Having Conversations: Martin Luther King, Jr. and the Civil Rights Movement of Today

How do we remember Martin Luther King, Jr. and the civil rights movement of the 1960s? Posting an inspirational quote from Dr. King as an obligatory Facebook status? Buying into racist stereotypes (it happened: http://www.charlestoncitypaper.com/HaireoftheDog/archives/2014/01/20/celebrating-mlk-day-with-fried-chicken-and-40s-of-oe)? Taking a day off from school and work? Participating in a “day on, not a day off” by doing service (it also happened: http://news.cofc.edu/2014/01/20/4-martin-luther-king-jr-day-2014-events-and-activities-hosted-by-the-college-of-charleston/)?

This is a couple weeks late, but I want to propose that we commemorate Dr. King and a civil rights movement necessitating our attention still today by doing what the activists of the 1960s did: have conversations. Perhaps that is overly simplistic, but as I have been thinking about the collection of rights people advocate for today (equality among races, sexual orientations, religions, abilities, nationalities and citizenship statuses), I have noticed a common thread. We struggle to have conversations.

Remember the great government shutdown of 2013? Yes, of course you do. It’s what happened when the government struggled to have real conversations. It happens on much smaller scales: within churches, on college campuses, in neighborhoods, across generations. When I try to remember the real conversations I’ve had in the past month, they’re few and far between. I mean, I talk to people all the time—those I agree with and those I don’t. But the times I have talked about real issues with people and actively listened to their side, civilly presented my thoughts, and each of us allowed the others’ opinions to matter significantly…those times are few.

As part of “Share the Dream” week on the College of Charleston campus, Jose Antonio Vargas, an undocumented American and successful American journalist, spoke about what it means to be American—both documented and undocumented. He connected immigrant rights with the civil rights movement of the 1960s. He gave the statistics and stories to propose that immigrant rights are important, that “no human being is ‘illegal.’” I walked away from his talk with a more meta message, though. His talk was much more about having conversations, and I think one of the clips he showed from his documentary, "Documented," encapsulated that. In the clip, he was interviewing an Alabama college student about recent legislation requiring students to present papers as proof of their citizenship when a man in the background of the shot decided to share his opinion, which greatly differed from both Vargas’s and the student’s. This man implied that all immigrants—legal or not—should leave the country because they are stealing jobs from Americans. Vargas didn’t shut him down (or let himself shut down), but allowed the man to express his opinion, asking him questions because he genuinely wanted to learn a different perspective from this man. And perhaps because Vargas listened to him, the man was then interested in Vargas’s story. They fist-pumped at the end of the clip, each apparently having learned something from the other. Heart-warming, right?

I don’t have to imagine how this conversation could have taken a different turn: I’ve seen it happen before. People get offended and defensive, calling one another “close-minded.” Liberal views and conservative views can both be close-minded, when everyone sees their own views as right and others’ views as wrong. There is no room for conversation.

I have been guilty of being on both sides of inability to have conversation. Now, I want the conversations, because out of conversations, movements are born.

That Band Aid Song Got It So Wrong and Yet Still So Right.

There's something wrong with the way we celebrate Christmas! I'm just not convinced we do it right. Thinking we're missing the point of Christmas is not a new or original idea. But every Christmas the conviction still alienates and overwhelms me. Yet again, I feel like Charlie Brown standing on stage asking, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?" Every time the boxes come down from the attic and Christmas tunes dominate the airwaves, I get so depressed. I turn into this brooding poet version of the Grinch but without the he-even-carved-the-roast-beast ending. I rant: Christmas is too extravagant and excessive. We're missing the real meaning. (I think I run the risk of sounding like that overly dramatic Band Aid song about Africans crying and not even knowing it's Christmas Day. I could do an entire critique on this song, even though it's one of my favorites. But I won't. So please keep reading.)

Because this past year has been especially tumultuous, I really want something different for Christmas. This year, I've made a new commitment to joy. I'm not going to ignore the fact that our Christmases are too materialistic/consumeristic or that we are blinded by our own dancing Christmas lights so carefully adorning every (!) single (!) roof (!). But I am actively choosing to get down off my soapbox and embrace the joyous parts of Christmas.

Cue Linus: "Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about. Lights, please..."

My Gameplan of Joy

Much singing and dancing to Christmas songs : particularly "The Christmas Song" by The Raveonettes, "All I Want is Truth (For Christmas)" by The Mynabirds, and David Crowder Band's "Angels We Have Heard on High"

Fair trade and homemade gifts : It's unrealistic of me to expect people to stop giving gifts at Christmas. It's a tradition passed down from those wise men in the Bible. But why not give gifts that are responsible and beneficial to the people we never think about: the ones who actually produce them? Fair trade gifts are great and there are lots of fantastic fair trade companies. Even better than that, though, are gifts that actively help people rescued from slavery (often labor slavery). Some of my favorites: SariBari, Thistle Farms, Ten Thousand Villages, International Justice Mission.

Watching Elf at least five or six times, while quoting every line of the movie : "Do you want to get some food? You know, like the code? *wink*"

LoveGaveHope : LoveGave is a project the collective Church of Charleston adopted several years ago to give back to the community. This year we're camping out at three Wal-Marts for 58 straight hours to raise the money and supplies to demolish local orphanages' wishlists. This is my first ever LoveGave event, and I'm stoked. Check in at the LoveGaveHope website between Dec. 6th-8th to watch the live broadcast or to donate.

Enjoying (with eyes all aglow) the rainbow of lights and blow-up Santas on motorcycles : This will take many forms including but not limited to the Christmas tree lighting in Marion Square this Saturday, the annual boat parade (also Saturday), and the inevitable Christmas Eve drive through a Rock Hill neighborhood with my family.

Baking Christmas goodies and decorating gingerbread houses with my little sister : Prepare your hearts for an explosion of goopy frosting and sugary candies.

Drinking eggnog with friends : I've never tried it before and I'm lactose intolerant...so this is sure to be an adventure.

Being with my family : Seriously, I just want to be fully present in their lives for the few days I'm home. We'll go for wintery hikes, see The Hobbit and Les Miserables, drink hot tea together, etc.



(Ha. Bono has a mullet.)

That Band Aid song tells us that "the greatest gift they'll get this year is life." Let's be real. Life is the greatest gift we'll all get this year. That resonates a lot with me this Christmastide for various reasons. So for my own sake, I am going to enjoy life this Christmas! C'mon! Enjoy it with me! Why does it have to be complicated? It doesn't have to be an "either/or." I can be aware of the footprint Christmas leaves on the world, choosing to be a responsible consumer/celebrator, while also rejoicing in the fact that I have life and friends and family. There can be joy in the awareness.

Peace of Me

Several white balloons made their way from the crowd gathered on the dirt soccer field up into the sky. It wasn't really picturesque. They didn't have long, curling ribbons attached to them. The sky wasn't blue but filled with bland white clouds, and so the balloons couldn't stand out in contrast. No one stared up at them, watching them float away with hopes that the violence would leave Flor del Campo with them. Well, I guess no one except for me.

This morning, there was a peace march in Flor. My team joined the students from El Cordero, LAMB's school in Flor, the children from Casa Hogar, LAMB's children's home, youth and leaders from the Alonzo Movement, and probably hundreds of other people from Flor (I'm not good with estimating numbers so don't quote me on that) in a walk around the community. I tend not to be a very political person. I have very strong opinions about very specific issues, and I have yet to learn about a politician or political party that stands for all that I value. Honduras, however, is a very political country. Most of the graffiti I've seen in Tegus is political, expressing the need for peace, liberty, less violence, justice. When we went to El Picacho nearly a week ago, two men were fervently praying in the zen garden under the shadow of Jesus the Healer (Cristo Picacho). The phrase I kept hearing them repeat was "Señor, danos la libertad!" (God, give us liberty!) Demonstrations like this peace march are also apparently common. I remember seeing several last year when I was here, outside of judicial buildings or just along streets.

For the march, we North Americans painted hearts and butterflies on the children's faces. At some point, someone handed us signs to carry, and we joined the ranks of uniformed students bearing banners. My sign had a picture of a gun on it underneath the word "NO"; I carried it dutifully. Some of the students' signs featured Bible verses, doves, anything related to peace really. It was so much, my five senses could barely take it all in, and I ended up with a headache from trying too hard to capture everything with my mind. I was torn between reveling in being part of it and just wanting to watch it happen from a nearby balcony. A piece of me was watching carefully over my team, mentally counting all eleven as we walked the perimeter of Flor. Another piece of me was distracted by the kids from Casa Hogar. Most of the older ones remembered me from last year, and I desperately wished I could just sit down and talk with them. Some of the younger kids kept giving me funny looks, clearly recognizing me but not entirely sure from where. I wondered how each of them had changed in the past year. A piece of me also over-analyzed the idea of peace: what it looks like for the Hondurans, what it looks like for me, how impossible peace can feel in such a violent place, how possible peace is wherever God is. And a final piece of me just really enjoyed the entire ordeal. It was fun. I've never done anything like it before unless you count cheering in a St. Patrick's Day parade when I was 5 (which I don't).

I can't help thinking back to the speech I heard last Wednesday at the El Cordero school. The principal kept telling the children that theirs is the one voice God can't resist. I hope that that holds true today. I sincerely hope that peace finds its way into the dirt soccer field, into the homes that sometimes have running water, into the steep, rocky streets, into the hearts and lives of the people of Flor del Campo. I hope the Alonzo Movement has such a lasting and rippling effect that one day there will be no need to have a program for at-risk youth.

Underneath my fingernails is dried red paint from painting hearts on children's faces. It's eerie. It looks like blood. I don't like it. I've tried to wash it out, but I think it's just going to take time. Maybe that's meaningful, metaphorical, as if I am causing violence of my own that needs to be purged. Maybe, like the white balloons, it just feels symbolic. The white balloons marked the end of our marching, the end of our singing, the end of our chanting. Deep down, I hoped that they were capable of taking the violence with them. Deep down, I hoped that they symbolized release, freedom, and absolution.




"I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him. Then you will overflow with confident hope through the power of the Holy Spirit." Romans 15:13

http://www.elheraldo.hn/Secciones-Principales/Metro/Ninos-y-jovenes-de-la-Flor-del-Campo-marchan-por-la-paz#panel1-4

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose!"

Freedom.

This word has been indiscreetly stalking me for the past month or so. If I'm being honest with myself, it's actually been stalking me for much longer than that. As an American, perhaps a reluctant one, "freedom" is a word I casually throw around. YES. I take advantage of my freedoms...in regards to speech, religion, voting, education, you know what I'm talking about. I wasn't necessarily born with a silver spoon in my mouth (that's a thing, right?), but I have been given some of the most incredible opportunities in my life. I grew up well fed and loved. I never worried about where money or meals or rest would come from. I have had the joy of traveling to San Francisco, Costa Rico, Honduras, Puerto Rico, and all along the east coast of the States. And most importantly, my parents raised me to love God and to seek His kingdom first in all things. Why am I saying all this? I think it's to remind myself that I am FREE.

I'm a college student. I feel bound by budgets and homework. I feel bound by the 24 hour day that is always, without fail, much too short. I feel bound by the knowledge that I have and by the knowledge that I lack (Sophomore=wise fool). But I have been set free.

Guess what.
In case you haven't heard, there are more slaves today than at there were at any other time in history. 27 million is the number people keep shoving down my throat. Or attempting to shove down my throat. 27 million is quite a bit to swallow. For me at least. I knew human trafficking was an issue in our world today, but that was just head knowledge until Christmas break. First, an alternative break trip to Puerto Rico made me question where goods I use everyday (particularly coffee) come from. A lot of them aren't exactly rainforest friendly, which was disconcerting to me after spending several days working closely with El Yunque, one of the most diverse rainforests in the world. A lot of them are also not human friendly. For instance, coffee is grown in areas where the rainforest has been cleared so that the coffee plants can get full sun. Much of the coffee produced is harvested by people who are underpaid and ill-treated, many of them children. Coffee is one of the major products that people in the first world can enjoy at an inexpensive price because of the slave labor involved in the process.

A couple weeks after Puerto Rico, I went to a huge worship gathering in Atlanta called Passion. Let me rephrase that: I joined 46,000 other college kids and leaders in overtaking downtown Atlanta, the Georgia Dome, the CNN Center, the Georgia World Conference Center, and all surrounding areas. And in case you haven't heard yet, our focus was freedom. Here's a look at the happenings:
http://268generation.com/passion2012/#!/freedom/
http://thecnnfreedomproject.blogs.cnn.com/2012/01/05/
(Sorry. They refuse to be hyperlinks. Be old school and copy paste.)

Yeah. It was awesome. But it was also heart breaking. I see things in black and white. I firmly adhere to the idea that if you aren't part of the solution, you're part of the problem. So I thought that because I wasn't consuming only fair trade products or working to rescue girls in a red light district, I was enslaving people, stealing their voice, being an oppressor. It broke me. I felt the need to act on my brokenness but didn't know what to do, which just made me feel more broken. I then made the mistake of being too down and out to do anything. Awareness of the problem didn't lead me to bold advocacy; it led me to curl up in a ball and do nothing. Not literally. I am not a cat. But I did figuratively curl up in a ball. I enslaved myself in my inability to save all 27 million. How stupid is that?

I'm trying to see shades of gray. Coffee is a social drink for me. If I stop drinking coffee, then I'm less likely to spend as much time talking with my mom, my grandparents, random new friends. But I can spring for fair trade, shade grown coffee. That's action without complete inaction. (Does that statement make sense?) I realize that I can't save all 27 million on my own. Mother Teresa once said, "If you can't feed a hundred people, then feed just one." And my beloved suitemate Megan thinks Mother Teresa is one of the greatest people ever, so I'll trust that I can just feed one or, in this case, just free one. Also, I'm not alone in trying to free people. There were 46,000 other people who collaborated to give over $3 million to freedom organizations at Passion with me. That's huge. Even huger (in Charleston, we say that word like "you-gee") is that God is also on our side. Isaiah 58:10-12 have been the driving verses behind my life since spring of my senior year in high school (I did the math just now...that's two whole years). Those verses plus some kept surfacing during Passion--on Rebecca's (my dear friend who likes kittens a lot) and my white flags, during a panel discussion with inspirational freedom advocates, in one of the main talks. God is all about some freedom.

6 No, this is the kind of fasting I want:
Free those who are wrongly imprisoned;
lighten the burden of those who work for you.
Let the oppressed go free,
and remove the chains that bind people.
7 Share your food with the hungry,
and give shelter to the homeless.
Give clothes to those who need them,
and do not hide from relatives who need your help.

8 “Then your salvation will come like the dawn,
and your wounds will quickly heal.
Your godliness will lead you forward,
and the glory of the LORD will protect you from behind.
9 Then when you call, the LORD will answer.
‘Yes, I am here,’ he will quickly reply.

“Remove the heavy yoke of oppression.
Stop pointing your finger and spreading vicious rumors!
10 Feed the hungry,
and help those in trouble.
Then your light will shine out from the darkness,
and the darkness around you will be as bright as noon.
11 The LORD will guide you continually,
giving you water when you are dry
and restoring your strength.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like an ever-flowing spring.
12 Some of you will rebuild the deserted ruins of your cities.
Then you will be known as a rebuilder of walls
and a restorer of homes.

And if God is all for freedom, I should be, too. I found a lot of hope in the last few verses. For a while, I've loved the image of being a "well-watered garden" and an "ever-flowing spring," but I never took the time to read on. In my state of brokenness and despair for the enslaved people of this world, I needed to know that God could use me to be a "rebuilder" and a "restorer." I pray now that I will be broken enough to care, but not too broken to be effective. I want to be a rebuilder and restorer because I have been rebuilt and restored!


So now I have some questions for you:
Have you acknowledged that modern day slavery is happening? Because ignorance and indifference are not options.
Have you enslaved yourself to something?
Are you singing "Me and Bobby McGee" by Janis Joplin? If you aren't, you should be. So here you go:
Now to get that song out of your head, enjoy some All Sons and Daughters: