[Lace on Race Admin Staff]

Relatively recently Lace spoke powerfully and intimately about the continuity of the Civil Rights movement that began in King’s time and continues. Please reread and reengage in the spirit of acknowledging this ongoing work.

https://laceonrace.com/2020/11/15/sometimes-tears-are-the-work/

Sometimes Tears Are the Work

Discussion

[Deleted User]

So I listened to James Cones’ address linked just below this on our Martin Luther King Jr. tribute page and among my notes from that, I paraphrase, Cone’s fear was “not to be worthy of the life that the suffering of my ancestors made possible for me….”

I hear echos of that in this offering, the weight and import of legacy, the inspiration and reinforcement it provides the resiliency it models and demands if the work is to continue.

There is nothing in my history that comes even close to this—living under the personal responsibility and rugged individualism that whiteness inculcates and reinforces has the effect of erasing and denying this part of legacy, even while continuing to live out of and cooperate with the tenets it installs.

These deep and acknowledged connections with those who have gone before, whether decades or centuries, is deeply moving. Again back to Cone in his reference to the tragic joy of the Black experience. Tragic joy is what I hear in Lace’s reflection, and while the depth of the tradjedy and the height of the joy is not fully accessible to me, it still is deeply moving. And taking time to stop and reflect, to weep and moan, is not a carve out from the work–it is part of the work, forging connection across time and distance with both those who have gone before and those who are currently engaged in the struggle.

I cannot access this part of the work at all, but I can come alongside and be a soft place to stand and continue to pursue the NorthStar more faithfully, with and urgency that matches the need.

[Amanda Swartfager]

“I cannot access this part of the work at all.” How true that is. I must be diligent to remind myself of that. I think there is a way to be empathetic and offer support without claiming pain that isn’t mine.

[Rebecca McClinton]

Such a tender and powerful reflection that holds me accountable to many things: (a) my tears…when I cry to what end am I doing so? Too often it’s because I’m thinking about my own pain and hurt, not in recognition of the despair myself and my ancestry has caused. (b) resiliency and resolve. What I consider resolve and resiliency inside myself too easily still focuses on narratives of ‘good enough’. (c) legacy…how there’s limited legacy in my family of actively working to move the stone of racial justice, and my responsibility to influence changing that. (d) gratitude. I hear in Lace’s words the deep gratitude she holds for the endurance of the women in her family, for Dr. King. It’s externally focused gratitude, not internally/what’s in it for me gratitude that white people like me tend towards.

[Amanda Swartfager]

The focus of grief, as well as gratitude, is so important. It’s not something I’ve considered much beyond this post and I will be mindful of this going forward.

[Emily Holzknecht]

I agree that the combination of grief with gratitude is significant and all of it rooted in legacy.

[Amanda Swartfager]

The words, “I have not thought my pain was worth a pause,” hit hard because the work and the pain are created by white supremacy and perpetuated by people like me. It stood out to me that Lace spoke about how her family was both proud and scared for her as she pushed through the white supremacist walls of education. I haven’t had to experience anything like what she is describing here, and I have always felt free to express my emotions, not as part of the work of honoring humanity, but often as force of manipulation.

[Emily Holzknecht]

White people like us caused both the pain and the feeling of unworthiness of taking a moment for that pain. That hits hard for sure.

[Emily Holzknecht]

This significant pause that Lace writes of where she could be in such strong connection with Lacie Mae and Bobbye Jean and all the centuries of other Black women… Lace didn’t choose it, but it really emphasizes the importance of not separating striving for a racially just future from the 400 year old movement in the United States and all the named and unnamed Black people who have been part of it. If there were some way to artificially separate the struggle now from the historic struggle, Lace would have been alone with her temporary impotence and her painful swollen eye. I am so thankful that she was with Lacie Mae and Bobbye Jean and all those other women when feeling helpless during the most important election of her life. It is all too much to carry alone.

As a white woman, tears are very different for me than for Lace. While Lace’s tears could potentially be weaponized against her, mine are more likely to be a weapon turned against others. I am thinking of Dr West’s video too and where he talks about how tears, brokenness and woundedness can lead to durable love as well as Lace’s question that goes with it about “Have you cried regarding race? Impotent tears or galvanizing tears?” I hope I am able to access those galvanizing tears regarding race some day.

[Kelsi Watters]

Tears are going to come out one way or another, as Lace said. As a white woman, I recognize that I have the privilege to express my tears however and whenever I choose, and I have the luxury of taking time to reflect and process whatever is causing the river to flow. However, black women often don’t have that luxury. Instead, they just keep holding back the tears, internalizing, or the tears come out as illness when the body protests. What if white people, myself included, were committed to growing more reliable and resilient shoulders, while also being a soft place to land? Would this allow black women the “luxury” (or rather, the basic human right) to let the river of tears flow as they need ⠞⠕⠦

[Julia Tayler]

I read this when Lace originally posted it but I’m glad it was reposted now. I’ve heard the saying about how your body talks to you. I’ve had it happen too. First a whisper- then a warning- then you have to listen. I think we ww are so ready to give in and carve out. Life is always hectic and unpredictable. We have to learn resilience. Fast. I’ve been giving myself carve outs. It’s not who I want to be. Keep walking forward. That’s for me. Thank you Lace.

[Kelsi Watters]

I read this the first time it was posted. I do not recall my response, or if I was one of the people who gave you a carve out, Lace, and tried to excuse you from “being the person you have worked so hard to be”. I realize that doing so is discounting the challenges that you go through daily, failing to honor your core values, and demonstrates my own unwillingness to abide with you in your pain. It makes me think of how, in this culture, we often do not know how to abide with others in deep grief or pain – especially when it makes us uncomfortable. We want to “help” or “fix” the one who is going through the pain, rather than walking with them in the dark place. While it is true that I cannot access the deepest part of the journey of Lace and other black women, I can offer to be a companion, to walk with you and abide with you, to be simultaneously a soft place to land and a strong shoulder of relentless, reliable support. You, Lace, and black women everywhere, have had to have big, strong shoulders for so long. As you said, you have had to keep pushing shoulder to stone, even when your shoulders were bruised and weary, because, for 400 years, our predominantly white society has sent you the message that your tears and your pain and your need to rest your aching shoulders are not worth a pause. Well, it’s time that we white folks grow up, strengthen our spines and grow bigger shoulders to carry the load you have carried for so long; to push shoulder to stone with you, if we say we are with you. If I am truly with you, then instead of trying to give you a carve-out or discourage you from the ethos and praxis that means so much to you, I can only truly abide with you if I instead grow bigger shoulders and a stronger back, and carry some of the weight so that you can take the pause you need. Maybe, if I and other white women would commit to carrying more of the load, and being more relentlessly reliable, there would be more space for black women to take pause, abide with one another in their deep, centuries-old grief and joy, to be fully present with themselves and one another.

[Author]

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