EDIT: I KNOW THE JARGON THAT I AM USING “INCORRECTLY” HERE. Yes, a “Quaker church” is called a meeting. The thing is, most of my readers would not understand what a meeting is. I care more about being accessible than about playing this shitty game with jargon.
Google Quaker process.
But if you aren’t a Quaker or are relatively new to Quaker jargon, the search results might be confusing and overwhelming. If you are a Quaker like me and have been trying to become a Quaker for four years, then you might cry.
Like every other organized religion and institution, Quakers have their own system, structure, and language. Quakers aren’t special because they talk in code.
Quakers, however, keep their code, structure, and system a secret. A secret cloaked in the language of inclusion and equality and welcome. If you don’t understand the system, you just aren’t trying hard enough (or so they tell me).
Leaving is hard. At least for me. Leaving a relationship. A church. A home.
Sometimes it’s not difficult. Sometimes we grow out of things and people and places. Sometimes leaving is for the better. Sometimes it feels right. Sometimes it just happens.
And other times it doesn’t.
Other times it feels like leaving might kill you.
I’m in the process of leaving. I’m leaving because I can’t stay in a place where there isn’t love for hurting people, for different people, for people who are fighting for their lives.
And the process isn’t easy or pretty or neat.
It’s messy and sad and terrible.
But it’s not as messy and sad and terrible as trying to stay in a place without love.
What if asking more questions could help you find a way to save lives? Would you do it?
What if it cost you something?
I haven’t been writing much lately.
I sometimes open up my blog and I push the “Write” button and then I sit in front of my computer and I wait. I wait as if I’m hoping someone else will show up and write the words I need to say.
But no one is going to do this work for me.
So what am I waiting for?
’m tired. Really tired.
I’m tired of helping people understand why I should be allowed to exist. I’m not supposed to say that, either. I’m supposed to be happy to do this work.
But I’m not always happy. This work is sometimes dehumanizing. It’s often exhausting.
And I keep doing it. Over and over and over again. Giving to the people who hurt me. Giving them time. Giving them energy. Giving them patience. Because what else am I going to do? This is worth it – this fight for more justice.
More people need to understand so that fewer people have to be hurt. And I’m sometimes not bad at this work. And I really do think it is worth it.
Trigger warning: rape. The National Sexual Assault Hotline is available 24/7: 1-800-656-4673
I think I’ve known for a while that this piece was coming. It seems inevitable. It’s too important.
Things are hard, but they are too important to avoid. This is a resounding cry in my life right now.
This is hard. Writing this is hard. But it is too important not to.
I was assaulted the second week of my freshman year of college.
I remember it.
I was sober. I remember what I was wearing. I remember where I was. I remember being carried by a man I didn’t know into a room. I remember saying no. I remember checking out. Counting to 50 and then counting down. Please make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.
I'm having a hard time. People won't look at me. They won't make eye contact.
The university I attend discriminates against gender and sexual minorities in its policies. My friends there have been forced to endure racism. When confronted, faculty and staff choose to turn away.
The problem is, these are people. And the "turning away" isn't a metaphor. People I’ve worked and worshiped with won't look me in the eyes. People I have known for years now turn away from me.
I'm not trying to shame anyone. I'm pointing this out because I need to see where I am situated in the system I operate in and where others are situated. This helps me understand what is happening and why.
But people I care about won't acknowledge my physical presence. And every time it happens, I feel a little more erased. A little more like I’m not supposed to be here. A little more like this is really my fault. After all, how can all of these people be wrong? It makes me wonder if I’m really a human.
Maybe my purpose was to validate, approve, and prop up others. Maybe I’m only valuable as long as I am useful. Maybe I’m not useful anymore because I am not silent.
I pride myself on my ability to remain calm under pressure. I’m generally a fairly quiet, composed person.
But some things really get me.
About a month ago I found myself lacking composure in my workplace. Fuming and crying, I sat in my office exasperated and said, “I am a real human being with feelings.”
I wonder if everyone feels the need to declare themselves a human.
I feel the need because I am treated like a token. Being treated like a token is not fun. Because a token is an object. And the people who have tokens normally get to decide what their tokens are for.
I am torn because the last six months have been really crazy. And I want to write about them. But I don’t know how to do it anymore.
I try to write about the place I find myself in right now, but each time I write a sentence and then delete it. I am so tired. I cannot defend my feelings anymore. I cannot explain all of the situations in the last 10 years or even four years or even four months or even four weeks that have helped me question my sanity. I feel like all I can do is find and hold the broken pieces of what I wanted to be. I can’t even explain what went wrong anymore. I just know that I’m holding broken things – broken pieces of something that used to be whole – and they are pointy and heavy things and my hands are bleeding.
And I am tired of making my bruises and cuts and scars teaching tools. I know it is good, but I am tired. It’s confusing and complicated. This often feels like the only way I know how to make meaning out of the pain – I want to point to the scar and say, “Look. This is real. Let’s not do this to others.” I want to point to my scars and say, “Hey, me too.”
I tell people I’ve been trying to be Quaker for about a year. I keep asking how one goes about becoming a Quaker, and people keep telling me that I just declare myself one. I think the lack of real process here has something to do with not recognizing hierarchy. It’s a nice idea, but it’s not very helpful.
I shouldn’t just get to declare myself a Quaker. That’s not how these things go. I feel like I need a long-standing, birthright Quaker to recognize me as a Quaker. Then I’ll know I’ve made it.
"You go home and you sleep well at night in your bed and you sit here in suits and talk about these things, but what are we going to do? I’ve been a refugee for 5 years. No more. What if I was your daughter? What if I was your family? What then? There is no mercy for people without legal status. There is no home for refugees.”
Today I attended the first day of my first conference for refugee week.
Check in for the conference began at 9am. I went to bed at midnight last night. I woke up at 6am. Jet lag. Oh well. It meant I had time to get coffee before the conference and made me more at ease knowing I had time to get lost.
A Quaker I admire is “Comrade” Mary Hughes. Mary was not content with the life of wealth she was born into. Giving up her comfort, but in good stewardship of her wealth and power, she lived on the streets, making people her priority, living with and for the poor.
Mary transformed an old pub into an inn for anyone and everyone who needed a place to stay. The Dew Drop Inn became a shelter and community center for the homeless and a resting place for travelers. It was almost always packed with people.
She was known for greeting everyone she met with a smile and a kind word. Mary’s life of kindness to all initially earned her a reputation for craziness, but over time her reputation changed. People knew her for her trust and for her friendship.