Thank you for years of following my thought processes here at this site. I am officially (and FINALLY, after over a year of trying to make it happen) moving to a different site. It's the same blog, although a few tags and comments have been misplaced. It just feels like the right time to make the move. Keep following me at: http://elizabethbroberts.wordpress.com/.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
In Defense of Heritage
Heritage is a funny thing. I have a funny relationship with it and have often felt that I needed to explain mine away. But John Ray recently wrote his second-ever blogpost about the complexities of heritage, and I have several posts waiting to hatch in the metaphorical incubator for blogs...so it feels good to take some time to talk about where I come from. Like the former president George W. Bush said, if it feels good, do it. (Kids, don't try that at home.)
Before talking about diversity, other cultures, what government policies should/shouldn't be implemented, controversial current events, etc., it is so important to understand and appreciate where we come from. In recent job interviews, I have frequently been asked to describe how I identify culturally. The interviews that didn't feature that question at least allowed me to "tell about" myself. And the tidbits I chose to divulge and not divulge in those moments are important.
So let's talk about heritage. My heritage. You can talk about your heritage, too, and you should! But here's me.
It is so hard growing up in small towns in the South. All I, and most of my friends, ever wanted to do was get out. I think that stems more from the "growing up" part and less from the Southern small towns. Oh, the burden of adolescence. I was, for years, uncomfortable with being Southern, being American, being White, and being whatever socioeconomic class I thought my family fit into while in middle and high school (let's just say I learned a lot more about the American economic system in college). I couldn't ignore the negatives and guilt associated with my social identifiers. So I spent years denying those parts of me or over-explaining myself to prove that I did not truly fit into the negative associations...or even the positive ones. We moved several times, and each time, I sought a friend group that was diverse in any number of ways...perhaps to prove I was not the sum of my social identifiers. In college, I learned to call many of my identifiers "privileged" and how to unpack the invisible privilege backpack (see Peggy McIntosh or Wikipedia for more information). I also questioned other parts of my heritage--my Christianity, my beliefs, my (dis)abilities--for the sake of questioning. Pick a social identifier, any social identifier: I questioned that one, too. I question. It's who I am. I think it is the responsible thing to do as long as you don't drive yourself crazy with it.
While I was in college traveling the world and having weekly conversations with my little diverse Bonner Program bubble on the predominantly white College of Charleston campus, I came to appreciate the fact that I could identify as American or Southern or White or Christian...and it not be an implicitly bad thing. As a junior in college, I got back in touch with pieces of those social identifiers that I love: I started listening to bluegrass and tried to pick up the banjo, I watched NASCAR races, I made apple pies from scratch, I fell in love with the poetry of liturgy. I embraced the positive parts of my heritage. I was honest and open about who I was without feeling like I had to explain away the negative parts: those unearned privileges and not-so-pretty patterns of history.
To my surprise, I was not welcomed into the diversity world with open arms. I had watched several of my Black female friends reclaim their natural hair as they embraced their heritage. It was such a celebrated act. But when I talked about watching NASCAR, people were confused because I didn't look like the "rednecks" they expected were into NASCAR. They certainly didn't celebrate my learning to embrace my heritage, and they didn't stop for the stories about watching races with my dad (we would both always sleep through most of the race) or about how memorable it was for me when Dale Earnhardt died (seriously, ask me to tell you the story and I might still cry). I guess it's one of those privilege/oppression things. I know the White community is overprivileged in a way that disadvantages other races. I know the same is true for Christians in America, people with a college education, middle-classers, U.S. citizens, etc. I believe it is important to look past social identifiers, sources of privilege, and even diversity to instead hear people's unique and untainted stories. To create my story, I have spent a lot of time considering who I am and all the privilege/oppression issues to which my heritage inherently connects me. I bring a very important piece to diversity conversations: myself. And I promise that I will constantly check my privilege...but also that I will be completely transparent about who I am, what my heritage is.
Before talking about diversity, other cultures, what government policies should/shouldn't be implemented, controversial current events, etc., it is so important to understand and appreciate where we come from. In recent job interviews, I have frequently been asked to describe how I identify culturally. The interviews that didn't feature that question at least allowed me to "tell about" myself. And the tidbits I chose to divulge and not divulge in those moments are important.
So let's talk about heritage. My heritage. You can talk about your heritage, too, and you should! But here's me.
It is so hard growing up in small towns in the South. All I, and most of my friends, ever wanted to do was get out. I think that stems more from the "growing up" part and less from the Southern small towns. Oh, the burden of adolescence. I was, for years, uncomfortable with being Southern, being American, being White, and being whatever socioeconomic class I thought my family fit into while in middle and high school (let's just say I learned a lot more about the American economic system in college). I couldn't ignore the negatives and guilt associated with my social identifiers. So I spent years denying those parts of me or over-explaining myself to prove that I did not truly fit into the negative associations...or even the positive ones. We moved several times, and each time, I sought a friend group that was diverse in any number of ways...perhaps to prove I was not the sum of my social identifiers. In college, I learned to call many of my identifiers "privileged" and how to unpack the invisible privilege backpack (see Peggy McIntosh or Wikipedia for more information). I also questioned other parts of my heritage--my Christianity, my beliefs, my (dis)abilities--for the sake of questioning. Pick a social identifier, any social identifier: I questioned that one, too. I question. It's who I am. I think it is the responsible thing to do as long as you don't drive yourself crazy with it.
While I was in college traveling the world and having weekly conversations with my little diverse Bonner Program bubble on the predominantly white College of Charleston campus, I came to appreciate the fact that I could identify as American or Southern or White or Christian...and it not be an implicitly bad thing. As a junior in college, I got back in touch with pieces of those social identifiers that I love: I started listening to bluegrass and tried to pick up the banjo, I watched NASCAR races, I made apple pies from scratch, I fell in love with the poetry of liturgy. I embraced the positive parts of my heritage. I was honest and open about who I was without feeling like I had to explain away the negative parts: those unearned privileges and not-so-pretty patterns of history.
To my surprise, I was not welcomed into the diversity world with open arms. I had watched several of my Black female friends reclaim their natural hair as they embraced their heritage. It was such a celebrated act. But when I talked about watching NASCAR, people were confused because I didn't look like the "rednecks" they expected were into NASCAR. They certainly didn't celebrate my learning to embrace my heritage, and they didn't stop for the stories about watching races with my dad (we would both always sleep through most of the race) or about how memorable it was for me when Dale Earnhardt died (seriously, ask me to tell you the story and I might still cry). I guess it's one of those privilege/oppression things. I know the White community is overprivileged in a way that disadvantages other races. I know the same is true for Christians in America, people with a college education, middle-classers, U.S. citizens, etc. I believe it is important to look past social identifiers, sources of privilege, and even diversity to instead hear people's unique and untainted stories. To create my story, I have spent a lot of time considering who I am and all the privilege/oppression issues to which my heritage inherently connects me. I bring a very important piece to diversity conversations: myself. And I promise that I will constantly check my privilege...but also that I will be completely transparent about who I am, what my heritage is.
 |
| 16 year-old me getting in touch with my roots (pun SO intended) via the oak tree in Greenwood |
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Getting Out of the Self-Absorption Closet
I've been pretty self-absorbed lately. Ironic, as I sit here writing a blogpost about...well, me. I'm usually very introspective, which can be both extremely healthy and extremely detrimental to my mental state. I like to keep it on the healthy, centering side of things as much as possible. No, lately I've been less concerned about contemplating who I am and how I live my life and much more concerned with stressing over the little things (my apologies to the universe for the amount of frustration I have recently expressed needlessly). Self-reflective versus self-absorbed. See the difference?
I realized it last week when John Ray and I sat down with the book of Common Prayer (specifically the one by Shane Claiborne prescribed for "ordinary radicals"). We were going through the liturgy and came to three bolded words that threw me for a loop: "Prayer for Others." Jesus Christ, there are others?! I thought, giving John Ray a look of bewilderment. He shrugged his shoulders and, realizing I was not going to say my prayer for others out loud, bowed his head to silently pray. In defense of myself, I honestly have felt very removed from any world outside our apartment. I (in my biased opinion) did a good job keeping the whole wedding season from being one big Elizabeth-fest because I wanted it to be about both of us and all of our family/friends. Now, though, we're in a new city where we've met few people and don't truly know anyone. So in terms of "others" here in Louisville, I didn't think I had anyone to pray for. Perhaps I could pray that others would be sent my way? I suggested to the dumbfounded silence in me. I have "others," though, who live in Charleston...Rock Hill...other places. Yet, I have felt so distant from them while trying to establish a new life here that I didn't have anything to meditate on for them. My life has been centered on creating a house and home, cooking and eating, looking for jobs, and watching Netflix when my introverted brain can take no more. Please, God, not another seven pages of job listings that are just barely interesting...but just interesting enough to make me read through all of them.
This started the thinking process...and a week later, here I sit: in my closet at midnight with all the lights off. Mostly because I kept John Ray up with abstract questions ("Do you think any person is ever completely powerless?") until I felt so guilty that I let him fall asleep only to have the questions continue floating around in my head--moving from self-absorption to self-reflection, stretching those forgotten muscles in anticipation. Just an example: I know that if I was truer to myself and read Huffington Post articles about interfaith prayer strengthening communities instead of brain-melting as I scroll through Facebook, unfollowing people who post too much, I would feel more energized and more connected with the world. I would probably view our neighbors, who seem just as shy as I seem severely allergic to small talk, as people to get to know and not people to check out the blinds for to decide if I should delay getting the mail or not...But I hyperbolize.
I am working on a post about "prayer" (to be defined and reimagined in various ways, I promise) because it's something I have spent a lot of time deconstructing and exploring. Also, my little sister and I just had an awesome conversation about it that was everything I needed and more. So that's coming. But first, I needed to sit in my closet and work through the blurriness of self-reflection and self-absorption. It's for me, but hey, you've joined in now and why not let it be for you, too? Self-absorption is insecure while self-reflection demonstrates how secure the mind really can be. Self-absorption disguises itself as a need so often (i.e. I need to figure out how I fit in this job description so I can get a job) while self-reflection allows honesty and vulnerability to be remarkably powerful. I volunteered during college as a direct defense to the self-absorbed thought processes that leave me depressed and anxious, while self-reflection was a powerful tool to take my service to a lifestyle of questioning injustice and pursuing peace. That shouldn't change now.
There are others. I just need to change my perspective and approach. Right now, they might come in the form of abstracts and possibilities, news articles and hypothetical community members; they might be people I need to get back in touch with in an attempt to continue living life alongside them...even states away. I'm hoping that they also come in the form of real, honest community here in Louisville.
I realized it last week when John Ray and I sat down with the book of Common Prayer (specifically the one by Shane Claiborne prescribed for "ordinary radicals"). We were going through the liturgy and came to three bolded words that threw me for a loop: "Prayer for Others." Jesus Christ, there are others?! I thought, giving John Ray a look of bewilderment. He shrugged his shoulders and, realizing I was not going to say my prayer for others out loud, bowed his head to silently pray. In defense of myself, I honestly have felt very removed from any world outside our apartment. I (in my biased opinion) did a good job keeping the whole wedding season from being one big Elizabeth-fest because I wanted it to be about both of us and all of our family/friends. Now, though, we're in a new city where we've met few people and don't truly know anyone. So in terms of "others" here in Louisville, I didn't think I had anyone to pray for. Perhaps I could pray that others would be sent my way? I suggested to the dumbfounded silence in me. I have "others," though, who live in Charleston...Rock Hill...other places. Yet, I have felt so distant from them while trying to establish a new life here that I didn't have anything to meditate on for them. My life has been centered on creating a house and home, cooking and eating, looking for jobs, and watching Netflix when my introverted brain can take no more. Please, God, not another seven pages of job listings that are just barely interesting...but just interesting enough to make me read through all of them.
This started the thinking process...and a week later, here I sit: in my closet at midnight with all the lights off. Mostly because I kept John Ray up with abstract questions ("Do you think any person is ever completely powerless?") until I felt so guilty that I let him fall asleep only to have the questions continue floating around in my head--moving from self-absorption to self-reflection, stretching those forgotten muscles in anticipation. Just an example: I know that if I was truer to myself and read Huffington Post articles about interfaith prayer strengthening communities instead of brain-melting as I scroll through Facebook, unfollowing people who post too much, I would feel more energized and more connected with the world. I would probably view our neighbors, who seem just as shy as I seem severely allergic to small talk, as people to get to know and not people to check out the blinds for to decide if I should delay getting the mail or not...But I hyperbolize.
I am working on a post about "prayer" (to be defined and reimagined in various ways, I promise) because it's something I have spent a lot of time deconstructing and exploring. Also, my little sister and I just had an awesome conversation about it that was everything I needed and more. So that's coming. But first, I needed to sit in my closet and work through the blurriness of self-reflection and self-absorption. It's for me, but hey, you've joined in now and why not let it be for you, too? Self-absorption is insecure while self-reflection demonstrates how secure the mind really can be. Self-absorption disguises itself as a need so often (i.e. I need to figure out how I fit in this job description so I can get a job) while self-reflection allows honesty and vulnerability to be remarkably powerful. I volunteered during college as a direct defense to the self-absorbed thought processes that leave me depressed and anxious, while self-reflection was a powerful tool to take my service to a lifestyle of questioning injustice and pursuing peace. That shouldn't change now.
There are others. I just need to change my perspective and approach. Right now, they might come in the form of abstracts and possibilities, news articles and hypothetical community members; they might be people I need to get back in touch with in an attempt to continue living life alongside them...even states away. I'm hoping that they also come in the form of real, honest community here in Louisville.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
I had a blog once. It was awful.
This past year has been brutal on my blogging. To be fair, most of my desire to write was sucked dry by my Bachelor's Essay, which became a beast of a creation: 16 single-spaced pages of people's volunteer stories and my analysis of it all. I also spent what little free time I had applying for jobs and helping my husband plan a wedding. Well, the wedding thing worked out, but the job? Jury's still out on that one. Between my senior year coursework and helping the lovely Eliza Blades and Laura Mewbourn run the Bonner Leader Program at CofC, I had nothing left when the day was over. So I mindnumbingly watched a lot of Netflix: Breaking Bad, Psych, The Walking Dead, movies on movies on movies. I regret not blogging through my spring break trip to Guatemala and missing out on this reflective space that allows me to make beautiful connections through the craziest year of my life.
But I'm now living a new life, in a new state, in a new apartment, with a new name and a new roommate (hey, John Ray, who doesn't read over my shoulder nearly as much as I read over his). It feels like a good time to pick this blog up, brush off the dust, and reimagine what it will be.
Blogging can be like having an existential crisis all the time. I constantly ask: What should my blog be about? Is this life event significant enough to write about? Am I witty enough? Do people get my sense of humor? Will people care to read about that random thing that happened to me? Would they like more pictures? Does anyone actually read this thing? Is my life meaningful at all?! Okay, not the last one so much. A blog sometimes feels something like an unpleasant growth on the side of your face. People stare at it, but don't ask about it. The word "blog" itself is too uncomfortable to mention anyway. You can't just walk into any room and declare, "I HAVE A BLOG." No, that won't do at all.
But I've made the move from Charleston, SC to Louisville, KY, and, as uncomfortable as it is to say, I'd like to bring my blog along with me. I've traded the Atlantic Ocean and quaint historic houses for rolling green hills and a quirky industrial city with horse and bourbon obsessions. We're trying to find new digs and niches, and basically, I'm not sure where life is taking me from here. Right now, I'm reveling in the joys of watching any World Cup game I want and going to bed before 10 every night. I'm also marveling at how easily I get antsy and frustrated and irrational while my unemployed self sits at home all day staring at job listings. So perhaps my blog and I will be helping each other do some reimagining here.
Welcome to my transition space.
I make no promises, so expect only me.
But I'm now living a new life, in a new state, in a new apartment, with a new name and a new roommate (hey, John Ray, who doesn't read over my shoulder nearly as much as I read over his). It feels like a good time to pick this blog up, brush off the dust, and reimagine what it will be.
Blogging can be like having an existential crisis all the time. I constantly ask: What should my blog be about? Is this life event significant enough to write about? Am I witty enough? Do people get my sense of humor? Will people care to read about that random thing that happened to me? Would they like more pictures? Does anyone actually read this thing? Is my life meaningful at all?! Okay, not the last one so much. A blog sometimes feels something like an unpleasant growth on the side of your face. People stare at it, but don't ask about it. The word "blog" itself is too uncomfortable to mention anyway. You can't just walk into any room and declare, "I HAVE A BLOG." No, that won't do at all.
But I've made the move from Charleston, SC to Louisville, KY, and, as uncomfortable as it is to say, I'd like to bring my blog along with me. I've traded the Atlantic Ocean and quaint historic houses for rolling green hills and a quirky industrial city with horse and bourbon obsessions. We're trying to find new digs and niches, and basically, I'm not sure where life is taking me from here. Right now, I'm reveling in the joys of watching any World Cup game I want and going to bed before 10 every night. I'm also marveling at how easily I get antsy and frustrated and irrational while my unemployed self sits at home all day staring at job listings. So perhaps my blog and I will be helping each other do some reimagining here.
Welcome to my transition space.
I make no promises, so expect only me.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
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.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
The Poet's Obligation
For months, I have been prying myself with one question: who
told you that you could stop writing?
I have blamed a trip to India, busy semester, job
applications, exhaustion, John Ray, a “boring” life; anything and everything to
excuse my lack of words. At the end of the day, though, whether or not anyone
reads the words, I sincerely do believe it is my obligation to write. As Pablo
Neruda explains in “Deber del Poeta,” it is the writer’s obligation to write
the sea into life for those who cannot experience it for themselves.
I promise I will return. And soon.
Monday, November 4, 2013
in!Genius
I believe in the power of stories to create change.
But when I was asked to share my story, I was initially skeptical that people would want to hear what I had to say.
A wise person in my life likes to tell me that I will not be able to empower others if I don't first empower myself, so I began digging around in my life for a story worth telling, a story that might create change.
On September 25th, a night of free thinkers and free stuff that we at the College of Charleston like to call "in!Genius," I had the incredible opportunity to share my story with a theatre full of students, faculty, community members, and my dearest friends. Now that it has been told, I'd like to pack it away for awhile and work on creating some new stories. But for those of you who missed it, here it is. Grab some popcorn and enjoy!
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