Beyond Righteousness: I Don’t Need to Be Right, I Want to Be Together
Reflections on Election Day
I’ve been feeling so much anger — the kind that’s not just righteous but also destructive. You know, the “burn it all down” kind of anger, “I hate everything and everyone” kind of anger, the kind that’s all consuming but not always precise.
What is it trying to tell me?
I’m scared. No, not about the election. I know all about them already. I’ve been studying and fighting them all my life. But this kind of rupture, division, judgment among us? This eerie sense of disconnection, distrust, and misalignment? It feels different this time. It feels deep rooted and unforgettable. God damn it, there’s been so much fucking yelling.
Watching those I admire throw condescension at each other with all their impeccable words and searing analyses; watching how viciously some people are coming for the throat of anyone who is refusing to be coerced into their version of “democracy”; watching — in disbelief — how some have the gall to scold those facing real-time annihilation for “not being strategic”; and watching me make snarky, judgmental comments at people who are undoubtedly frightened too, and refusing to engage with their wounded parts. It’s been a lot y’all.
When I tune into my own fears, it’s not hard to see that we’re all terrified. Each of us trying to escape our own worst nightmare, often forgetting they’re all connected.
When I tune into my own fears, it’s not hard to see that we’re all terrified. Each of us trying to escape our own worst nightmare, often forgetting they’re all connected.
When we feel cornered, when the pain and fear grab hold of us, we reach for things that we believe will keep us safe. We know this. For some it’s the election, for others it’s withdrawing. For some it’s nailing down a scapegoat, for others it’s endless self-shaming. For some it’s hyper-vigilance, for others it’s sharp judgment and critique. But I know none of these things keeps me safe. No amount of critique or analyses keeps me safe or in community.
I don’t need to be right. I want to be together.
And I’m scared too many of us have become so traumatized by this time that we might never come back to one another.
I’m terrified because the only thing that’s ever given me hope in my life is community. Communities made up of people who keep their hearts wide open to feel, who try in earnest to hold themselves accountable, who show grace when people disappoint. People who make you feel safe enough to try, and people who love you enough to correct you. People who make you want to move together — because, at the end of the day, we’re all we’ve got.
There is a whole lot of mending to do, a whole lot of trust to rebuild.
I can only hope most of us are willing to try.
Regardless of what happens today, here’s what I’m committed to:
I’m committed to understanding my wounds and fears, and discerning how they show up in ways that keep me safe or seek to destroy — my humanity and yours. I’m committed to showing up with grace whenever I can, and being honest when I can’t. I’m committed to nurturing our collective sturdiness and softness. I’m committed to speaking truth to power, especially when I know it will cost me something. I’m committed to a free Palestine, and ensuring no one who’s been boldly condemning genocide takes the blame for whatever happens in this election. I’m committed to our collective liberation, which begins with acknowledging who has already been cast out of the “collective” and practicing accountability.
This week I’m tending to the rawest parts of me, so I can show up more centered and expansive. I’m surrounding myself with people who make me feel seen and less alone. I sincerely hope you will do the same.
Stop holding your breath. Let it out and be in touch with your softness.
What do you long for?
What are you committed to?
Whatever comes next, I’m right here with you.
Let’s move through it together.
Michelle MiJung Kim
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“A Few Rules For Predicting The Future” By Octavia Butler
“SO DO YOU REALLY believe that in the future we’re going to have the kind of trouble you write about in your books?” a student asked me as I was signing books after a talk. The young man was referring to the troubles I’d described in Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents, novels that take place in a near future of increasing drug addiction and illiteracy, marked by the popularity of prisons and the unpopularity of public schools, the vast and growing gap between the rich and everyone else, and the whole nasty family of problems brought on by global warming.
“I didn’t make up the problems,” I pointed out. ‘All I did was look around at the problems we’re neglecting now and give them about 30 years to grow into full-fledged disasters.’
“Okay,” the young man challenged. “So what’s the answer?”
“There isn’t one,” I told him.
“No answer? You mean we’re just doomed?” He smiled as though he thought this might be a joke.
“No,” I said. “I mean there’s no single answer that will solve all of our future problems. There’s no magic bullet. Instead there are thousands of answers–at least. You can be one of them if you choose to be.”
Published originally in Essence Magazine in 2000, COPYRIGHT 2000 Essence Communications, Inc.
