When injustice is the only chorus we seem to be able to sing

Hello, reader:

Years ago, after my first book came out, what started out as singular conversations on a white lady waking up to issues of race1 turned into more collective conversations of helping parents talk to kids about issues of race.

I loved that season of life, even if Covid abruptly put a close to that chapter.

However, in many of these events, the inevitable question always arose: But what if we want to protect our kids from the bad things in life?

This question of harm most often came from the mouths of privileged white parents who, perhaps unknowingly, equated “the bad things in life” to communities of color. Their children were already highly sensitive individuals, they said. Didn’t they have a duty to protect them from that which might cause further emotional trauma, and shouldn’t they therefore not engage in some of these “hard” conversations with them?

They didn’t know that theirs was a privilege to opt in and out of a conversation in the first place, nor did they realize that we have to “acknowledge injustice in our society,” precisely because “children know when adults are hiding things from them, and it makes them feel unsafe.”2

I’ve thought about this question a lot lately, particularly when we humans — all of us, not just the children among us — find ourselves facing unending onslaughts of injustice. How then are we to respond when injustice is the only chorus we seem to be able to sing?

The atrocities of ICE agents, the government now promises will be outfitted with gloves that deliver an electric shock, wreak increasing havoc on our immigrant neighbors, sometimes detaining upwards of 2,000 people a day.3 Funding cuts, at the rate of $187 billion over the next decade to the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP), that have left millions of Americans (including more than a million children) without the food they need to survive. Another young Black man, this one named Nolan Wells — his life stolen from him and his parents without answers, and an unanswered call for “truth, transparency, and accountability surrounding his death.”

It makes me wonder: have we become so desensitized to injustice that we no longer recognize its impact? Be this the case, does this mean we need to re-sensitize ourselves to injustice and pain? Or, if we can, are we to protect ourselves and look away, because this is the only way we will survive?

In the novel Bewilderment by Richard Powers, the father muses, “In the face of the world’s basic brokenness, more empathy meant deeper suffering.”4 No part of me wants to suffer more deeply, but I also don’t want to be anesthetized to understanding what another person is going through. Likewise, in the memoir The Yellow House by Sarah M. Broom, she writes of an experience of seeing injustice alive before her — and then of purposefully not seeing what is right in front of her face. “Sometimes, when I want the world to go blurry again, I remove my glasses when passing by these scenes. In this way, I learn to see and to go blind at will.”5 Is learning to see and then to go blind at will a better way to get through these sordid days?

I’m actually without a full answer here.

I more so wanted to share with you something I’ve been chewing on lately. Certainly, if you have thoughts, share them in the comment section.

In this with you,

c.

One more little thought: You know how I wrote about hell last week on Substack? Well, I took a step further and wrote even more on the subject for Baptist News Global. Because when Kirk Cameron changes his stance and Jen Hatmaker writes an entire post on why she no longer believes in the fiery inferno, well, hell might be having a moment — but as I also argue, hell is no longer the driving force it used to be.

One book I’m reading: Well, I’ve not actually read it yet, because I literally just opened up the package about three minutes ago, but I’m delighted to share that Take More Retreats, Volume One: A Guidebook for Writers, Journalers, and Creative Souls, edited by the indomitable Charlotte Donlon is out now. I’ve got an essay in there and can’t wait for you to read it. Order a copy here.

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