"You are."

Turns Out You're Responsible. Now What? A Fable in Three Parts.

A Teacher: LINDA

I only met Linda once before she died. I was visiting the Medical Respite at Pat Handy Place Shelter for Women in Washington DC which is a part of N Street Village where I am the CEO. That day as I was touring Linda was lying down on a cot and her face lit up upon seeing our staff leader Kenyatta with whom I was walking. She had known Kenyatta for years and excitedly waved us over to talk.

Linda was 48 with metastasized cancer that had invaded every part of her body. She took no steps to hide her bald head or the pregnancy-size bulge on her left hip or the special diapers that the nurse had arranged for her. I listened as she talked excitedly with Kenyatta. She wanted Kenyatta to tell stories about her daughter – does she know the alphabet? does she mind the rules? Linda smiled the whole time, watching Kenyatta like a 12-year-old watching TV. She wanted some fresh fruit, she said – Kenyatta and I offered to scout for some. Throughout, Linda was cheerful – how could that be?

I asked Linda about where she grew up. “Oh, I’m from here. I’m a Washingtonian.” (there was pride in that hometown claim), “ I was an orphan. I grew up at Children’s Village.” We talked a while more and before leaving I had one last question – “so with everything you’ve been going through who’s your main support right now?”

Linda drew her head back and narrowed her eyes – a look that clearly suggested I was none too swift: “You are.” she said. 

YOU ARE.

I may have only had one class with Teacher Linda, but I learned my lesson.

A Father: TOM

I have wanted to write the following story about as much as I wanted it to happen in the first place. That is – not much. But it’s an insistent little tale – it hasn’t left me alone for 32 years - tugging like an angry tantrum on my pant-leg. So, here goes:

I was in front of the nurse's station in the the middle of a dull hallway at NYU hospital scream-craying at the top-of-my-lungs- while also laser-staring several stunned nurses, one doctor, and two wheelchair occupants - one amused, one comatose. On that date - summer 1989 sometime - I would have been only 22 years old.

(There could be several reasons for the staff’s alarm in that moment: a) I’m positive I was wearing a worn-out colorless tank top, baggy jeans and Birkenstocks – hardly a good look, but it was my uniform back then, and b) earlier that week I had let my friend Kristen bleach my hair. Picture a ripe banana and you’ve got the color in mind. I was an amalgam of Carmen Miranda and a teenage tomboy Jodie Foster.)

I had come over to the nurse’s station from the “semi-hospital” where they had put us and I was yelling because they got it wrong. My father was up in room whatever-the-fuck- burning up and gasping for air. They were WRONG that morning at triage when they said he was well enough for me to be his caretaker in this “semi-thing” where’s there’s no real help. They were WRONG to make us wait the fourteen hours it took us to even get in there and they were WRONG to think that I know what to do when my father is dying ... Goddammit. I ended my tirade in a scratchy-yell voice with a sheet of hot tears across my face. Two nurses followed me back to the semi-thing and of course my father was taken to ICU (clearly it did NOT take a rocket scientist nor apparently even a nurse to accurately assess this situation). He had - not surprisingly - a recurrence of pneumocystis pneumonia which was not uncommon with AIDS.

That night the nurses gave me anything I wanted. They let me stay the whole night. When they came with the cloths and the cooling bath they asked if I wanted to help wash the body down as we tried to get the fever away. Another one brought me apple juice when she changed his IV. These were the tiniest mercies, but they shook the earth beneath me with their balm of seismic kindness. 

There have been times in my life when a “YOU ARE responsible” moment has been exhilarating or compelling. The above wasn’t one of them. That 22-year-old moment was unwanted and fearful and sad. But it had to be done. By me. And by millions of others.

Oh, I’m no saint - God knows there have been plenty of times when I haven’t answered the call. But that time I did. And I look back in my memory with admiration for that young woman who seems only slightly like “me.” There she was - so beyond her range and yet so fueled by a core of righteous fire-y anger that she hurled both herself and her father out of the void and towards safety. And – it worked, in its way. Though he would die less than six months later, my father didn’t die that night.

(Thank you for listening to that story.) (a.k.a. Phew! Jesus, glad that’s over. All told. Feel better. You?)

YOU

In a recent public forum about poverty in our city I stated my belief that the most significant effect of Coronavirus will be the glaring x-ray of our social inequities which it will force us to see. Black and Brown Americans are already bearing the disproportionate effect of the pandemic in: the number of deaths, the number of workers in high exposure-risk low-paying jobs; limitations and discrimination in access to the healthcare system; greater numbers being driven into basic poverty and / or its deeper variants. If we thought we were tackling inequality before this viral tide rolled in, I fear we’ll find a much more troubling scene when the tide rolls out.

In that public conversation I was asked who I thought were the most important leaders to guide us in implementation of effective models. Good question but I fumbled around for a while, stuck on the notion of public figures until I realized what I wanted to say:

Who are the most important leaders in fighting racial and economic inequality? You are.

Why? Because this is a Movement issue not a “model” issue. We know what works – we need more action in getting from here to there.

Because here’s what I learned above Movements vs. models in the prior fable: When someone’s burning with fever (African Americans are already three times as likely to know someone who has died of COVID) and gasping for air (demand for free food has quadrupled since the start of the COVID crisis) run to the nearest nurse’s station without a plan and start screaming. You might get help (and at least you’ll amuse the guy in the wheelchair).

And though I’m no saint (as I mentioned above and as measurable by conversations with old friends whose phone numbers you’ll never get), permit me a moment of public pressure: I live in a bubble of people who generally long for a better world – many of whom are already active in its pursuit. But I also hear many people with a form of paralysis or disorientation. I often hear sentences that begin “when are we going to…?!” or “when are they going to…?!” And I have to ask us all: who is the ‘they’? Who is the ‘we’?

You are.

So if indeed you are responsible for action in this moment, what can you possibly do?

• Make sure all of your friends and acquaintances know what you care about and why.
• Ensure the basic civic engagement of yourself, your family, friends and neighbors. Is everyone voting? Even for local Council seats? Is the family encouraging that bright 29-year-old niece to run for office?
• Are there people who work in your neighborhood but can’t afford to live there? Why? Start a local conversation.
• Work with your local government on legislation that incentivizes inclusive zoning laws and affordable housing development in integrated neighborhoods.
• Read my 10-year-old friend Sophia’s new book of Adventures in Kindness to your children or grandchildren and start your own parent-child social justice adventure.
• Or read: White Fragility, Tears We Cannot Stop, The Color of Law.
• Or read anything by Ta-Nehisi Coates. Talk about what you read with someone. Discuss the concept of ‘reparations.”
• Ready for a spiritual listen? The Reverend Angel kyodo Williams paints a picture of hope and struggle for racial reconciliation.
• Do you belong to a synagogue or church or other? Can you join or elevate the social justice conversation in one of these communities?
• Plan a group discussion on the topic of poverty – use a book or an article – get ten friends to join you and have them each commit to bringing three friends next time.
• Volunteer and Donate to organizations providing for the basic needs of those marginalized in or near your community.[i]
• Join the Board of an organization doing work that you want to invest in.
• Join my friend Tim Shriver in the newly launched Unite.us.
• Ask your friends over dinner or your colleagues over lunch: “Are charity and justice related?” “Why is poverty a problem for those who aren’t poor?” “Is race related to poverty and how so?”
• If you’re white ask yourself how you can be an effective white ally? Talk with your white friends about how they think about this. Talk with your Black friends about how they think about about this.
• Take the widely-used Harvard led Implicit Bias Test online and learn your “scores.” What do they mean to you? Share the test with someone else and invite them to take it and talk about it with you.
• Do have a friend who is a housing owner/developer? If so, are they familiar with programs to help landlords mitigate risk when renting to formerly homeless residents with public vouchers?
• (and whatever else you can think of to scream-cry at the nurse’s station).

This is the recipe for a MOVEMENT. I could be wrong (or I could be Bruce Springsteen) but you can’t start a fire without a spark.

Who is the spark now? You Are.

(And I promise that no matter what happens - even if death happens - we’ll be glad for what we did to raise the alarm, and someone like a nurse will be kind and bring us apple juice.)

May we work for a world where justice is the coin of our realm,

compassion is our exchange market,

love is our currency,

and equity is our dividend.

[i]Please note that many organizations like N Street Village and others are unable to use most volunteers during COVID19. We will return to routine need for many volunteers as the crisis resolves. In the meantime, please see our website for ways that you can still get involved.