Acceptance

I have been knocked down by a bad cold these last few days (Covid tests came back negative). Thankfully, I found a super cute condo on the Oregon coast to hole up in. Being sick isn’t quite so bad when you can look at the ocean. And I am definitely in a Sudafed fog, so there are a lot of moving parts in this post. But there are a lot of moving parts in this day and age, so seems fair.

From my reclined, congested position, I took in the heartbreaking news of Uvalde, Texas, recognized the two-year anniversary of George Floyd’s murder, and heard about the abortion ban passed in Oklahoma. It’s a lot to take in. I’m watching my friends on Facebook post about looking for bullet proof backpacks for their kids, intruder defense systems for the doors of their kid’s classrooms, and everyone talking about hugging their kids just a little bit tighter when they dropped them off at school. It’s been 10 years since the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary, and the only change has been that students do active shooter drills at school. The United States Congress has failed to protect this country’s children, and instead required these children to learn how to protect themselves.

I have spent a lot of time and energy being angry, disappointed, and disheartened at these American institutions. I am an American history nerd. I got a monthly Civil War magazine when I was a kid. I gleefully drank the kool-aid in appreciating the structure of government created by Hamilton, Madison, Jefferson, and Washington. It was the book Closed Chambers by Edward Lazarus about the inner-workings of the Supreme Court that finally convinced me to go to law school. It was my love and admiration for that specific branch of government and the advocacy and courage of the attorneys before it that led me to law.

The morning that the United States Supreme Court refused to stop the Texas abortion ban from going into effect while the litigation was pending, I broke down and sobbed. The leaked opinion from Alito then came as no surprise. This institution that I admired, that ended segregation, that protected gay marriage, that protected speech and religious freedom, had failed me. I am a very privileged person. I am white, straight, cis, economically secure, and highly educated. This was the first time I personally felt abandoned by my beloved Supreme Court (and I know it is a privilege to say that, as that institution has failed so many people in its history). I had already felt long abandoned by the executive and congressional branches. But for some reason, I naively thought the Supreme Court was above all that. But on that day, I could no longer ignore the truth.

In AA, there is an often read passage from the Big Book (what we call the book actually entitled Alcoholics Anonymous) from page 417 of the fourth edition:

And acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing, or situation—some fact of my life—unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God’s world by mistake. Until I could accept my alcoholism, I could not stay sober; unless I accept life completely on life’s terms, I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.

When George Floyd was murdered, this paragraph pissed me the fuck off. What do you mean I have to accept what is going on? What do you mean nothing happens in God’s world by mistake? Fuck you, Big Book.

Then someone pointed out that acceptance doesn’t mean approval. I don’t have to like that there is a speed bump in front of me, but I have to accept that it’s there in order to navigate it. Only once I accept life on life’s terms, can I then implement another tool of AA, the Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Only once I accept that our country is steeped and rooted in patriarchy, anti-blackness*, and capitalism, can I then begin to look at the things that I can change. But if I just sit here and rage about it, complain about how it’s not supposed to be this way, and demonize the “other” side for whatever it is they believe, I’m not being a good ancestor. I’m not taking the time and the space to find the courage to change the things I can.

And this is why I’m announcing my candidacy for……

Just kidding.

I don’t actually know what to do, what is in my power to change. I am so overwhelmed by the racism, the sexism, the climate crisis that is literally burning the forests I love so much. It is all so overwhelming. There is so much wrong. And, unless we forget, a two-year (and counting?) global pandemic.

What I do know is that this patriarchy, anti-blackness, and capitalism runs deep into our bones, systems, and institutions. It may not be that these institutions are broken. They may be working exactly as they were designed. This is not an overnight fix. I know that I, personally, have a lot of learning and unlearning ahead of me.

This week I started reading a book called How To Do Nothing (I told you have a problem with books and researching…), by Jenny Odell. In Chapter 2, she talks about the overwhelm and disappointment felt in today’s politics and compares it to the turmoil in the 1960’s, and why the overwhelm tends to make people want to escape (at least those who have the privilege and means to do so). Not surprisingly, the quote that I immediately had to text to all my friends was:

In any narrative of escape, this is a pivotal point. Do you pack all your things in a van, say, “Fuck it,” and never look back? What responsibility do you have to the world you left behind, if any? And what are you going to do out there?

She goes on to explain that we can’t really escape. There are thousands of failed communes from the 1960’s that tell us this much. So it’s not so much whether you will be part of the collective, but how. This is not the book I thought it was, but I think it is exactly what I need to be reading.

Odell argues that social media profits off of our hysteria and fear, “both by news media and by users themselves.” Social media creates a sense of urgency with the constant noise and “abuses our attention and leaves us no time to think. The result is something like the sleep-deprivation tactics the military uses on detainees, but on a larger scale.” And we play into it too: “Our aimless and desperate expressions on these platforms don’t do much for us, but they are hugely lucrative for advertisers and social media companies, since what drives the machine is not the content of information but the rate of engagement.”

Only capitalism wins.

I haven’t gotten to the part in the book where she lays out the solution, so clearly I’ll have to report back. But the connectedness of all of this really struck me. Another mass shooting. Another abortion ban passed. Another anniversary of a black person’s murder by police. More clicks and likes and shares on social media. Nothing risked, nothing gained. Only capitalism wins.

One last quote from Thomas Merton that Odell uses in her book:

If I had no choice about the age in which I was to live, I nevertheless have a choice about the attitude I take and about the way and the extent of my participation in its living ongoing events. To choose the world is . . . an acceptance of a task and a vocation in the world, in history and in time. In my time, which is the present.

Acceptance. I am here now. Those of us with enough privilege to be safe (in both a broad and narrow sense), have a responsibility to take action. If you have thoughts, recommendations, and/or ideas of what that action looks like, please let me know. (Or please comment on my social media posts. I know, capitalism wins, but it can also be a useful tool.)

This is our country, our community, our children, our people. Patriarchy, anti-blackness, and capitalism all thrive when we are isolated, separated, and disconnected. I’m not sure what it looks like going forward—I have no answers, only so many questions—but coming together, in community, may be the only way forward.

History has its eyes on us.

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* I cannot find what podcast I was listening to, but I heard someone say that she no longer uses the term “white supremacy” because whiteness is not supreme, it is mediocre at best. I agree, and want to name anti-blackness for what it really is. Language matters.