Posts from — March 2010

I’ve been tossing a theory around for a while about emotional violence, the sources of it, and what it does to our interactions with each other as individuals and as members of groups.  Here’s how it goes:

We commit emotional violence on each other all the time.

We do it because we’re suffering from mass Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Which causes us to use power-structures to marginalize each other.

The next few posts will be about these topics.  Let me know what you think.

A few years ago, Willamette University invited me to speak at a MLK day luncheon.  They showed a segment of the “Eyes on the Prize” series that discussed the Selma to Montgomery marches, and then a few of us spoke about the state of civil rights for certain communities.  I was there to speak about GLBT rights.  As I put together my thoughts for the talk, I found myself contemplating the violence faced by previous generations of those fighting for civil rights, the non-violence movement, and how fortunate I was to be an activist in a different time.  That night, after a keynote address by one of Dr. King’s associates who had been on the march from Selma to Montgomery, I sat in a room with him and others.  We talked about what it was like to march.  What it was like to see people beaten down.  To see them killed.  And we talked about the work that was left to do.

As I sat in the little room, surrounded by activists, and idealists, I felt a great urgency to understand.  I needed to know everything I could about what we’d done to each other in the past so that we wouldn’t repeat it again.  I started thinking about what it would be like to be turned back by fire hoses and billy clubs.  And I realized that it is very unlikely that my generation will face these things the way my parent’s generation did (at least in the US).  I know there are occasional riots.  I know that protesters are still beaten back.  But as I sat in the little room it dawned on me that we will face something different, something we might never see.

When this hit me, I was terribly frightened for a moment and asked the question: “Is it going to take an act of great violence to move us to the next level?  Is that what it will take?  Does someone have to die before we realize that there is violence taking place?”  Because when there is violence at the level that was common in the south in the 60s, there is no denying it.  A non-violent movement makes sense in the context of violence.  You can make a choice, treat each other with violence, or not.

But when the violence is different, when it’s quiet and invisible, it’s hard to see why we would need non-violence.  The choice seems un-necessary.  Who needs to commit themselves to a life of non-violence when there is no violence?

But what if there is violence, only it looks different?  What happens when the violence isn’t visible the way we expect it to be?

Because that’s what I think we are facing right now.  Rampant emotional violence.  No, we’re not beating each other in the street because our skin color is different.  We’re beating each other every day at work.  Every day on television, every day in our cars, and when we call someone up to talk about the neighbors.

We commit violence on each other over and over as we buy into the power-structures that were set in place for us.  We commit violence on each other when we use labels, and make someone an “other”.  We take away bits of each other so that we can feel okay about the violence.  We make each other less human.  We call someone an idiot because they have different political views than we do.  They’re a freak, or a zealot, instead of someone with a different perspective, a different background.  So it’s okay if we don’t want to understand them.  Because they’re less than human.  Because they’re “other”.

We call someone an asshole because he cut us off in traffic.  And we commit violence on ourselves when we do this too.  Because next time we cut someone off in traffic, we’re suddenly an asshole, instead of someone who was tired, or didn’t see the other car, or just misjudged the speed.  Every time we make a mistake, we become that other person who we judged.  In that way, every time we take away a piece of someone else’s humanity, we make ourselves less human, too.

And that’s violence.

As I sat in the little room I thought about what it would mean to commit myself to a life of non-violence.  I won’t have to give up bar fights.  I won’t likely have to go to jail for it, or to march to the sea.   But in every interaction with another human being, I have to ask myself if I’m seeing them as “other” than me, or somehow less than human.  Every time someone starts talking about the neighbors, I have to decide whether to join in, or sit out and risk being talked about.

And that’s hard.  You know why?  High school.  Yup.  High school.  More on that tomorrow.

I find it pretty amazing how the way I feel about myself colors the way I feel about the world.  And sometimes the other way around.  For example:

When I went to Hawaii a month or so ago, I wasn’t feeling too great about my physical self.  I really do like almost everything about my body (I know, that’s a big statement.  It’s taken me a while to feel that way), but I go through cycles where I’m more content or less content with the way I feel about my physical fitness.  When I got to the island for the three week stay, I was already three weeks into the resumption of my workout routine.  Typically, it takes six weeks for me to see a difference once I start working out, so I was pretty sure I’d be feeling good by the time I left the island…as long as I kept working out.

I was feeling the effect of two months of over-eating in Italy.  And while I walked a crap-ton, I didn’t do a lot of cardio or weight training.  Things had shifted around in a way that made me uncomfortable in my skin, so I was committed to getting back to a place where I was happy chillin’ in a bikini.

So I started working out.

The condos had a decent gym, so I took advantage of the fact that my body was still on Pacific Standard Time, and got up early every morning to hit the elliptical for a good workout and then fell into my weight-training routine from college, something I’m super-happy to have in my memory bank.

It took about a week to see a change in the way I was feeling.  This was interesting, because it should have taken at least three to see an actual, physical difference.  I’m not sure my body changed much in the first week I spent in the gym, but the way I saw my body sure did.  I expected this to happen at some point.  I’ve gone through enough of these cycles to know how it works, but this time it was pretty dramatic.  It might have been due to the fact that I was also spending a fair amount of time in the sun, or the fact that I was texting non-stop with a beautiful woman.  It’s hard to say, really, but at the end of the first week, I felt good.  Really good.

I was excited to put on the bikini to go to the beach.  I stopped trying to hide the parts of me that I was least happy with.  I laughed, met people’s eyes, and even smiled at the super-cute lifeguard at the beach.  I took time for myself, thought through the next steps in my life, and felt generally excited about being me.  Not because I looked any different, but because I saw myself differently.  I saw the beauty above all else.

And here’s what I noticed:

People were beautiful.  I mean really beautiful.

I even turned to my mom at one point and said, “You ever notice how when you think you’re beautiful, everyone else is beautiful?”  And it’s true.  When things are working right for me, I project beauty out into the world, seeing everyone at their best, because I see myself at my best.

***

I’m back from the trip, and I’m in better shape now that I was when I started.  I’m still working out.  I look great.  But I’m not in the sun anymore.  And there aren’t texts from a beautiful woman anymore.  And I’ve been less sure of the next steps in my life.  And here’s what I’m noticing:

I forget that I’m beautiful.

It’s not just about physical beauty.  That part’s easier.  I forget about my inner beauty.

But I understand when other people aren’t at their best.  I give them a break.  When they cut me off in traffic, or say something mean, or just act like they don’t care about what they’re doing, I understand.  They forget that they’re beautiful, too.

I know how that feels, so I’m able to see it, and to have empathy.  For them.  But I’ve had a hard time when it comes to me.  I’ve beat myself up for not seeing the beauty in me, and then for beating myself up.  I’ve beat myself up for not having empathy for myself.  It’s a vicious cycle, really.

But what I do have is fantastic friends.  People who see the beauty in me even when I’ve forgotten.  The ones who give me a break when I cut them off in traffic, say something mean, or just act like I don’t care. They’re the people who have empathy for me.

So I think maybe, if I can see myself as a good friend, as someone who I care about, who has just forgotten how beautiful they are, I’ll be able to have a little empathy.  And to give myself a break.  And isn’t that all we really need?  To be our own friend?  To give ourselves a break?  To see how beautiful we are, so that we can see the beauty in others?  I think yes.

I realized that I would have to shed a few things when I decided to change my life. House, job, relationship. In honesty, I might not have had to shed any of them to go traveling short-term, and they weren’t all directly related to each other. The relationship was only temporally related; the house and job seemed like a good idea to let go of as I ventured out. And while I realized I was making an intentional decision to live the next part of my life a certain way, I’m not sure I fully realized that what I was actually doing was making a decision to live the rest of my life in an intentional way. It’s really only upon my return from the first leap that I’ve realized this. And that I’ve started to go about the work of embracing it.

There’s something that happens in situations where a person is being programmed. It happens slowly in the course of our lives, over years as people and situations shape us into the people we are. But it happens more quickly in intense situations where the programming is intentional. Take the military, for example, or a gang – or a cult. People enter with all of the pieces of their lives that they’ve accumulated, the preconceptions, the social and political views, the masks and games and walls that they use. They are stripped of all of this, as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Their relationships are removed, their possessions stripped, they leave their homes and enter into a new society, a new family, where, after being torn down, they are built back up. They’re taught to speak a new language, and to interact in a specific way, using a distinct thought process.

It’s a lot like law school, actually.

When I entered law school, it was like I had found a refuge. I didn’t need to be torn down or reprogrammed, because I was already using the language, thought process, and methods of social interaction that are cultivated in law school. Don’t get me wrong, this didn’t make me a great lawyer, but it did make me a great law student. While other students were dealing with being torn down by the process, I was able to put that part aside and focus on the studying. No tear-down needed. But the process of law school, and bar exam is, in my humble opinion, a professional example of the programming that happens in gang and cult situations. It’s just one we idealize.

So, anyway, I didn’t really go through that in law school. I watched it though. And when I decided to take a leap and shift into a new life, I didn’t fully realize that I would be entering a tear-down, build-up cycle. But oh, honey, have I ever.

I’ve talked about removing my home from my life, and the sense of freedom and groundlessness that has evoked.

I’ve talked about leaving a long-term relationship and embracing the friendship that remains.

I’ve talked about leaving a job that brought stability but great discontentment.

I’ve talked about abandoning the language; the words and humor that I use as both sword and shield in my life.

I’m not sure I’ve talked about the cumulative effect, however. There seem to be some people who think that my journey is something to be idealized – like law school. So I’d like to set the record straight. It’s a journey that I am glad of, but not one I would recommend to everyone.

Imagine selling your home and quitting your job to pursue your dream; discovering that you would like to have a home again – and then finding that you can’t get a mortgage because you’ve left your job to pursue your dream.

Imagine getting yourself into the best physical shape of your life – and then finding out that you’re not insurable.

Imagine discovering that you would like to share your life with someone, then finding someone who feels like they fit into your life – and then having the whole thing crumble in your hands.

Imagine experiencing all of this in the course of a few months – repeatedly.

It’s like believing that you’ve found a real answer to the great questions you’ve been asking yourself – and then discovering the “answer” is really a punch line to a joke you haven’t even heard.

Then imagine knowing that you have to let go of it all. Of the desires, and the expectations, and the judgments, and the results. That everything you have been programmed with needs to fall away, so that you can start again, this time with intention.

It’s hard.

I realized this week that I’ve spent the last 8 months in a period of intensive tear-down, pulling at the strings of the tapestry I’ve woven. The pretty pictures that I show the world, and myself. It seems like at this point it should be pretty completely deconstructed, but every so often I have an experience that slams me against the wall and seems to shout at me in loving tones, “no, my child, you haven’t quite gotten it yet.”

And that’s where I find myself now. On the down-stroke of a difficult lesson. One I know I need to learn if I am to move forward. One that I thought I’d already learned. And one that makes me seriously wonder what is left to deconstruct. What part of my foundation have I failed to shake. Because every time I start to rebuild myself, to look at the ways that I can move from tear-down to build-up, it seems there are a few more threads that need to be pulled, and vast areas of tapestry still intact, hiding the parts that I didn’t even know were there.

So I lean into the hurt, pulling gently at the threads while part of me clings to them, trying to salvage the parts that are authentic, and working to let go of the judgment that rises up within me every time I find another thread.  Because when I finally enter the rebuilding, I want to know that what I build will be solid.  That I’ve shaken all I can out of the foundation, so that next time maybe I won’t have to dig so deep.

Because there’s another where that the tear-down, build-up cycle is used – abuse.  And I wonder, at what point does the tear-down move from self-growth to self-abuse?  How deep is too deep?  (I know, it all still sounds so glamorous and self-indulgent.)

Even then, I’m not sure I know how to rebuild. I’m pretty sure it has to do with listening to the little voice. Hearing it, and listening to it. Nurturing it until it becomes not just a little voice, but a clear, respected rudder. I know the rebuild won’t be easy, necessarily, but I think I’d like to get to that phase now, because the tear-down is just hard.