work the Jewish residents of the town to death until October of 1941
when there were only 100 women and children left, whom they locked in a
synagogue and burned it to the ground.
Christians made up the majority of the population of Dorbyan
at this time. These Christians watched, in silence, as their friends and
neighbors were systematically slaughtered. Thanks to a few brave individuals, though,
12 Jewish children managed to survive, which is the only reason we know the
story today. This same story was enacted over and over again in the Jewish
towns, or shtetls, across Eastern Europe. I can’t help but wonder how these
stories might have turned out differently if the Christians in the towns had
stood up to the Nazis instead of remaining silent. Perhaps 6 million Jews would
not have perished in the Holocaust.
I see a parallel between the story of what happened to my people,
and what has been happening in the black community in America for generations. Now,
there was an obvious risk to these Christians of being killed themselves that played a part in why they
did not stand up. That risk, however, does not exist for white people in today’s
America. We can stand up against hatred and genocide without the real risk of
being slaughtered ourselves. In fact, there is very little risk we face at all
for confronting racism except for the discomfort of addressing our complicity
in a racist system that tells black bodies they don’t matter. This is not the
only reason I speak up, but it certainly plays a role in my outspokenness.
If you follow me on Facebook and don’t like what I post,
fine. I really don’t care. If you want to engage in a debate and attempt to become better educated on the subject, I’m up for that. But
don’t think you have the right to tell me how I should react, and definitely
don’t scold me for stating a truth you don’t want to hear. Unfollow me,
unfriend me, whatever, I don’t care. In fact, if you’re not down for the
struggle against racism in our society, then frankly, I don’t want you in my
life, anyway. But don’t think for one second that you can silence me.
As a white woman, the
shooter in Charleston carried out his massacre in my name when he stated the generations-old
racist trope “You rape our women and you’re taking over our country, so you’ve
got to go.” Well, I am standing up and saying, “Not in my name!” While
structural racism in America is very complicated, there is a simple truth
involved.
White silence is white consent. But I do not consent. And I
will not remain silent.
No comments:
Post a Comment