I did not enjoy the defense of my dissertation, and I have been trying to understand why, since pain is usually instructive.
The critical feedback was certainly accurate. The work that I did to "listen" to Latinas' calls for liberation and write this information up in one chapter did not adequately shape subsequent chapters. I did not return explicitly enough in later chapters to the method pieces I wrote up in the introduction. Overall, there are not adequate connections among the chapters, and there is apparently some doubt whether what I wrote can be characterized as theology, or as a theology. And, in general, the dissertation is just not focused and "done" enough.
All points well taken. Here's what hurt, though: hearing this at the defense, rather than a month ago, when I would have had time to do more with the criticisms.
I sort of knew these things already, but it's hard to edit your own work, and critical feedback from others helps to puncture the armor one's own writing has against one's own editing. But, yeah. I sort of knew these things already. And I really don't want to be whining.
So, what's the pain really about?
One, as a person trying to live into and work from an anti-racist identity, getting called on one's inadequate use of the work of scholars and activists of color is painful. It's like being held accountable, which is a necessary part of white anti-racism, but in this case without the agreements in place that help accountability be productive. However, I have found that thinking of the criticisms in this regard does give me a structure for making the pain productive, and therefore more meaningful.
Second, receiving these criticisms at the time of defense (rather than sooner) was painful because I had to try to defend my work against the criticisms, which is the last thing you do when you have been held accountable. When someone -- especially a person of color -- holds you accountable for a racist action or speech act, the first thing you do is shut up and listen. Later you might approach the person in a spirit of trying to learn from what happened, after you have done the work of your own thinking, and perhaps processing with fellow white anti-racists. But in the context of the defense, I felt I had to push back, because no one in the room shared the analysis or the process I am working with, and so my simple acceptance would have just made me look like an academic wienie who was not participating in the process adequately. This is the way institutional racism works, by the way. The institutions we work in are not structured to enable us to behave in anti-racist ways. And so, we don't.
Third, not hearing these criticisms sooner meant that I could not work with them sooner, to produce a dissertation more in keeping with all of our expectations. Granted, it is "my" dissertation to write, "my" project to complete, but those of you who have been with this blog from the beginning have known that I have struggled with the false individuality of the academic process from the get-go. This dissertation arose from communal experiences, and I wanted it to have a communal development process. This desire was thwarted repeatedly, and thwarted definitively at the end by the lack of feedback in a timeframe when I could use it most effectively.
So. Now what. (Another little list ensues ....)
One, I have to accept the fact that I did not establish an effective working relationship with my external reader, Dr. Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz. I continue to hold her and her work in the highest regard, and I can only hope that some later work I do more clearly evidences the extent to which I have tried to listen to her and learn from her.
Two, I can and will take the criticisms from the defense into the process of writing a book that uses my dissertation research.
Three, if I ever become part of an academic institution, I can and will work to produce true collaboration in the education process. The notion of a "defense" is -- in my opinion -- a ludicrous way to end one's academic training. Each scholar's work is just the diamond bit drill in the hands of a person supported by a team and multiple learning communities as the search for knowledge proceeds into the mountain of experience. It doesn't prove anything that is not already known. The cumulative and conclusive event should feel collaborative and celebratory, if everyone has done their work. And if that's not how it feels, then perhaps none of us have done our work.
* * *
This is the last entry in this blog. I have enjoyed the blogging experience, and will likely begin another blog -- perhaps more general in focus -- on another blogging platform. I have not learned to use Blogger adequately, and have been frustrated by it on more than one occasion.
So, if you want to know when and where I blog next, drop me a line at tammerie@gmail.com or find me on Facebook.
I wish you strength for the struggle.
Tammerie
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
What's So Anti-Racist about a Stack of Paper?
It was a very quiet March.
I sent the dissertation out to the committee in the last days of February, thinking I'd have feedback by the end of Spring Break. I was hoping for constructive criticism, and the go-ahead to defend.
Well, I did get the go-ahead; the oral defense is scheduled a week from today. By this time next week, I'm likely to be done.
But there has been no feedback, aside from that offered by my advisor before I sent the whole thing out to committee. That's a little unnerving.
I deliberately took a break from the manuscript while waiting for comments, and it's been good to come back to it with a fresher eye. I've spent the last week reading through the pages -- all 400 some-odd -- and seeing how things hold together.
It is too long ... and by the time I got to the end of writing most chapters, I was too out of breath to write much of a conclusion. So, there's work left to do, and I've been trying to do it, wishing I had red pen marks to focus my efforts.
But there is also work that has been done. As I read through the pages, I feel a quiet sense of satisfaction, and the realization that -- imperfect as it is -- it does what it set out to do, what I could do. I felt real trepidation at the beginning of the project, that I would not be able to get out what was inside me, get it onto the page in a way that represented what I had learned from the grace and hard effort of so many people. It is not all it could be, and there will be advisors and committee members and maybe editors to point that out, but I did the part no one else was going to do: this dissertation represents the learnings of my community in a way that makes those lessons available to others.
I hope that's worth something; I hope it matters to someone someday. Specifically, I hope it matters to white folks trying to learn to live more justly, to live into the kind of loving we are called to. And if not, well, I guess dissertating is like preaching: how it is received is not your primary concern. Getting the word out is your task.
Right now I am flooded with what has been the most common emotion through all of this: what is so anti-racist about a stack of paper? What good is having done this? Wouldn't I have done better to be involved in trying to reach white people personally, and getting involved in local initiatives led by Latinos/as and other people of color?
Could be. I'll never know. This is the path that presented itself to me when all other doors were closing. It has been my practice and my church and my memory-book and my therapy and my credo. I know what I know more surely, and I can argue for what I know a little more effectively.
Which I will have to do next week. Perhaps the most important question of all is the one I am expected to answer right up front, in an opening statement. What question did I seek to answer in the dissertation? What answer did I arrive at? What difference does this make -- that is, how does this project advance the inquiry in the field?
When I was trying to frame the core of the project, I found some words from ecofeminist theologian Sallie McFague helpful. She sees theology as "the attempt to bring the resources and insights of the religious past into fruitful conversation with the challenges of the present. ... There must be people whose priority it is to look critically at the interplay between theological ideas and everyday practices; to listen carefully to the voices and experiences of suffering and ask how religion has contributed to that suffering as well as how it might offer words of hope and healing." (McFague, "Theology as Action," in Constructive Theology, Jones and Lakeland, p. 152)
In my case, the question that found language in McFague's framework was this: "How can the resources and insights of Christian theology be used to challenge and undo racist oppression, when theological ideas have contributed to the construction and maintenance of that oppression?"
I had to write the dissertation to find out whether I could answer that question. The good news is that I did find answers. Here are some.
First, Christian theology has to acknowledge that it has contributed to the construction and maintenance of racist oppression. Theologians of color have been pointing this out for years; some white theologians also have begun to acknowledge this truth. In my dissertation, I listen to (i.e., quote) scholars exploring this deadly history. One scholar, for instance, traces the rise from Christian supremacy in Spain (with its concern for limpieza de sangre, or pure blood) of white-skin supremacy in the "new world." Others note the religious language and imagery wrapped up in newspaperman John O'Sullivan's 1840s reference to "manifest destiny," language that captured and justified the greedy exploitation, expulsion, and execution of American Indians.
Second, Christian theology needs to attend to its underlying epistemology. Traditional epistemological concerns address such questions as "what do we know? how do we know we know? what is true?" Feminist scholars have shifted the field of concern to include questions such as "what difference does the knower make? what is worth knowing? what is the purpose of knowing?" Women of color scholars ask "what difference does the knowing make? does it liberate?" (One hears the echo of "will it preach?") Ignacio Ellacuría, murdered Salvadoran priest, philosopher and theologian, argued that the only adequate form of knowledge was that which led to critical awareness of reality, and then to taking responsibility for that reality (particularly what was unjust in it), and committing to and working to change that reality. In this case, having become critically aware that theology has contributed to the construction and maintenance of racist oppression, we theologians and Christians need to take responsibility for that reality, and change it.
I've tried to do just that, to do my small part to change how theology is done, by modeling how a white person can write an anti-racist theology, in an anti-racist way. I drafted a set of prerequisites (prayer, relationships, openness, praxis) and principles (dare to dream and hope; consider the impact of worldviews; be power-aware; embrace partiality) that I wanted to follow in writing the theology, and then I did my best to follow them. I determined key theological methods (being responsible, appreciating-not-appropriating, being accountable, integrating focus on material and spiritual realities, and thinking/working in matrixed ways) and then practiced them. I defined key tasks (re-examine everything, work locally with a global awareness, follow the lead of and seek to benefit people experiencing oppression, and develop practical tools for transformation) and tried to accomplish them.
Yeah. I think I advanced the field, because of who I listened to, and because I tried to respond. Whether this project advances the inquiry in the field is ... up to the field.
I have done what I could do. And whatever happens in the defense next Monday, I will never forget the words of my peers, the anti-racist fellow journeyers who read early drafts and gave me not only the critical feedback I badly needed, but who also offered affirmations I would not have imagined. Their words ... their words have made this stack of paper worth something.
May these pages help build bridges toward more justly abundant futures.
I sent the dissertation out to the committee in the last days of February, thinking I'd have feedback by the end of Spring Break. I was hoping for constructive criticism, and the go-ahead to defend.
Well, I did get the go-ahead; the oral defense is scheduled a week from today. By this time next week, I'm likely to be done.
But there has been no feedback, aside from that offered by my advisor before I sent the whole thing out to committee. That's a little unnerving.
I deliberately took a break from the manuscript while waiting for comments, and it's been good to come back to it with a fresher eye. I've spent the last week reading through the pages -- all 400 some-odd -- and seeing how things hold together.
It is too long ... and by the time I got to the end of writing most chapters, I was too out of breath to write much of a conclusion. So, there's work left to do, and I've been trying to do it, wishing I had red pen marks to focus my efforts.
But there is also work that has been done. As I read through the pages, I feel a quiet sense of satisfaction, and the realization that -- imperfect as it is -- it does what it set out to do, what I could do. I felt real trepidation at the beginning of the project, that I would not be able to get out what was inside me, get it onto the page in a way that represented what I had learned from the grace and hard effort of so many people. It is not all it could be, and there will be advisors and committee members and maybe editors to point that out, but I did the part no one else was going to do: this dissertation represents the learnings of my community in a way that makes those lessons available to others.
I hope that's worth something; I hope it matters to someone someday. Specifically, I hope it matters to white folks trying to learn to live more justly, to live into the kind of loving we are called to. And if not, well, I guess dissertating is like preaching: how it is received is not your primary concern. Getting the word out is your task.
Right now I am flooded with what has been the most common emotion through all of this: what is so anti-racist about a stack of paper? What good is having done this? Wouldn't I have done better to be involved in trying to reach white people personally, and getting involved in local initiatives led by Latinos/as and other people of color?
Could be. I'll never know. This is the path that presented itself to me when all other doors were closing. It has been my practice and my church and my memory-book and my therapy and my credo. I know what I know more surely, and I can argue for what I know a little more effectively.
Which I will have to do next week. Perhaps the most important question of all is the one I am expected to answer right up front, in an opening statement. What question did I seek to answer in the dissertation? What answer did I arrive at? What difference does this make -- that is, how does this project advance the inquiry in the field?
When I was trying to frame the core of the project, I found some words from ecofeminist theologian Sallie McFague helpful. She sees theology as "the attempt to bring the resources and insights of the religious past into fruitful conversation with the challenges of the present. ... There must be people whose priority it is to look critically at the interplay between theological ideas and everyday practices; to listen carefully to the voices and experiences of suffering and ask how religion has contributed to that suffering as well as how it might offer words of hope and healing." (McFague, "Theology as Action," in Constructive Theology, Jones and Lakeland, p. 152)
In my case, the question that found language in McFague's framework was this: "How can the resources and insights of Christian theology be used to challenge and undo racist oppression, when theological ideas have contributed to the construction and maintenance of that oppression?"
I had to write the dissertation to find out whether I could answer that question. The good news is that I did find answers. Here are some.
First, Christian theology has to acknowledge that it has contributed to the construction and maintenance of racist oppression. Theologians of color have been pointing this out for years; some white theologians also have begun to acknowledge this truth. In my dissertation, I listen to (i.e., quote) scholars exploring this deadly history. One scholar, for instance, traces the rise from Christian supremacy in Spain (with its concern for limpieza de sangre, or pure blood) of white-skin supremacy in the "new world." Others note the religious language and imagery wrapped up in newspaperman John O'Sullivan's 1840s reference to "manifest destiny," language that captured and justified the greedy exploitation, expulsion, and execution of American Indians.
Second, Christian theology needs to attend to its underlying epistemology. Traditional epistemological concerns address such questions as "what do we know? how do we know we know? what is true?" Feminist scholars have shifted the field of concern to include questions such as "what difference does the knower make? what is worth knowing? what is the purpose of knowing?" Women of color scholars ask "what difference does the knowing make? does it liberate?" (One hears the echo of "will it preach?") Ignacio Ellacuría, murdered Salvadoran priest, philosopher and theologian, argued that the only adequate form of knowledge was that which led to critical awareness of reality, and then to taking responsibility for that reality (particularly what was unjust in it), and committing to and working to change that reality. In this case, having become critically aware that theology has contributed to the construction and maintenance of racist oppression, we theologians and Christians need to take responsibility for that reality, and change it.
I've tried to do just that, to do my small part to change how theology is done, by modeling how a white person can write an anti-racist theology, in an anti-racist way. I drafted a set of prerequisites (prayer, relationships, openness, praxis) and principles (dare to dream and hope; consider the impact of worldviews; be power-aware; embrace partiality) that I wanted to follow in writing the theology, and then I did my best to follow them. I determined key theological methods (being responsible, appreciating-not-appropriating, being accountable, integrating focus on material and spiritual realities, and thinking/working in matrixed ways) and then practiced them. I defined key tasks (re-examine everything, work locally with a global awareness, follow the lead of and seek to benefit people experiencing oppression, and develop practical tools for transformation) and tried to accomplish them.
Yeah. I think I advanced the field, because of who I listened to, and because I tried to respond. Whether this project advances the inquiry in the field is ... up to the field.
I have done what I could do. And whatever happens in the defense next Monday, I will never forget the words of my peers, the anti-racist fellow journeyers who read early drafts and gave me not only the critical feedback I badly needed, but who also offered affirmations I would not have imagined. Their words ... their words have made this stack of paper worth something.
May these pages help build bridges toward more justly abundant futures.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Personal Best
Sometimes good news is hard to hear.
I sent the dissertation draft to my adviser a couple of weeks ago. After a few days, he wrote back with several pages of feedback attached to an email that said "Please note that you have my general approval for the project" among others things. I focused on the other things and completely missed the implications of that comment. My beloved M. picked up on it ... "You're getting approved!" she crowed. As in, getting done. As in, I might finish and graduate this May, if the committee also approves the work.
I could barely hear what she was saying. I am Very Busy keeping my head in the sand so I don't count ostrich eggs before they hatch.
But a conversation a week or so later confirmed that that was what my adviser had meant. And, as I continued revising, using his feedback, that of the friends I asked for help, and my own sense of unfinished business, a small glow began to infuse the work, a sense that among the critiques there was affirmation. This is giving me some much needed energy here, late in the game, even though I struggle some to let myself feel it.
I was brought up with that curious white girl's mix of perfectionism and invisibility. Anything short of perfection was not really good enough, but seeking -- or even enjoying -- recognition for accomplishment was just not done. It's a potent combination for keeping women insecure and quiet. And it's a tired old story ... one I'd like to rise above. (Quietly, of course.)
Frankly, I was surprised by my adviser's approval. It felt sudden, premature ... how can he approve something I know is SO not done? But as I kept writing and revising, the sense grew in me that I was not so much scrambling for a deadline as making a good thing better.
I don't think it will ever feel done. My main fear before beginning to write in earnest was that I would not be able to do justice to the idea of an anti-racist dissertation. The concept I held in my head -- which somehow felt like both gift of and mission from God -- was bigger and more wonderful than I felt able to deliver. And now, here at the end, I still feel that sense of inadequacy. But, it's getting close to good enough.
No, it doesn't measure up to the vision I had; there are still loose ends, still things to figure out. But "good enough" is one of the lessons I've learned, inspired by one of the first books of theology I ever read, Bonnie Miller-McLemore's Also a Mother: Work and Family as Theological Dilemma. I actually picked it up back when I was working at Price Waterhouse in their management consulting practice, and trying to deal with the early years of motherhood. It was the work and family part that drew me to the book. Miller-McLemore makes the point that when you choose to -- or have to -- both work and be a mother, one of the lessons you have to learn is that nothing is ever as good as you want it to be ... but it can be good enough, if you let it be. And letting "it" be good enough can help keep you almost sane.
This approval is not the only surprise I've had of late. When I transitioned from the 9-minute run segments to the 14-minute segments, it was surprisingly easy. So easy that the next week I moved on to the 19 minute run segments. Yesterday I ran a personal best of six miles in 65 minutes. The 65 minutes included a five minute walking warm-up, a three minute walking cool-down, and three one-minute walks interspersed among the 19 minute running segments. So, my "don't brag" side says, "Well, you didn't really run six miles. You had three little walking breaks in there." But my recovering-from-perfectionism side says, "Yeah, but the running part had to be sub-ten-minute-miles to get six miles in 65 minutes that included 11 minutes of walking!"
The inside of my head is a funny place.
That six mile run felt good. I was hauling ass on the last couple of miles. My ankle only bothered me a little. So, my next run will be using the last Podrunner Interval segment: a solid 50 minute run, no walking. We'll see how it goes.
There's that self-doubt again. Or is it perfectionism ... or are they the same thing?
I think something healthier is driving these late-stage writings and revisions ... love.
I will send out the dissertation to the whole committee next week, including my external reader, Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz, who is a brilliant theologian and a hero to me (and I'm sure many other women). My work is inspired and informed by hers, and it is in some small way a reply to her calls for justice. And when I get her feedback and that of my other committee members, I hope it is in line with my advisor's: this is good enough, we'll approve it, and here's where it can use more work.
And I will keep working ... for love. For love of those who inspired the work. For love of those who taught me. For love of those who learned with me the lessons this work is based on. For love of justice, and the hope my work might make some difference for someone somewhere in the pursuit of justice. For love of the ideas and the questions at the heart of this dissertation, which I am not remotely tired of. For love of God.
And on a certain day, perhaps in the next month or two, the dissertation will be finished. It will not be perfect; it will not even be done. But it will be my personal best, on that day: what I could do, in the time available, with what I knew and what I could wring into words. There will be no regrets on that day, because I will know I did the best I could do.
I sent the dissertation draft to my adviser a couple of weeks ago. After a few days, he wrote back with several pages of feedback attached to an email that said "Please note that you have my general approval for the project" among others things. I focused on the other things and completely missed the implications of that comment. My beloved M. picked up on it ... "You're getting approved!" she crowed. As in, getting done. As in, I might finish and graduate this May, if the committee also approves the work.
I could barely hear what she was saying. I am Very Busy keeping my head in the sand so I don't count ostrich eggs before they hatch.
But a conversation a week or so later confirmed that that was what my adviser had meant. And, as I continued revising, using his feedback, that of the friends I asked for help, and my own sense of unfinished business, a small glow began to infuse the work, a sense that among the critiques there was affirmation. This is giving me some much needed energy here, late in the game, even though I struggle some to let myself feel it.
I was brought up with that curious white girl's mix of perfectionism and invisibility. Anything short of perfection was not really good enough, but seeking -- or even enjoying -- recognition for accomplishment was just not done. It's a potent combination for keeping women insecure and quiet. And it's a tired old story ... one I'd like to rise above. (Quietly, of course.)
Frankly, I was surprised by my adviser's approval. It felt sudden, premature ... how can he approve something I know is SO not done? But as I kept writing and revising, the sense grew in me that I was not so much scrambling for a deadline as making a good thing better.
I don't think it will ever feel done. My main fear before beginning to write in earnest was that I would not be able to do justice to the idea of an anti-racist dissertation. The concept I held in my head -- which somehow felt like both gift of and mission from God -- was bigger and more wonderful than I felt able to deliver. And now, here at the end, I still feel that sense of inadequacy. But, it's getting close to good enough.
No, it doesn't measure up to the vision I had; there are still loose ends, still things to figure out. But "good enough" is one of the lessons I've learned, inspired by one of the first books of theology I ever read, Bonnie Miller-McLemore's Also a Mother: Work and Family as Theological Dilemma. I actually picked it up back when I was working at Price Waterhouse in their management consulting practice, and trying to deal with the early years of motherhood. It was the work and family part that drew me to the book. Miller-McLemore makes the point that when you choose to -- or have to -- both work and be a mother, one of the lessons you have to learn is that nothing is ever as good as you want it to be ... but it can be good enough, if you let it be. And letting "it" be good enough can help keep you almost sane.
This approval is not the only surprise I've had of late. When I transitioned from the 9-minute run segments to the 14-minute segments, it was surprisingly easy. So easy that the next week I moved on to the 19 minute run segments. Yesterday I ran a personal best of six miles in 65 minutes. The 65 minutes included a five minute walking warm-up, a three minute walking cool-down, and three one-minute walks interspersed among the 19 minute running segments. So, my "don't brag" side says, "Well, you didn't really run six miles. You had three little walking breaks in there." But my recovering-from-perfectionism side says, "Yeah, but the running part had to be sub-ten-minute-miles to get six miles in 65 minutes that included 11 minutes of walking!"
The inside of my head is a funny place.
That six mile run felt good. I was hauling ass on the last couple of miles. My ankle only bothered me a little. So, my next run will be using the last Podrunner Interval segment: a solid 50 minute run, no walking. We'll see how it goes.
There's that self-doubt again. Or is it perfectionism ... or are they the same thing?
I think something healthier is driving these late-stage writings and revisions ... love.
I will send out the dissertation to the whole committee next week, including my external reader, Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz, who is a brilliant theologian and a hero to me (and I'm sure many other women). My work is inspired and informed by hers, and it is in some small way a reply to her calls for justice. And when I get her feedback and that of my other committee members, I hope it is in line with my advisor's: this is good enough, we'll approve it, and here's where it can use more work.
And I will keep working ... for love. For love of those who inspired the work. For love of those who taught me. For love of those who learned with me the lessons this work is based on. For love of justice, and the hope my work might make some difference for someone somewhere in the pursuit of justice. For love of the ideas and the questions at the heart of this dissertation, which I am not remotely tired of. For love of God.
And on a certain day, perhaps in the next month or two, the dissertation will be finished. It will not be perfect; it will not even be done. But it will be my personal best, on that day: what I could do, in the time available, with what I knew and what I could wring into words. There will be no regrets on that day, because I will know I did the best I could do.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The Sixth Mile
I'm slowly working my way through the Podrunner interval training program that culminates in a 10K run, which is about 6.2 miles. When I use Google's g-map pedometer, my runs usually measure out around 5.5 or 6 miles ... of course, I'm still doing intervals, so lately that has meant six 9 minute runs, interspersed with one-minute walks. The next set involves 14 minute runs: five of them interspersed with one-minute walks. That's a big jump. I'm not sure how it will go.
Well, yes I am. It will be hard. And the first attempt might not fly.
But I'm learning something from this interval approach ... as the distance has increased, I've noticed that the first segment is usually just painful; the second fells like a slog; the third begins to open up a little, with more regular breathing and a better rhythm. Usually by the fourth and fifth segments, I feel like I am running (although I am of course just jogging). The sixth segment usually feels pretty good, though my legs are tiring by then. I think the aspect of my running I am most impressed with is my breath: my breathing usually stays strong and even.
One of my favorite lessons from the intervals, though, is that the first two or three segments are the price you pay for the joy of the fourth, fifth and sixth ... sometimes in the last segments, I feel like "I ran the first part to get to run this part." I have to run that first half to feel the exhiliration of the second half, not to mention the bliss of finishing and stretching.
Lately I've been having trouble with my ankle, though, and I've been asking around for advice, doing some research, wondering if I should go to the trouble of a visit to an actual doctor. So far what I am doing (rest, ice, ibuprofen) is helping some; I am happy that I am still running, and hoping I'll get through this (like I did the sore knee last spring and the sore instep last fall ... all on the left leg. Hmm).
The dissertation is in a similar place ... pained joy, let's call it.
I finished a draft of the whole thing, mostly, around the first of the year. And found myself facing the dissertation's "sixth mile": I got this far so that now I can revise.
The draft was/is too long: almost 400 pages when 200 would have done. I've had a bad case of "I don't know what I think until I write it down." Sometimes I have thought of it as "First you make a big marble block. Then you carve it into shape."
The problem is, it is very hard to have any perspective on what you have just written, a fact I know from editing other people's work.
I knew I needed help. And I felt picky about where I would get it. Who would understand the subject matter as well as the anti-racist perspective I was trying to hold? Fellow journeyers ... I was blessed that all three of the people I asked for help agreed, and provided prompt feedback: Felipe Hinojosa took time from his own work to advise on the South Texas history chapter (a topic on which he is far more expert than me); Tobin Miller Shearer took time from his Christmas family vacation to help with the white liberations chapter; and Regina Shands Stoltzfus has given feedback across multiple chapters. I am a blessed woman, rich in wise and generous friends.
Frankly, I am still struggling, which is a little scary. I should have the conceptual frame nailed down at this point. But I left some loose boards as I went flying through the middle chapters, and one of them is coming back to haunt me.
Long-time readers will remember the challenge Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz put to me ... "I think it is not theoretically valid from the perspective of liberation theology/philosophy to construct your argument mainly around what you can do for the oppressed. The moral agency of the oppressed in the process of our liberation is very key.
For me, if you work at dismantling white racism because it is important for your own liberation -- Wow! that would be an enormous contribution. We are always struggling to find ways of convincing those in power to understand that oppressing others [is] not in their (the oppressors') best interest..." [personal communication, April 25, 2008]
I heard what Isasi-Diaz said; it shaped much of what I developed subsequently. And yet, there are key ideas that I have been holding in tension, and I know they need to be held in tension, and yet I don't know if I am giving each their due, and giving their creative tension its due.
The idea for the dissertation began with my experience of being transformed by my involvement in dismantling racism efforts; this work changed forever the way I think about loving God and my neighbors. I think there are some profoundly right things about what I have learned, and the way I have learned them. I wanted to share those right things.
Isasi-Diaz is right, of course, that white people cannot liberate Latinas/os. But we can stop what we are doing to oppress ... and we can offer ourselves as partners in the struggle, able and willing to follow the lead of Latinas/os in solidary struggles for change. And herein lies the tension: it just so happens that this shift in commitment helps bring about the change in consciousness that is liberating for white people. To seek to benefit peoples of colors is to begin to see how one has consciously and unconsciously been about the business of benefiting white people.
There's one knot of the tension: white people's work does not liberate Latinas/os (or any other group of people), and yet committing to the liberation of Latinas/os does bring about a shift in consciousness that transforms what it means to be white, in positive and justice-producing ways. So, even a theology about the liberation of white people needs to have this component in it of listening to and following the lead of and committing to the benefit of people of color -- what I think of as processes of solidary love. I don't want to give up on any of these strands. I just don't know if I have demonstrated the necessity and nature of each.
The second knot of tension is my use of Latino/a and Latin American theorists and theologians ... not to mention the wisdom of Latina pastors, scholars and activists. This project is not a survey of all available Latino/a and Latin American theorists and theologians. I have picked the people I want to quote, reference, interview, and be informed and challenged by ... yet another instance of white privilege, yes. But I have good reason for the people I have picked: either they say something directly to white people that we need to hear -- and I am using this project as a listening post -- or they work in a way that models a useful approach for us to emulate. A corollary complication is that some of the scholars are from Latin America (El Salvador in particular) and others are from the United States.
I know these are different contexts; I know the work of these scholars cannot be lumped together. And yet, I am part of both of these contexts: definitely in the case of the United States, but also in the case of Latin America. I may not seem to have direct connections with the Latin American contexts of "my" scholars, but my nation has invested in the instability and violence plaguing that region. Isn't it right to hear and attempt to learn from their understandings of the gospel, not to mention respond to the demands their understandings place on us?
I have worked carefully to appreciate, and not appropriate, not only through citations and acknowledgments but also by respecting and responding. What I have read and sought to learn from has changed my work, and me. I get a lump in my throat thinking about it. I feel inadequate to respond well enough. And I get scared when I realize I am close to the finish line, and yet still feel undone. This feels a lot more like the third interval than the sixth.
Perhaps running still has something to teach me. A few weeks ago, I was running and suddenly stumbled. And fell. No real harm done: just a scratched palm, and later some soreness in the elbow I fell onto. Unfortunately, my iPod skipped back to the beginning of the interval program ... I knew I was close to the fifth segment, so I switched to another piece of music, and chose to just run all the way home. It worked out.
I don't know why I fell; I was deep in thought as I ran. But it occurs to me that my ankle problems cropped up after that run. So, maybe I twisted my ankle. Now I am having to go back and take care of it.
I've been struggling with the challenges Isasi-Diaz put in front of me all year. If I have stumbled, I need to know. I need to resolve these ambiguities, or know that they are inherent to the mysteries of learning to be a more-just white person ...
I'm going to the doctors this week ... asking a couple of members of my committee to help me work out these knots.
I do know that a day will come when I will be able to say, "I went through that struggle to get to this joy." Right now though, it's the struggle. And I am doing my best to let it shape me, and the work.
And here, I have to say, my breathing could be better. I need to draw full and invigorating breaths from the inspiring Spirit that enlivens us all.
Well, yes I am. It will be hard. And the first attempt might not fly.
But I'm learning something from this interval approach ... as the distance has increased, I've noticed that the first segment is usually just painful; the second fells like a slog; the third begins to open up a little, with more regular breathing and a better rhythm. Usually by the fourth and fifth segments, I feel like I am running (although I am of course just jogging). The sixth segment usually feels pretty good, though my legs are tiring by then. I think the aspect of my running I am most impressed with is my breath: my breathing usually stays strong and even.
One of my favorite lessons from the intervals, though, is that the first two or three segments are the price you pay for the joy of the fourth, fifth and sixth ... sometimes in the last segments, I feel like "I ran the first part to get to run this part." I have to run that first half to feel the exhiliration of the second half, not to mention the bliss of finishing and stretching.
Lately I've been having trouble with my ankle, though, and I've been asking around for advice, doing some research, wondering if I should go to the trouble of a visit to an actual doctor. So far what I am doing (rest, ice, ibuprofen) is helping some; I am happy that I am still running, and hoping I'll get through this (like I did the sore knee last spring and the sore instep last fall ... all on the left leg. Hmm).
The dissertation is in a similar place ... pained joy, let's call it.
I finished a draft of the whole thing, mostly, around the first of the year. And found myself facing the dissertation's "sixth mile": I got this far so that now I can revise.
The draft was/is too long: almost 400 pages when 200 would have done. I've had a bad case of "I don't know what I think until I write it down." Sometimes I have thought of it as "First you make a big marble block. Then you carve it into shape."
The problem is, it is very hard to have any perspective on what you have just written, a fact I know from editing other people's work.
I knew I needed help. And I felt picky about where I would get it. Who would understand the subject matter as well as the anti-racist perspective I was trying to hold? Fellow journeyers ... I was blessed that all three of the people I asked for help agreed, and provided prompt feedback: Felipe Hinojosa took time from his own work to advise on the South Texas history chapter (a topic on which he is far more expert than me); Tobin Miller Shearer took time from his Christmas family vacation to help with the white liberations chapter; and Regina Shands Stoltzfus has given feedback across multiple chapters. I am a blessed woman, rich in wise and generous friends.
Frankly, I am still struggling, which is a little scary. I should have the conceptual frame nailed down at this point. But I left some loose boards as I went flying through the middle chapters, and one of them is coming back to haunt me.
Long-time readers will remember the challenge Ada Maria Isasi-Diaz put to me ... "I think it is not theoretically valid from the perspective of liberation theology/philosophy to construct your argument mainly around what you can do for the oppressed. The moral agency of the oppressed in the process of our liberation is very key.
For me, if you work at dismantling white racism because it is important for your own liberation -- Wow! that would be an enormous contribution. We are always struggling to find ways of convincing those in power to understand that oppressing others [is] not in their (the oppressors') best interest..." [personal communication, April 25, 2008]
I heard what Isasi-Diaz said; it shaped much of what I developed subsequently. And yet, there are key ideas that I have been holding in tension, and I know they need to be held in tension, and yet I don't know if I am giving each their due, and giving their creative tension its due.
The idea for the dissertation began with my experience of being transformed by my involvement in dismantling racism efforts; this work changed forever the way I think about loving God and my neighbors. I think there are some profoundly right things about what I have learned, and the way I have learned them. I wanted to share those right things.
Isasi-Diaz is right, of course, that white people cannot liberate Latinas/os. But we can stop what we are doing to oppress ... and we can offer ourselves as partners in the struggle, able and willing to follow the lead of Latinas/os in solidary struggles for change. And herein lies the tension: it just so happens that this shift in commitment helps bring about the change in consciousness that is liberating for white people. To seek to benefit peoples of colors is to begin to see how one has consciously and unconsciously been about the business of benefiting white people.
There's one knot of the tension: white people's work does not liberate Latinas/os (or any other group of people), and yet committing to the liberation of Latinas/os does bring about a shift in consciousness that transforms what it means to be white, in positive and justice-producing ways. So, even a theology about the liberation of white people needs to have this component in it of listening to and following the lead of and committing to the benefit of people of color -- what I think of as processes of solidary love. I don't want to give up on any of these strands. I just don't know if I have demonstrated the necessity and nature of each.
The second knot of tension is my use of Latino/a and Latin American theorists and theologians ... not to mention the wisdom of Latina pastors, scholars and activists. This project is not a survey of all available Latino/a and Latin American theorists and theologians. I have picked the people I want to quote, reference, interview, and be informed and challenged by ... yet another instance of white privilege, yes. But I have good reason for the people I have picked: either they say something directly to white people that we need to hear -- and I am using this project as a listening post -- or they work in a way that models a useful approach for us to emulate. A corollary complication is that some of the scholars are from Latin America (El Salvador in particular) and others are from the United States.
I know these are different contexts; I know the work of these scholars cannot be lumped together. And yet, I am part of both of these contexts: definitely in the case of the United States, but also in the case of Latin America. I may not seem to have direct connections with the Latin American contexts of "my" scholars, but my nation has invested in the instability and violence plaguing that region. Isn't it right to hear and attempt to learn from their understandings of the gospel, not to mention respond to the demands their understandings place on us?
I have worked carefully to appreciate, and not appropriate, not only through citations and acknowledgments but also by respecting and responding. What I have read and sought to learn from has changed my work, and me. I get a lump in my throat thinking about it. I feel inadequate to respond well enough. And I get scared when I realize I am close to the finish line, and yet still feel undone. This feels a lot more like the third interval than the sixth.
Perhaps running still has something to teach me. A few weeks ago, I was running and suddenly stumbled. And fell. No real harm done: just a scratched palm, and later some soreness in the elbow I fell onto. Unfortunately, my iPod skipped back to the beginning of the interval program ... I knew I was close to the fifth segment, so I switched to another piece of music, and chose to just run all the way home. It worked out.
I don't know why I fell; I was deep in thought as I ran. But it occurs to me that my ankle problems cropped up after that run. So, maybe I twisted my ankle. Now I am having to go back and take care of it.
I've been struggling with the challenges Isasi-Diaz put in front of me all year. If I have stumbled, I need to know. I need to resolve these ambiguities, or know that they are inherent to the mysteries of learning to be a more-just white person ...
I'm going to the doctors this week ... asking a couple of members of my committee to help me work out these knots.
I do know that a day will come when I will be able to say, "I went through that struggle to get to this joy." Right now though, it's the struggle. And I am doing my best to let it shape me, and the work.
And here, I have to say, my breathing could be better. I need to draw full and invigorating breaths from the inspiring Spirit that enlivens us all.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
"Joining Imagination to Common Purpose"
This line from President Obama's inauguration speech caught my attention. It sums up a lot about what I believe our call to be, whether "our" is defined as white anti-racists, or Christians, or U.S. citizens, or humanity, and whether the "call" is defined in terms of economics, justice, love, or all of the above.
First of all, we are called to join. Whatever the challenge in front of us, very little of significance can be achieved by one person alone. Our myths of individualism and manifest destiny do us no good now. Like the dishonest steward (Luke 16), who was accused of wastefulness and lost his job, we need to invest in community. As long as we rely only on ourselves, we will always feel the hounds of scarcity and never-enough baying at our heels. When we begin to support the people around us, and feel them supporting us, abundance begins to feel real and we can loosen ourselves from the frenzy of self-aggrandizing but ultimately unsatisfying greed.
I have learned this lesson over and over, in corporations and churches and gardening and even in the wee community of two I share with my beloved M. She is always reaching under my burdens to help support me; I am always looking for ways to help shoulder her load. We are regularly astonished at the changes this has wrought in our lives.
Second, we are called to imagine. A lot of us suck at this. Imagine the world after poverty and hunger have been eliminated. Racism ended. Classism unraveled. Patriarchy dismantled. Imagine conflicts that move directly to diplomacy without thousands of lives lost and billions spent on armaments first. Imagine a world full of people seeking to feed the planet and its creatures more than we take from it. Plenty of smart and impassioned people have imagined all of this and more ... all they need is our will to do it. That's the real trick to imagination: the will to believe, act, change.
Oh, the "c" word. Well, here are some more. I hear a lot of claims to confusion in the face of our economic turmoil, our world conflicts, even our neighborhood/family/relationship issues. Many of us stay with confusion because, frankly, it's comfortable. On some level, we know that if we get clarity about what is needed, courage can't be far behind: the courage to change what needs to be changed. If we imagine clearly, we will feel courage arise in the form of desire to change, so that we can build what we imagine: an economy that works for all of us ... living wages for meaningful work ... affordable housing ... good public schools that no one opts out of, for religious or elitist reasons, because the real world is all of us together, learning not just tolerance but mutual respect so that we can live together and take care of each other. The list is endless. So are we. Why do we think it is otherwise?
Third is common purpose. We already know what this is, too, as William Julius Wilson discovered some years ago, and described in his book, Bridge Across the Racial Divide. Wilson found common interests among middle/working class people of all races: Wilson reported research finding only small differences by race in such core values as work, education, family, religion, law enforcement and civic responsibility, and high congruence regarding challenges to these values, as well as preferences for government priorities. Many of us could name even more fundamental commonalities, such as the basics all humans need: clean air and water, shelter, nourishment, security of person and community, love and belonging, fulfillment, meaning.
Many have dreamed, too, of what you get when you put all of these ideas into that nutshell, "joining imagination to common purpose." Jesus' kingdom of God. Martin Luther King's beloved community. What I am beginning to think of as the commonweal, the common-well-being of us all, which all of us must tend for each other.
If we all put a shoulder under each other's burdens -- instead of trying to climb on top of each other's shoulders -- we can all find what we need: enough.
I have had Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak on my decade-at-a-glance for quite some time. I had read his Courage to Teach a couple of years ago, before teaching my first class at seminary, and found it thought-provoking and helpful. Thanks to Christmas generosities, I obtained a copy of Let Your Life Speak and read it last week. This too gave me plenty to think about. And then the other day I had a little spare time to listen to one of the Speaking of Faith episodes I have stored up in my iTunes, and I chose Krista Tippett's interview with Palmer on the unfolding economic crisis.
Tippett invited Palmer to consider a comparison of his description of his own struggle with depression to the current economic depression. Palmer agreed the comparison was apt. Here is their interchange:
Ms. Tippett: And what I kept thinking of was actually my conversation with you and you talking about how in the middle of a depression, a psychological depression, you had a therapist who said, "Parker, could you think of your depression as a friend, which is bringing you down to earth, ground on which it is safe to walk?"
Mr. Palmer: Mm-hmm. That's a wonderful connection. And in fact, I have had some of the same thoughts, Krista, the parallels between psychological depression and economic depression. I finally learned, with the help of this therapist, that depression didn't need to be pictured as the hand of an enemy trying to crush me, but rather the hand of a friend trying to press me down to ground on which it was safe to stand. And through that realization, I understood that part of what took me into depression was that I was living life at artificial heights, at untenable elevations, so that the elevation involving a kind of inflated ego or a free-floating spirituality or a detached sense of "oughts" and in that sense a false ethic, or simply living intellectually in my head more than in my feelings and in my body, that all of those things put you at such altitude that if you trip and fall, which you're inevitably going to do, you have a long, long way to fall, and it might kill you.
But if you are in fact on ground where it's safe to stand, you can fall and get up and fall and get up again, which most of us do every day. And, yes, I do feel that we all knew at some level, if we took a moment to think about it, that there was a huge amount of artificial altitude, elevation, inflation in this society, that housing prices were ridiculous, that stock prices were way beyond value. And we now know in fact that a lot of that was a purposely contrived illusion. (From Speaking of Faith podcast; see www.speakingoffaith.publicradio.org)
As I received the wisdom of this story, it brought to mind the one with which I began this post: the story of the dishonest steward in Luke 16. The story is ambiguous: neither fault nor favor can be unilaterally assigned, just as in our times. But what is clear is the action at the center of the story: when the steward's world collapses around him, he chooses to invest in the community where he will land when he falls.
Many of us feel that our world -- whether we fully understood it or not -- has collapsed around us. The more isolated we are, the more individualistic we have become, the harder this fall feels.
I think Palmer is right, though. Thinking about his words reminds me of Peter Mayer's song, "Fall" on Million Year Mind. He sings:
What if the highest destination
of any given human life
was not a place that you could reach if
you had to climb
wasn't up above like heaven
so no need to fly at all
what if to reach the highest place you had to fall ...
Fall, finding a way of trusting in the ground
as if the highest and the lowest places
are the same
We have fallen: but perhaps not fallen low so much as fallen to a safe place, a place where we can clearly see the need to ... what?
Join. Imagine. Common purpose. You are not alone; neither am I. What can we do together, that we cannot do alone?
Only everything.
And when that seems overwhelming, we can start smaller. I will start by feeding the ground, and trusting in it. I will start composting again, and begin my latest garden this spring ... but not my last. I will have an abundance ... enough and more to share.
First of all, we are called to join. Whatever the challenge in front of us, very little of significance can be achieved by one person alone. Our myths of individualism and manifest destiny do us no good now. Like the dishonest steward (Luke 16), who was accused of wastefulness and lost his job, we need to invest in community. As long as we rely only on ourselves, we will always feel the hounds of scarcity and never-enough baying at our heels. When we begin to support the people around us, and feel them supporting us, abundance begins to feel real and we can loosen ourselves from the frenzy of self-aggrandizing but ultimately unsatisfying greed.
I have learned this lesson over and over, in corporations and churches and gardening and even in the wee community of two I share with my beloved M. She is always reaching under my burdens to help support me; I am always looking for ways to help shoulder her load. We are regularly astonished at the changes this has wrought in our lives.
Second, we are called to imagine. A lot of us suck at this. Imagine the world after poverty and hunger have been eliminated. Racism ended. Classism unraveled. Patriarchy dismantled. Imagine conflicts that move directly to diplomacy without thousands of lives lost and billions spent on armaments first. Imagine a world full of people seeking to feed the planet and its creatures more than we take from it. Plenty of smart and impassioned people have imagined all of this and more ... all they need is our will to do it. That's the real trick to imagination: the will to believe, act, change.
Oh, the "c" word. Well, here are some more. I hear a lot of claims to confusion in the face of our economic turmoil, our world conflicts, even our neighborhood/family/relationship issues. Many of us stay with confusion because, frankly, it's comfortable. On some level, we know that if we get clarity about what is needed, courage can't be far behind: the courage to change what needs to be changed. If we imagine clearly, we will feel courage arise in the form of desire to change, so that we can build what we imagine: an economy that works for all of us ... living wages for meaningful work ... affordable housing ... good public schools that no one opts out of, for religious or elitist reasons, because the real world is all of us together, learning not just tolerance but mutual respect so that we can live together and take care of each other. The list is endless. So are we. Why do we think it is otherwise?
Third is common purpose. We already know what this is, too, as William Julius Wilson discovered some years ago, and described in his book, Bridge Across the Racial Divide. Wilson found common interests among middle/working class people of all races: Wilson reported research finding only small differences by race in such core values as work, education, family, religion, law enforcement and civic responsibility, and high congruence regarding challenges to these values, as well as preferences for government priorities. Many of us could name even more fundamental commonalities, such as the basics all humans need: clean air and water, shelter, nourishment, security of person and community, love and belonging, fulfillment, meaning.
Many have dreamed, too, of what you get when you put all of these ideas into that nutshell, "joining imagination to common purpose." Jesus' kingdom of God. Martin Luther King's beloved community. What I am beginning to think of as the commonweal, the common-well-being of us all, which all of us must tend for each other.
If we all put a shoulder under each other's burdens -- instead of trying to climb on top of each other's shoulders -- we can all find what we need: enough.
I have had Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak on my decade-at-a-glance for quite some time. I had read his Courage to Teach a couple of years ago, before teaching my first class at seminary, and found it thought-provoking and helpful. Thanks to Christmas generosities, I obtained a copy of Let Your Life Speak and read it last week. This too gave me plenty to think about. And then the other day I had a little spare time to listen to one of the Speaking of Faith episodes I have stored up in my iTunes, and I chose Krista Tippett's interview with Palmer on the unfolding economic crisis.
Tippett invited Palmer to consider a comparison of his description of his own struggle with depression to the current economic depression. Palmer agreed the comparison was apt. Here is their interchange:
Ms. Tippett: And what I kept thinking of was actually my conversation with you and you talking about how in the middle of a depression, a psychological depression, you had a therapist who said, "Parker, could you think of your depression as a friend, which is bringing you down to earth, ground on which it is safe to walk?"
Mr. Palmer: Mm-hmm. That's a wonderful connection. And in fact, I have had some of the same thoughts, Krista, the parallels between psychological depression and economic depression. I finally learned, with the help of this therapist, that depression didn't need to be pictured as the hand of an enemy trying to crush me, but rather the hand of a friend trying to press me down to ground on which it was safe to stand. And through that realization, I understood that part of what took me into depression was that I was living life at artificial heights, at untenable elevations, so that the elevation involving a kind of inflated ego or a free-floating spirituality or a detached sense of "oughts" and in that sense a false ethic, or simply living intellectually in my head more than in my feelings and in my body, that all of those things put you at such altitude that if you trip and fall, which you're inevitably going to do, you have a long, long way to fall, and it might kill you.
But if you are in fact on ground where it's safe to stand, you can fall and get up and fall and get up again, which most of us do every day. And, yes, I do feel that we all knew at some level, if we took a moment to think about it, that there was a huge amount of artificial altitude, elevation, inflation in this society, that housing prices were ridiculous, that stock prices were way beyond value. And we now know in fact that a lot of that was a purposely contrived illusion. (From Speaking of Faith podcast; see www.speakingoffaith.publicradio.org)
As I received the wisdom of this story, it brought to mind the one with which I began this post: the story of the dishonest steward in Luke 16. The story is ambiguous: neither fault nor favor can be unilaterally assigned, just as in our times. But what is clear is the action at the center of the story: when the steward's world collapses around him, he chooses to invest in the community where he will land when he falls.
Many of us feel that our world -- whether we fully understood it or not -- has collapsed around us. The more isolated we are, the more individualistic we have become, the harder this fall feels.
I think Palmer is right, though. Thinking about his words reminds me of Peter Mayer's song, "Fall" on Million Year Mind. He sings:
What if the highest destination
of any given human life
was not a place that you could reach if
you had to climb
wasn't up above like heaven
so no need to fly at all
what if to reach the highest place you had to fall ...
Fall, finding a way of trusting in the ground
as if the highest and the lowest places
are the same
We have fallen: but perhaps not fallen low so much as fallen to a safe place, a place where we can clearly see the need to ... what?
Join. Imagine. Common purpose. You are not alone; neither am I. What can we do together, that we cannot do alone?
Only everything.
And when that seems overwhelming, we can start smaller. I will start by feeding the ground, and trusting in it. I will start composting again, and begin my latest garden this spring ... but not my last. I will have an abundance ... enough and more to share.
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