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Try a Little Empathy (on teaching children about poverty)

Bolivian children

Bolivian children spend their days outside. Photo: ©2011 Matthew Paul Turner/World Vision

My children were born into a life of stability, not poverty. We’ve had seasons where we had to watch our spending very closely, but they don’t know what it’s like to live day to day or hour-by-hour, which is a beautiful thing.

But it also means that our selfishness is powerful. As parents, we need to teach our kids how to weaken their selfishness. By learning to expand their field of vision to include others, empathize, and then both recognize and shoulder the responsibility that accompanies a life of stability, they can help others who lack it.

We can’t (and probably shouldn’t) completely kill selfishness—it’s a survival skill deeply embedded in our DNA. But we can redefine what serves ourselves to include the thriving of all humans, not just us.

Read the rest at the World Vision blog, where I’m guest-posting today. (comments closed here)

What Does Wielding My White Privilege for Good Look Like?

Joy with her sign at a Trump protest March 2016

I know that I am privileged. (This is a very interesting survey to explore how privileged you may be. I got a 64 out of 100.)

I know that in spite of my concerted efforts to listen, learn, and look, I still have massive blind spots, unidentified biases, and gaps in my education and understanding.

I also know that many people in my circle need to make their own concerted efforts to find, acknowledge, and confront their biases.

I hear (and agree) from my minority friends and thought leaders that as such, I have a responsibility to speak to/teach the people in my circle.

I also know from years of relationship with them that many of these people are firmly entrenched in their mindset. Some are family members, some are church family members. I often overhear conversations in which individuals state some variant of “If he/she cooperated, they’d still be alive” or “Affirmative action is racism against whites” or “Women can’t lead because they let their emotions get the best of them.”

I have family and friends who are in the military, the police force, and other related organizations. They are quick to defend these organizations and the individuals within. Of course. It is their career, or their husband’s/father’s/sister’s/wife’s that we’re talking about.

I get it. It’s scary to acknowledge the crack in the armor. What if the crack keeps cracking open wider and wider? What if it all falls apart? Getting anywhere close to asking yourself “If I’m wrong about this, what else am I wrong about?” is too much for most of us.

So, when those conversations take place in my hearing, often I stay quiet. I don’t contradict or question or challenge. Often, I leave altogether.

I stay quiet because I don’t believe they will change.

I stay quiet because it’s taken me 20-25 years to break down the bigoted ideas I had to the point where I am now, I know it takes time and courage and more time. I’ve been there. Until you find another life line to anchor everything to (mine is “love wins”), this is the most terrifying experience in life. And I’m afraid that any move I make could add to the terror, not help stabilize.

I stay quiet because I know that pushing too hard can cause people to dig in deeper, harder, more stubborn. When people push me, I immediately resist.

I stay quiet because I believe that my energies are best focused on younger, more malleable people.

I stay quiet because this is someone I care about. This is my family/friend/neighbor/etc and I don’t want to create drama or “borrow trouble” (which is something I constantly tell my kids to avoid).

I stay quiet because I think it might work better for us to outlive the bigoted baby boomers and baby busters. Because I think it’s far more likely that we can make change with my generation and younger. Because I have no hope.

Maybe these are excuses. Maybe I stay quiet because I’m a coward.

buttons on Joy's backpack

I don’t LIVE quiet.

I am not secretive about what I believe.

I do what I can with my privilege to elevate other voices and open doors for them. I’m trying to live this, walk this out in my everyday life. I’m trying to show, not tell (one of the cardinal rules of writing).

Is that enough?

How do we DO this? How do I actually and effectively engage bigoted and willfully closed-minded thinking within the context of the relationships I have? How do I push just enough to be heard but not so hard that they slam the door in my face and move deeper into bigotry?

 

P.S. Hi. I’m back, at least for now. I have no idea how often I will write, or where this blog may go. But what’s happening in the United States right now is too important not to engage. I have this, so I’m using it.

Closing time

Closed sign
I don’t know what I thought would happen at the end, exactly, when I started this in a little place on Blogger more than 10 years ago. I didn’t think about ending at all.

I’ve been blogging for TEN YEARS, y’all.

Back in 2004/2005, I desperately needed to connect with people, and with myself. Our oldest daughter was critically ill, in and out of the hospital so often I kept a bag packed by the door. The only people I saw any given week were hospital staff, either at clinics or therapy appointments or maybe in my living room if they came for a home visit. We tried to make it to church On Sunday. That was it.

I felt isolated, alone, and rather freakish. We were dealing with things like feeding tubes and heart arrhythmias, seizures and occupational therapy, IEPs and wheelchairs. No one else I knew had any of that in their vocabulary.

The blog gave me a place to process this unexpected parenting journey. The act of writing helps me organize my thoughts and corral the worst case scenarios I concocted with such ease. And I found friends in a space where we could meet and encourage each other without having to coordinate schedules and worry about babysitters, or you know, put makeup and clean clothes on.

This blog has been invaluable. It introduced me to some of my best friends and served as therapy as I worked through the most challenging and painful years of my life (thus far – please God don’t let it get worse).

As my writing changed and developed here, it gave me new writing opportunities, and eventually paid ones. Without this blog, I wouldn’t have become a contributing writer at A Deeper Story, encountered the work of World Vision in Bolivia and Sri Lanka, or become a child sponsor. I wouldn’t have met the person who knew the person who hired me at Feed the Children or had the opportunity to become a manager and leader in the workplace.

Scott used to ask me, back when this blog was the crux of a huge power struggle at a former church (the pastor thought he had the authority to tell me what I could and could not write here on my personal blog), how long was I going to keep this up? When would I be done?

I had no answer back then. I just knew that I wasn’t done yet.

I needed to grow up more. I need to make it through a traumatic transition and settle into the next phase. I needed to wrestle in a personal way with what it means to live with integrity, follow my convictions, promote peace, feed healthy relationships, and protect the privacy of my family and myself. I needed to experiment, take risks, make mistakes, and see for myself how it played out.

Those few of you remaining loyal readers (you are the BEST) may have noticed that I have only posted here once a month or so for the last two years. I think I needed to go dormant for awhile to ease into the idea that it might be done. That I might not be a blogger anymore. That I might need to take my energy and passion into a new arena.

I’m finally there. Not that I know for sure what I’m doing. Hah! That, I’m beginning to think, is a pipe dream. But I’m finally ready to turn out the lights, lock the door, and close the blog for good.

For the first time, the idea of doing so is not terrifying or unthinkable. I realized this week that closing the blog will be a relief.

I’m taking down my posts in the next week, saving them for my own reference later, and deleting the Facebook page.

Who knows? Maybe in another ten years, I will finally have a book to share with you. I do know this: I won’t stop writing. I can’t — it’s who I am. I just won’t be doing so here.

So, for now, this is goodbye. I wish you the very best.