Extremism in Defense of Liberty...and Oppression

Lately, I've been reading Nat Turner's Slave Rebellion by Herbert Aptheker (1937/2006).  It's the first serious (second generally) history of the rebellion Nat Turner led in 1831.  It's an incredibly easy read, and I highly recommend it.

Needless to say, many things stick out to me from the book.  More posts may come...

For now, Aptheker's writing about "the effects" (i.e. social and legal reactions) of Turner's rebellion captures my mind.  Our best guess is that 60-80 black people joined the rebellion, yet at the time whites estimated as many as 800 armed revolutionaries actively participated and nearly every southern state legislature convened to deal with whites' mass hysteria following the revolt.  After his capture, Turner pleaded not guilty (because he had done nothing wrong) and never said he was mistaken in believing God led him to revolt.  Those facts lead me to my two initial thoughts:

1. Oppressors Live in Constant Fear

We, the people willing to act for social justice, severely underestimate our influence.  One of the false lessons of the Civil Rights Era is that "a movement" requires mass numbers.  I am convinced that movement requires little more than a few people willing to move.  People imposing injustice tend to freak out when directly confronted with resistance.  I am reminded of three biblical stories.  One where Elisha showed his chief disciple the invisible chariots and horsemen of Israel.  The second, when Gideon took a very small army (~300 men) and defeated a much larger army when the enemy soldiers turned on themselves.  And a third, when three lepers marched into the enemy camp only to find it deserted because the enemy soldiers mistook their footsteps for the sound of a large army.  My point, God seems to be suggesting the power of small numbers often in the Bible.

My larger point from Nat Turner is that all oppressors live in constant fear of resistance, even resistance from groups that cannot possibly overthrow systems by force alone.  Men live in constant fear that they will be exposed as vulnerable and not masculine.  Whites live in constant fear that the logic of white supremacy (i.e. justified domination because of superior intellect/morality/numerical majority/etc) will be exposed as a lie [thus The Bell Curve, the Minute Men, the Tea Party, etc].  The rich are petrified of labor coalitions.  The Christian Right is obsessed with "creeping Sharia law." Bush began a war against terror itself.  

We don't often pay enough attention to the fact that emotion is an integral part of every social structure.  Specifically, fear is an inevitable part of every oppressive structure.  That means that one of the contradictions inherent to any system of organization is the emotional vulnerability of the dominant group.  Oppressed people thus always have a structural avenue of resistance, even in the most oppressive and closed systems.

Nat Turner demonstrated that.  For months and even years after his rebellion, whites openly claimed that they could not sleep, were filled with anxiety, and were in failing health due to fear of slave rebellions inspired by Turner.  In fact, several southern governors explicitly stated mass anxiety among whites as the reason for calling emergency legislative sessions in fall of 1831.  This mass anxiety despite there being no clear evidence that a single subsequent rebellion was directly connected to Turner or his co-conspirators.  That oppressors were convicted by their own guilt is proven by two facts: 1) Turner "passed-over" the houses of whites who "did not think themselves better than blacks."  His army only targeted open bigots and slaveowners; and 2) there is some evidence that many poor whites supported the rebellion.  Whites were not afraid they would be targeted for being white; they were afraid because they knew they were targeted for being active oppressors.


2.  Retrenchment Is Not Evidence of Failure

After the Turner Rebellion, whites reacted extremely harshly.  They not only assassinated Turner and his fellow rebels, they also mutilated and murdered innumerable black people (slave and free) with and without trials.  Whites killed at least as many innocent black people as the total number of rebells in Turner's army.  In some cases, white militias lynched black people on the mere accusation of white overseers.  Whites tortured, lynched, and murdered black people without any evidence or even reason for suspicion in states as far from Turner's rebellion (in Virginia) as Louisiana and Kentucky.  Whites tortured innocent black people to the point that whites themselves began criticizing the brutality and fearing they would lose the moral ground in the slaveholding South!  [I cannot imagine the savagery that would move slaveholders even that small step toward compassion.  Our black ancestors are beyond heroic!]  Bunches of municipalities and southern states passed a host of laws tightening restrictions on free blacks and making life even more difficult for slaves.  ... None of this is a surprise, but it leads me to my next point...

For black people, the most obvious immediate result of Turner's Rebellion was increased white oppression.  In other words, black people's lives got worse; in some cases much worse.  Turner, his fellow warriors, and potentially hundreds of uninvolved black people were tortured and killed by whites.  In addition to the rampant mass murder, black people lost [i.e. whites took] the few civil rights they had.  Black people couldn't even legally have church without whites present.  Again, biblical parallels come to mind.  The Egyptians made crazy laws against enslaved Israelites (e.g. making bricks without straw) out of fear of growing Israelite numbers and fear of slave revolt.  Moses left Egypt after reacting to Egyptian cruelty, and the Egyptians reacted harshly to subsequent Israelite resistance once the Exodus began.  ... I bring up the Bible to show that the patterns are old and unchanging.  Oppressors oppress, get scared, generate resistance, clamp down, and ultimately lose.

And here, I think, is another false lesson we have drawn from the Civil Rights Movement.  Activists hesitate too often for fear that their efforts will make life harder for the very people they are fighting for.  This fear among activists is one of the main causes of "analysis until paralysis" and splits among coalitions.  We should understand that activism never causes oppression.  Oppressors do that.  We should not assume that harsh retrenchment is a sign that we did the wrong thing.  Often retrenchment is a sign that mobilization meaningfully challenged oppressors.

Again, the immediate aftermath of Turner's rebellion was death and increased white-on-black terrorism throughout the South.  Not only so, but nearly all the southern abolitionist organizations disappeared following the rebellion.  They reformed in the North, but that meant the thousands of free blacks in the South and millions of enslaved blacks had much less local white support after 1831.  But nearly 200 years later, we see that Turner's Rebellion was a positive and critically important part of the liberation struggle.  If we judged him by the lives of black people in October and November of 1831, we would conclude his efforts a failure on every level.  Now we praise Turner and name city parks after him (e.g. in Newark, NJ).  We recognize Nat Turner, John Brown, and other antislavery rebells as national heroes--certainly heroes among people of color.

Selah.

Blessed Circle (cont....Finally)

Hi, everyone.  Two posts (and two months!) ago, I wrote about the blessed circle I was fortunate enough to be a part of with some wonderful activist friends here in Texas.   At that time I promised reflections on my own experience.  I had planned a longer, blow-by-blow narrative, but as is so often the case, responsibilities and indecision force me to boil it down to the bare (and more readable) core.  So here goes...

For some unknown reason--force of personality, ignorance, biography, delirium, gifting--I generally find myself in the more spiritually knowledgable and aware portion of a social group.  Considering the circle began with a brief (if rambling) discussion of some of my academic work which led to one person reflecting on his own spiritual history, I felt pretty sure of myself as a knowledgable participant.  The traditional patriarchal man in me still feels a sort of confidence, leadership opportunity and responsibility even, arising from the sort of social space in which I am well grounded.  It's a tacit thing, but it informs my sense of self and interactions in those kinds of settings.  I believe masculinity produces this kind of confidence, which generates blinded domination, in nearly every western man in nearly every social setting.

Returning to the point, it didn't take long for the group to disabuse me of my masculine confusion.  Early in the conversation, one of the Afro Caribbean women asked what happens to people when they die (this is an oversimplification of her question).  The question catapulted us into the conversation which was the backdrop for our connection and experience.  What got me was that the range of answers people had corresponded to a range of experiences and knowledge bases far greater than any I have ever experienced.  Most circles with southern people of color will be dominated by traditional protestant Christian frameworks, maybe a little agnostic skepticism thrown in.  In this group, traditions ranged from protestant Christianity to indigenous traditions and creole religious traditions across centuries and continents.  I am not knowledgable enough to trace each tradition and idea back to its roots, but the presence and power of strong and well-developed spiritual roots undergirding every statement was palpable to me.  No statement could be dismissed as mere speculation or musing.  Everyone's comments were born of old knowledges whose legitimacy and worth are well beyond question.

Not only did everyone's comments come out of long traditions, acknowledged or not, but each contribution was generally linked to a person's experiential story.  The stories mixed clear spiritual perception with empirical evidence, grounding seemingly unique events in our universal experiences.  In a few stories, multiple members of the group had experienced the same events, sometimes in different locations.  Normally, the triangulation of "sources" would add credibility, but every story was so powerful and connected so clearly to universal experience that veracity was a given.

For me, the entire experience was wonderful, in large part because I--and my particular knowledge/experience base--became so small.  I felt like a child, a spiritual child, in the presence of these great spiritual teachers and practitioners.  I was learning, though there was no atmosphere of conversion or compulsion, as my Christian training usually generates.  We were simply sharing and tapping into truths that govern and organize our lives, but usually remain beyond view and discussion.  The women of the group were the clear leaders.  The depth of experiences and power of the circle owe much to the fact that women collectively drove the experience.  We men were happy and frequent participants, but the character and development of the circle were womanist.  I have never had a womanist experience like that before.  It's something I will seek like the holy grail from this point forward.

Being a spiritual child felt so natural and comfortable.  At the time, I accurately said it felt like I was a boy who had been forced to be "the man of the house" for a long time, and finally got to just be a boy again.  The release was beyond words.  It was Atlas putting down Earth.  Even more, taking up my actual role as novice was so enjoyable because it finally felt like I was living in truth.  That's not to say that I am lying when I work out of the strengths of my own place in my own Christian tradition--I know what I'm talking about, technically and experientially.  But being the ultimate Christian, in terms of knowledge, behavior, and Christian maturation, only takes a person so far.  To use Christian parlance, Paul said that in this life, we see partially as through a dark glass.  John tells us that the great majority of the things Jesus said and did are excluded from the gospels.  There is no way to know it all, even if we master our tradition.  Orthodoxy says we'll get a complete picture in the next life.  I believe we can gain a fuller, if still partial, picture in this life by listening to and benefiting from other traditions in addition to mastering our own.  Non-Christians are competent people, too.  Their spiritual lives, beliefs, and experiences reflect God's interaction in their lives and tell us something about God, God's self.  Those outside our religious tradition are not delirious; they are seers, like us.  If we respect that, we will grow.  I enjoyed the Blessed Circle because it exposed this truth to me and put me in my accurate place.

A Blessed Circle, A Blessed Evening (Part I)

Yesterday was my friend, Rose Pulliam's birthday.  [Happy Birthday, again, Rose!]  If you don't know Rose, she is a beautiful woman, in every sense imaginable.  Hers is a gathering and nurturing soul; the kind that keeps communities together.  She totally dispels the notion that activists, of which she is one of the finest, only throw bricks and don't build anything.  Rose can throw a brick, but through her stories, comedy, outreach, and just force of personality, she constantly edifies individuals and communities in the deepest, most profound and elemental ways.  

So, we gathered to celebrate her birthday.  Overtime, as the crowd ebbed and flowed, about of dozen of us--all queer people of color, mostly activists, many with Bible-based religious backgrounds of various denominations--formed a large circle and began to talk about religion and faith.  In the circle were 4 men and 8 or so women, people in their 20s through 50s, including African Americans, Latin@s, and women from the Caribbean.  We covered a lot of ground as the conversation flowed from an academic look at religion and politics to how religion played in people's coming out stories and a host of other angles.  Eventually, one of the sisters in the group asked the pivotal question that launched us into the meat of the night.  She asked, "what happens to the soul when we die?  Where does the soul go?"   

I cannot do justice to the following events, nor can I completely recount every word (or even highlight) of the blessed conversation that followed.  There was too much wisdom in the group to even imagine capturing it in words.  We simply vibed together.  As the Bible says, "deep calls to deep," and that's where and how we met each other.  The energy in the space was so holy (for lack of a less loaded word), built on the trust and safety we recognized and built in each other.  And it was as much recognized as created.  The secret price of entry to the circle, demanded by the Spirit that brought us, was years of deep and intense personal reflection on who we are in the world and how our religious histories had both revealed and hidden aspects of the spiritual realities we are called to share.  It was the evidence of that pursuit of truth beyond dogma--an uncommon spiritual maturation--that we silently recognized in one another.  Everyone brought some truly spiritual gift to the collective, and we recognized that gifting in each other as well.  Upon those spiritual recognitions and connections, we experienced our circle.  

Like I said, there was far too much wisdom in the circle for me to recount it here.  Truthfully, so much happened beyond the aural that even a perfect transcription of the night would give but a fraction of the experience.  So let me touch on just a few things to give a sense of the conversation.  In the next post, I want to talk about my experience in the circle.  

So, the pivotal question was, "Where does the soul go when we die?" People offered a range of answers, generally speaking of our souls and essences as collections of energy that may or may not (or may also) remain as a self-identified unit after bodily death (as opposed to breaking up into fragments, given away in life and/or recycled in death back in to the whole).  We related stories of speaking to people who had passed, whether directly or through mediums.  [[I'll note here that even the Bible says this is possible; remember Saul speaking to Samuel through the Witch of Endor and Abraham's acknowledgement that it is possible for the dead rich man go back and talk to his brothers though it would be useless.]]  We spoke of dreaming other people's dreams and receiving and conveying supernatural messages...and the awesome responsibility that entails.  We spoke of visions; some viewed alone, others shared.  We wondered how all this is possible.  What truths about now and the next epoch do our experiences reveal?  Conversely, we did not try to fit our experiences into the orthodoxy boxes of our various traditions.  Nor did we doubt one another.  We did not all have identical experiences, but we've all had experiences that were similar enough and far enough beyond the fringes of orthodoxy to know that everyone was speaking of "reality."  Every story was more than sincere; it was accurate.  

We wondered.  We spoke of the power of this wonder and of faith and doubt and fear.  One sister shared a valuable lesson.  She said, "fear haunts.  Truth does not haunt.  Truth always manifests itself."  And she is right, truth comes to pass.  Fear dogs people, but the fearful possibilities cannot and do not all come into being.  In another exchange, a brother spoke of doubt and faith.  Relating his coming out story, he said he learned to have as much faith that God created him as gay as others have that being gay is sin.  We spoke of how doubt creates much opportunity--to expand beyond dogma, to receive others, to experience spirit.  

We spoke of how death is a simultaneously individual and collective experience.  Even birth is a collective experience (just ask your mother), as is every subsequent experience until death.  No one experiences death per se with you; we all face it individually.  Yet, we can experience it collectively.  Several sisters recalled being together when a loved one passed, in the very house where we were talking.  Everyone recounted the different experiences, in at least three locations, that marked the instant of the person's passing.  A sleeping baby sat up to witness the moment, people pulled close in immediate anticipation, one woman spoke in words and a voice unrecognizable to herself.  

We spoke of shared energies.  How we miss the experience of collective worship, especially the songs.  We hummed the Old 100; that classic set of moans and ancestral hymns that welcome the Spirit and make the Black church so powerful and comforting.  We spoke of how the songs put us on the same wave length and how our bodies and essences feel that.  How that collective energy is so strong it can become visible.  

We laughed.  Uninhibited, joyful laughs.  We truly enjoyed each other and all the people, present and past, whose spirits and other remnants, were in the place.  It was a blessing.  It was healing.  We all held hands, felt a powerful warmth, and gave thanks.  

Death

I have recently grown to despise death.  Since you all know me well, you know that I have oscillated between being very emotionally expressive in my youth to increasingly emotionally stilted only to return to a much healthier place lately.  The catalyst for the recent change was my grandfather, Leslie Durant, passing December 14, 2004.  I simply cannot get over it.  I miss him all the time.  There appears to be no honor great enough to offer him, so I continue my Sisyphus-esque task, heaping small tribute upon small tribute, trying to create something worthy of him.

In the process, I have become profoundly sensitive to others' pain concerning death.  I cried for nearly half an hour listening to Dan Savage tell the story of his mother's passing on This American Life.  Only this morning, a NPR correspondent's tribute to her late father had me in tears getting out of the car.  The pain of losing someone to death is incomparable and universal.

And it's not so much the loss of immediate, corporeal access to loved-ones that is so gut-wrenchingly agonizing about death.  It is how pathetically most of us die.   Most of us don't go out in a blaze of glory.  We slowly slip away.  Actually, our faculties slowly abandon us.  We return to dust while we are yet living.  We have to sit patiently and watch it happen to ourselves.  The commentator this morning spoke of congratulating her father during his final years for attempting the herculean tasks of getting out of bed each morning, after he had slowly lost first the ability to speak, then hear, then walk over the previous several years.

God have mercy.  Lord have mercy.  Selah.