Biking with Annie
On this, our second day of Camp Spend-the-Morning-with-Dad-Thanks-to-Covid-19, Emmett peels off to bike around the park to complete his exercise commitment. Now it’s just Annie and me pedaling down residential NE Hancock on our way to pick up my Father’s Day gift of new silicone baking mats from the kitchen store on 16th and Broadway.
Me:
Honey, I’ve been thinking about it. I have to go to the protest tomorrow night.
Annie:
No, you don’t.
Me:
You’re right. I don’t have to.
Annie:
It’s too dangerous.
Me:
I don’t think I’ll be arrested, but that’s not what bothers me.
Annie:
The virus. It could kill you. You’re 50.
Me:
I know. But I have to go.
Annie:
Stop saying that. You don’t have to go. You went last night.
Me:
And last night was safe.
Annie:
But you didn’t stay.
She’s right. Last night, I escorted my Ethiopian born, black-skinned 15-year old goddaughter to the march from Revolution Hall, over the Burnside bridge, to Waterfront park, and then back to our neighborhood.
I imagine this is all very scary for my daughter. I’m not certain how to tell her that I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t go.
Annie:
There are other rabbis who can go who don’t have little kids. Or I should go. I won’t get sick.
Me:
Dear one, I need to. As a rabbi. I need to stand up to power. As your dad. I need to stand up to bullies. I need to do what’s right. The police have lost their way. They are harassing the very people they swore to protect and serve. I need to stand with the people.
I want to tell her about a recent moment when I realized I was part of the problem. But it’s nothing an 11-year old needs to hear from her dad.
Social narratives
Yesterday, at 4pm, Jane and I began an anti-racism webinar with Dr. Jacqui Lewis, the first African American (and first woman) senior minister of the Middle Collegiate Church in Manhattan.
She invited a thousand plus of us into her home office/bedroom. She gave us American history lessons that were uncomfortable to hear. And she narrated the story: how I became black.
She asked us to consider how we came to learn we are the ethnicity and culture we call our own.
She said that how we treat each other is based not only on creeds and explicitly stated values, but also upon social narratives to which we’ve tacitly agreed—especially with regard to culture and ethnicity.
When we come to understand that these stories are not set, eternal, or true, it destabilizes us momentarily. Like when we travelled to London and my children had to get it through their heads that there isn’t a correct side of the road on which people should drive.
While it’s destabilizing at first, unlearning what we thought to be real is also liberating.
Burned in my mind is the astonished delight of the wide-smiling Lupe in a first-period, remedial tenth-grade mathematics class. She asked, “So, Mister Rabbi Brian, you Jewish?” and I answered, “I am Jewish because my parents told me I was, and they told me enough times that I believed them.”
“My name is Guadalupe because I believe it!”
Freedom.
Once we see race and our society’s lack of justice not as true, eternal, or real, but merely as agreed upon constructs, then we know we can agree upon other, more equitable ways.
My Secret
Let me tell you the words of the internal dialogue that made me realize I need to leverage my unwarranted, societal position of privilege to risk arrest and possible virus exposure in a paddy wagon.
In her presentation yesterday, Dr. Lewis took a moment to self-refer as “the type of African American woman that people like—well spoken, intelligent,” and I thought to myself, “She is well spoken and intelligent for a black woman.”
I can only hope, tomorrow night, that my voice in the air and my feet on the ground will help atone for my internalized racism and that it will help to change narratives and it will help to bring about a better world.
Biking with Annie
On this, our second day of Camp Spend-the-Morning-with-Dad-Thanks-to-Covid-19, Emmett peels off to bike around the park to complete his exercise commitment. Now it’s just Annie and me pedaling down residential NE Hancock on our way to pick up my Father’s Day gift of new silicone baking mats from the kitchen store on 16th and Broadway.
Me:
Honey, I’ve been thinking about it. I have to go to the protest tomorrow night.
Annie:
No, you don’t.
Me:
You’re right. I don’t have to.
Annie:
It’s too dangerous.
Me:
I don’t think I’ll be arrested, but that’s not what bothers me.
Annie:
The virus. It could kill you. You’re 50.
Me:
I know. But I have to go.
Annie:
Stop saying that. You don’t have to go. You went last night.
Me:
And last night was safe.
Annie:
But you didn’t stay.
She’s right. Last night, I escorted my Ethiopian born, black-skinned 15-year old goddaughter to the march from Revolution Hall, over the Burnside bridge, to Waterfront park, and then back to our neighborhood.
I imagine this is all very scary for my daughter. I’m not certain how to tell her that I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t go.
Annie:
There are other rabbis who can go who don’t have little kids. Or I should go. I won’t get sick.
Me:
Dear one, I need to. As a rabbi. I need to stand up to power. As your dad. I need to stand up to bullies. I need to do what’s right. The police have lost their way. They are harassing the very people they swore to protect and serve. I need to stand with the people.
I want to tell her about a recent moment when I realized I was part of the problem. But it’s nothing an 11-year old needs to hear from her dad.
Social narratives
Yesterday, at 4pm, Jane and I began an anti-racism webinar with Dr. Jacqui Lewis, the first African American (and first woman) senior minister of the Middle Collegiate Church in Manhattan.
She invited a thousand plus of us into her home office/bedroom. She gave us American history lessons that were uncomfortable to hear. And she narrated the story: how I became black.
She asked us to consider how we came to learn we are the ethnicity and culture we call our own.
She said that how we treat each other is based not only on creeds and explicitly stated values, but also upon social narratives to which we’ve tacitly agreed—especially with regard to culture and ethnicity.
When we come to understand that these stories are not set, eternal, or true, it destabilizes us momentarily. Like when we travelled to London and my children had to get it through their heads that there isn’t a correct side of the road on which people should drive.
While it’s destabilizing at first, unlearning what we thought to be real is also liberating.
Burned in my mind is the astonished delight of the wide-smiling Lupe in a first-period, remedial tenth-grade mathematics class. She asked, “So, Mister Rabbi Brian, you Jewish?” and I answered, “I am Jewish because my parents told me I was, and they told me enough times that I believed them.”
“My name is Guadalupe because I believe it!”
Freedom.
Once we see race and our society’s lack of justice not as true, eternal, or real, but merely as agreed upon constructs, then we know we can agree upon other, more equitable ways.
My Secret
Let me tell you the words of the internal dialogue that made me realize I need to leverage my unwarranted, societal position of privilege to risk arrest and possible virus exposure in a paddy wagon.
In her presentation yesterday, Dr. Lewis took a moment to self-refer as “the type of African American woman that people like—well spoken, intelligent,” and I thought to myself, “She is well spoken and intelligent for a black woman.”
I can only hope, tomorrow night, that my voice in the air and my feet on the ground will help atone for my internalized racism and that it will help to change narratives and it will help to bring about a better world.
Rabbi Brian Zachary Mayer resides in Portland, Oregon. He is the founder and head of Religion-Outside-The-Box oldrotb.wpengine.com, an internet-based, global group of 3K+ digital-age seekers. ROTB produces excellent spiritual content.
