In August 1963 I turned 15. When President Kennedy was assassinated, I was the only student in my class who cried.But some of the boys were cheering so the teacher told all of us to be quiet and get back to work. In our Southern White school she was afraid that my emotions could provoke a backlash. Now I am 76 and I am tired. But for the…
In August 1963 I turned 15. When President Kennedy was assassinated, I was the only student in my class who cried.But some of the boys were cheering so the teacher told all of us to be quiet and get back to work. In our Southern White school she was afraid that my emotions could provoke a backlash. Now I am 76 and I am tired. But for the sake of my grandchildren and all grandchildren, we cannot lose hope.
The difference between 1963 and now is that I am not alone. I again live in the Southern city, but we of like mind are somehow finding each other. Quietly, we meet one on one or two on two and affirm that hate is powerless to destroy love. Just this week I have sat in fellowship with a woman from Jordan, another from Pakistan, and one from Sudan. I have been with older White women who don’t speak out publicly and lesbians who do.
I have a thought about tonight’s conversation “ speaking from your scars and not your wounds”. At first I assumed that meant to wait until the pain isn’t acute in order to speak more carefully. But there is a flip side. Sometimes immediately after an injury we are in denial. Or we are embarrassed that we have been victimized. It is only much later than we admit to ourselves how deep the wound was and how it changed us. That can motivate us to share our humiliation , grief and progress toward healing in order to encourage others on their journeys.
In August 1963 I turned 15. When President Kennedy was assassinated, I was the only student in my class who cried.But some of the boys were cheering so the teacher told all of us to be quiet and get back to work. In our Southern White school she was afraid that my emotions could provoke a backlash. Now I am 76 and I am tired. But for the sake of my grandchildren and all grandchildren, we cannot lose hope.
The difference between 1963 and now is that I am not alone. I again live in the Southern city, but we of like mind are somehow finding each other. Quietly, we meet one on one or two on two and affirm that hate is powerless to destroy love. Just this week I have sat in fellowship with a woman from Jordan, another from Pakistan, and one from Sudan. I have been with older White women who don’t speak out publicly and lesbians who do.
I have a thought about tonight’s conversation “ speaking from your scars and not your wounds”. At first I assumed that meant to wait until the pain isn’t acute in order to speak more carefully. But there is a flip side. Sometimes immediately after an injury we are in denial. Or we are embarrassed that we have been victimized. It is only much later than we admit to ourselves how deep the wound was and how it changed us. That can motivate us to share our humiliation , grief and progress toward healing in order to encourage others on their journeys.