Black and Blue

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How strange we are when judging color 

so angry
about black or white.
Doesn't matter
if it is a dress or human flesh.

See the dress,
one snapshot.
Decide.
No, you already have.

Is it a trick of the light or years of learning how to see the world?

Over the senseless noise

the voices of wisdom 

with sense of human things

point to the truth,

teach you how you see

(remind you if you knew and just forgot the facts

in the fleeting moment you were asked

to make a color judgment).

To see black and blue, your eyes must filter light 

that is too strong.

Sometimes our color bias is so strong we can't filter the light,

can't see anything but white

and the gold that goes with it.

See the child,

one split-second.

Decide.

No, you already have.

See again with new eyes, new sense of how you see.

Do you filter darkness

through a preference for light?

You insist on innocence. It isn't

that you think darkness doesn't exist,

but like a person pushed aside in haste

you just
didn't see it there.

Or you did see darkness

and even though it was unarmed

somehow it scared you.

You insist until you convince others
to see things your way
not to see the black and blue.

Did you know we can see the world differently?

And if it's possible to teach ourselves to see
the same dress in a new color scheme
then it's possible to teach ourselves to see
the schemes of color bias.
Filter the too-white world through eyes that know better
and see the bruises on colored bodies.
See the black and blue.

---

Written by Kimberley Fais on 2/26/15, the 3rd anniversary of Trayvon Martin's death

Reclaiming the Goodness of Darkness

Each year, First Presbyterian Church of New Haven prints a Lenten Reflection booklet with contributions from the community, one 200-word reflection for each of the forty days of Lent. I agreed to write one and was assigned John 8:12-20.

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¹²Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” ¹³Then the Pharisees said to him, “You are testifying on your own behalf; your testimony is not valid.” ¹⁴Jesus answered, “Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid because I know where I have come from and where I am going, but you do not know where I come from or where I am going. ¹⁵You judge by human standards; I judge no one. ¹⁶Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is valid; for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me. ¹⁷In your law it is written that the testimony of two witnesses is valid. ¹⁸I testify on my own behalf, and the Father who sent me testifies on my behalf.” ¹⁹Then they said to him, “Where is your Father?” Jesus answered, “You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also.” ²⁰He spoke these words while he was teaching in the treasury of the temple, but no one arrested him, because his hour had not yet come. (John 8:12–20)

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With our sights set on Jesus, the Light of the World, have we fallen into a system of light supremacy? Is a language of light as salvific and life-giving as the intentions of Christ?

Bodies and souls cry out to us: It's time to reclaim the goodness of darkness.

To reclaim the good darkness of the body is to affirm that Black lives matter, not only denouncing acts of violence but confronting even prejudices which are so pervasive that they are silent and unconscious. Jesus embodies his rightful authority because divine justice overrules legal privilege. Black bodies are their own living testimonies and God is their witness.

And reclaiming the good darkness of the spirit beckons us to live into a spiritual life of seasons, affirming the dark night of the soul as a time of renewal and transformation in its own right. As you meditate on God's splendor, do you find the eyes of your soul squinting in the light? Find a dark place to rest. Don't be afraid. Splendor may appear inviting, but you are no less safe in the depths of mystery. The God of day is also God of night, and that is good.

Hell Is the Suffering of Being Unable to Love

God, forgive me. And forgive me, brothers and sisters, for I have sinned against you.

In the midst of it, I believe I have glimpsed hell.

I find it necessary to interject that in all of my encounters with dark nights of the soul or perceiving distance from God, I'm not sure I have ever had the sense that any one was a literally hellish experience.

They were pretty invariably disconcerting, painful, sad, confusing, and all-around not ideal. They hurt. When they did not just plain hurt, they left me feeling sort of hollow. ("Is nothingness light or heavy?") And yet there was always something suspiciously good lurking in the background.

Each time, I discovered - whether I came to the conclusion during the experience or only long afterward - that there was something extraordinarily good not only in the God who got me through the dark nights, but even in those seemingly grotesque dark nights themselves. Those "nights" reminded me of my humanity and the Divine's divinity. They helped me to relate genuinely to other hurting humans. They made me realize that my clearest experiences of grace and love were no less real to me just because my mood had changed. Apparently one need not "feel" God constantly in order to honor one's past (and future) encounters. That was news to me.

Yes, in God's mercy, even my most harrowing spiritual droughts ultimately bore fruit.

But there is one moment - at least one that stands out from any other - when I experienced what I can only describe as hell on earth.

I've long thought that the phrase "hell on earth" best described the dangerous, poor living conditions inflicted on the oppressed persons of the world, and perhaps that is still the case. I have been fortunate enough in this life not to believe that I can gauge the hellishness of true social and systemic injustices. That may be an analytical exploration for another time.

But that isn't the sort of hellishness I'm talking about now. I'm referring, rather, to Fyodor Dostoevsky's hell:

"Fathers and teachers, I ponder, 'What is hell?'
I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love."

-Father Zosima, The Brothers Karamazov

On a few occasions, I worshipped in a certain church in which I felt generally uncomfortable - theologically (different interpretations, teachings, and priorities than my home-churches'), liturgically (different style, content, and vocabulary), and spatially (different physical and social atmosphere). Considering how ecumenical I am in my approach to many church matters, this extraordinary discomfiture alone made a significant impact on me. It scared me and fascinated me.

During one particular service, the sermon wrenched my heart. To the gathered community, it may not have been remarkable; it may have been legitimately inspiring and galvanizing. To me, it was nearly unrecognizable as a Christian teaching, and I felt spiritually distanced from some of my fellow Christ-followers.

After the message came perhaps my favorite practice: Communion. But there was one problem. I was still so angry.

"But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be
liable to judgement; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable
to the council; and if you say, 'You fool,' you will be liable to the hell of fire.
So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother
or sister has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go;
first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift."

-Matthew 5:22-24 NRSV

My first anger-induced inclination might have been to refuse Communion - something I had never done before - because of those who blessed it that day.

This quickly dissolved into a more realistic, less self-righteous realization: I could not accept Communion in that moment because of the anger within me. As though to deny me the indulgence of letting my non-participation slip by unnoticed, by the time it reached my seat, the plate bearing Christ's Body was empty.

As the usher disappeared in pursuit of a filled plate, I wondered what I should do when he returned. Surely he would remember that the fed had ended with the one before me, and instead of the plate being passed along my row for me to decline quietly, he would extend it directly to me. Would I still refuse?

For a moment, I feared that he would take it personally. I got over that quickly enough and passed the refreshed plate.

But the weeping and gnashing of teeth, deep in my being, refused to cease.

Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from Your presence?
If I ascend into heaven, You are there;
If I make my bed in hell,* behold, You are there.
If I take the wings of the morning,
And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
Even there Your hand shall lead me,
And Your right hand shall hold me.
If I say, "Surely the darkness shall fall on me,"
Even the night shall be light about me;
Indeed, the darkness shall not hide from You,
But the night shines as the day;
The darkness and the light are both alike to You.

-Psalm 139:7-8 NKJV

* Here other translations read: "the depths" or "Sheol." A discussion for another day.


In my rebellion and inadequacy, I may have been tempted to believe that I had - if only inadvertently - escaped God's love. But I had not.

The love of God sought me out in my hell. It was the love of God which far surpassed my own frail attempts to love, and nevertheless met me where I had entrenched myself. For even when I could summon no love in myself for this Otherness, the Holy Spirit - in that unrelenting, no-nonsense sort of love - convicted my heart.

If God had not come with me to my hell, I fear I would not have known how to climb out of it nor remember that there was even an alternative to it. The weeping and gnashing of teeth in my core meant that I craved the love I still knew could be. Only that unconditional love, willing to reveal itself to me in the unlikely place, my undeserving state, could show me what pained me and what I must do.

And I realized then, as I passed the Communion elements along without partaking, that God was calling me to do what I honestly dreaded: love those - yes, even those - whom I find so difficult to love.

Familiar words? Of course they were. I was a Christian, after all... wasn't I? But oh, what that call meant to me in that moment! Never had I been so angry - so hopelessly, helplessly, irreparably angry; so willing to refuse to take part in a community; so determined to disagree, to declare that they said they followed Christ yet surely they were doing it wrong!

Never before had I found myself so incapable of granting grace, and in such desperate need of receiving it.

This is How You Deal with Prejudice

Reginald Rose's 12 Angry Men, to which I last alluded in a post called 12 Angry Seminarians: On Diversity, is among my favorite works tackling prejudice. Brilliant play and film.

Just check out this short scene, which packs a lot of punch on its own merit:



Ed Begley, portraying the incredible (and yes, quite angry) Juror #10 in the above clip (1957) acts commendably here. His character's actions, on the other hand, are nothing short of detestable.

But I think it's worth discussing how easy it is to pin blame on certain people, to label some as bigots and assume that everyone else loves and supports diversity and says and does nothing to perpetuate stereotypes, intolerance, and double-standards. And this is by no means meant to condemn everyone or those who condemn bigotry, but rather to illuminate the complexity of the issue.

When we villify someone on the basis of that person's prejudice, is our judgment ever justified? If so, when, and if not, why not?

If you had been among the jurors in this scene, would you have responded to #10 in the same way? What would you have done or said differently?

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If you haven't seen/read 12 Angry Men, click here to see the full film online or here to find the book on Amazon.

The Male Stewardess Anomaly

About a month ago, I was with a great group of young adults at a swanky shake shop (and when I say swanky, I really just mean that there were shakes with Reese's peanut butter cups). Those on my end of the long pieced-together table were among the silliest, funniest people I'd had the pleasure of meeting for some time. I'd have suspected it was the sugar if it hadn't already started before they ordered.

I can't even recall most of what came up in the course of our conversation, but I'm sure we invented a few words of our own. The bizarre factor escalated enough that my boyfriend and the man across from him (who together bridged the Bizarre Table and the Fun But Far Less Troublesome Table) began a secret experiment, interjecting random once-off statements just to see where we would fly with them.

Come to think of it, that's where the jet-propelled cows came from.


Camo Cow is ace at hiding a jetpack.

In any case, at some point the chat came 'round to flight attendants. (No segue implied; trust me, there was none.) And in the midst of the tangent, someone dropped the phrase "male stewardess."

"There's a word for that," someone else interrupted: "Steward."

All perfectly true. While many people opt for a gender-neutral term like "flight attendant," both "steward" and "stewardess" are valid. For some occupations, I've noticed a potential increase in referring to women in the position by the traditionally masculine title, such as "actor" rather than "actress," what I take to be an intended neutralizer.

Such gender-specific nouns are their own breed of beast, but what I find no less debatable is the use of a modifier, as in a "male nurse." As long as we see this as necessary, there can never be understanding of neutrality.

I used to be (...am?) a word snob. I loved words - loved discovering them and learning how to use them. I loved definitions and connotations and semantics, and sometimes it seemed like spelling was the only test that didn't strike fear into my heart.

But as I've gotten older (and as my spelling skills have increasingly come into question), I've grown into a new sort of linguistic love.

I love the power of words: a phenomenal extension of definitions, connotations, and semantics. I love the power that they hold and the power that we are able to bestow upon them.

But people often assume that a word can have only a certain meaning, and sometimes they're afraid to bend it. It may be a way of honoring the tradition and background of the word, but it may also cheat it of a little bit of modern meaning. While we can't weaken all of our language with linguistic anarchy, we need to remember that we have power over how we use it. We shape our language as much as our language shapes us.

We limit people. We limit ourselves.

When we discussed this at the table, one person furrowed her brow in uncertainty. "'Nurse' for a male still sounds weird."

"It won't," I said, "if people use the word that way."

Was Blind But Now I See

Several preteen girls gathered in the family room of their shared cabin when a petty argument broke out between two. They were tired, frustrated, and still learning the art of peace-making.

Counselors settled the spat itself to the kids' satisfaction, but within minutes one girl wandered to bed in a huff. Before long, she was in silent tears under the safety of her covers, but her only explanations seemed to be issues originating outside camp. As her cabin-mates cheered her up, we found that her opponent had curled up in a quietly weeping heap on her own bed across the cabin. Counselors and campers alike moved to divide and conquer.

I sat with the second girl, who whimpered, "I miss my mom," and perhaps like Counselor Robot I sprang into action: "You'll see her in just a few days, and then you can tell her about all the cool stuff you've done." But Counselor Robot was not prepared for her reply: "She died when I was two."

Suddenly I realized that there was more to this puzzle than the image that I had superimposed on the box. I had sometimes envisioned there trenches of allies and enemies - cooperating and battling teens; campers who had unique and likeable personalities but were often in need of rules, guidance and constant reminders not to exclude someone or touch other people's stuff.

Somehow, their lives beyond camp - at least to such a "human" extent as familial death - had not crossed my mind or expectations. It was easy to arrive at a "camp for the blind and visually-impaired" and assume that vision loss, with its unfathomable physical and social complications, was the toughest meat on their plates.

As the cabin once again came together to comfort one of its own, the girl disclosed that she had never known her father, explaining that he'd misunderstood her albinism and had believed, despite his daughter's full black heritage, that she, with her fair skin and bright eyes, was perhaps not his child. My heart shattered as each trivial nuisance in my life disintegrated to nothingness.

There was little to be said or done to ease any of this, let alone to allow her curious peers to fully understand her sorrows, but finally an idea arose. Days later, she and a cabin-mate wrote letters to their deceased loved ones to toss into the closing campfire. Though I cannot tell to what extent this makeshift solution affected them, I hope that they have derived some healing and strength from their courageous step and in the future can find it a moment of growth in their youth. If nothing else, I wish for them to remember the efforts of their friends to comfort and reassure them that night; the night that several preteens put aside their egos and took up a torch of sincere empathy that I've so rarely witnessed in the age group.

This experience, most specifically, has caused me to realize that blindness is no more an impairment than a death ends the lives of beloved survivors. Each one is an obstacle; it may come in the form of a tragedy, but it has the potential to fortify. Blindness needn't be the death of sight, but a chance to overcome the loss or absence of vision. Where there is life, death cannot end all. Hope, at the very least, remains.

It is the hope that I see in a child who closed a letter to her deceased mother with the words: "See you later."

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The gorgeous image used above was found here.

How to Fail in an Emergency

This is one of the most embarrassing and humbling of my life experiences that I also believe to be worth sharing. Embarrassing because of my thoughts and actions at the time. Worth sharing, I hope, in spite of them.

One day, while I was working as a porter for a cleaning company in New York City and canvasing the sidewalk for trash, a drunkard called out to me.

"Hey, wanna go out with me?"

He was sprawled out on the steps leading up to 2 Penn Plaza. Positioned between Madison Square Garden, the taxi stop, and the entrance to Penn Station, he was in just about everyone's path. Six empty beer bottles accompanied him in disarray.



His lips bulged around crooked teeth. His short hair was tousled; his clothing smeared with the grime of the City That Never Sleeps. Travelers, entertainment seekers, and business employees bustled around us.

When I realized he'd addressed me, I mumbled, "Uh. No, thanks," and went back to sweeping up cigarette butts and ticket stubs.

"C'mon, go to dinner with me. Just once or twice."

I imagined my acquaintance picking out something tasty from a dumpster around the corner. I imagined him falling over himself here on the steps. But I didn't imagine what he did next.

He raised his arm and sort of chuckled. "My hand is bleeding."

"Oh, my gosh!" I cried, surely seeming hysterical compared to his far-too-casual demeanor. His hand was absolutely covered in blood, a painful sight no matter what the size of the actual wound. "Are you okay? How did that happen?" I was genuinely startled and sympathetic. But I closed none of the distance between us.

"I got beat up."

I must have subconsciously decided that what he needed first and foremost was to get cleaned up. I looked around at the nearby buildings, trying to remember the way to the nearest public restroom. I imagined myself sneaking him into our employee bathroom in the industrial depths of Penn Plaza. Then I imagined my supervisor's response to that bright idea, and the proverbial light bulb flickered and died.

I chased after a co-worker just a bit down the block. As the two of us tried, as usual, to work through our slight language barrier, I told him about the bleeding man on the steps and asked what we should do. He said something dismissive, perhaps frustrated with either the problem I'd posed to him or trying to communicate with such a frantic and monolingual mess.

By the time I spotted another co-worker, the premises' security staff were walking across the plaza toward the man, who by this point had slumped over a bit more onto the sidewalk. I was utterly relieved that someone had alerted security, and even more so when the police and an ambulance arrived, but also utterly ashamed - ashamed that I hadn't thought to call an official of any kind. Ashamed that I saw a bleeding man and my instinct said, "Clean him," rather than, "Heal him." Ashamed that I saw him as dirty before I'd even seen the wound.

After that event, I promised myself that I'd do whatever the conscious part of me could to react better in any sort of medical predicament. I've tried to remember that it's only in these experiences that we can learn how to respond to them.

And I've been listening for that voice of utmost wisdom beyond my humble understanding - the one that knows what it is to smear mud and spit on a blind man's eyes to restore his vision (John 9:6-34). The one that commends "clean," sure, but most actively seeks to "heal." The one that would have embraced the opportunity to share a meal with the man on the steps.