Whatever you want to call it

We live in perilous times, though probably not much different than any other time. In the news, on the television, and on our smart phones there it is. Tales of suffering and woe, tragedy and loss. Though there are numerous and plentiful stories of miracles, or heroic efforts, or heartwarming acts, the losses are there. They are global, they are country specific, they are community laden, and then they are personal.  From around the world to my back yard.

There are numerous attributions. Beyond our control. Acts of God. Willful theft. Some with no one to blame. Some intentional. Some careless.

A loss to people and property and lives these days are the stories in Oklahoma with the myriad of tornadoes that have touched land and life.

Losses of immeasurable sorts go back to the days of Jim Crow when lynching was upon the land. People and groups took what was not theirs to take, lives of people. Striking fear in the heart of people of color who did not know who or whose would be next. In Hale's work, Making Whiteness: The culture of segregation in the South, 1890-1940, it was public theater. People came and watched and even left with souvenirs.

I cannot use that word, lynching, because it is not a part of the culture of my people, though it is a part of the stories of people for whom I care deeply and with whom I have worked since the early to mid-90s.   I do recall an African American professor who described theft of her original work on Emett Till as a lynching. Another  African American professional in the midst of social and organizational mistreatment called it a lynching. Genocidal.

Trail of Tears is another story or set of stories of loss, and again, not my story, but stories of people for whom I care deeply and with whom I have worked since 2008. Loss of land, culture, language, and identity. Perilous losses.  A blight on the history of this land. Genocidal. 

My personal story of loss pales by comparison. A bi-cultural team, a bi-cultural group with their stories of suffering and loss, and academically fine-tuned processes for the social sciences. Agreements to honor their stories confidentially bound to specific names. Agreement to coauthor. Materials written by me, then written by me for a group, and then with no advanced warning, out in the public domain with no attribution to the writer/s and group participants. The work of a group appropriated or rather mis-appropriated by one. The ironies are striking. I still have the original documents. Who did what is very clear. Professionals still wonder as to how and why it all spun out this way. Frankly, I do as well. 

I still recall the day when upon reading a published piece, I thought, "that reads like something I would write." True enough.  There it was.

From there, relationships lost, vilification and other things. Lessons learned, and some relearned: I exist in an institution only insofar as I help to perpetuate that institution's ideals, sometimes we vilify the whistle blower, ethical codes contain both aspirational and enforceable aspects of professional life, justification does not make right, and among other things, the one who has lost something has to decide what to hold on to and what to let go of. I do, though, ponder what goes on the head of the justifier and the protected.

I will spend some time over the next few days with those who have lost much. I will also spend time with those who have spent time with those who have lost much. My losses are minimal compared to those who have lost much if not all: my African American friends' ancestors, my American Indian friends' ancestors, my employees' friends', and the citizens of this state and others.

I will still advocate for those who have lost their lands by various and sundry egregious means. I will still advocate for those whose land, identity, culture, and language were taken from them. I will still advocate for righteousness in all of our dealings.

May God have mercy on us all.