A few days ago, I read a long-running thread on Facebook that criticized minority communities for not thinking of themselves as Americans first. The writers disparaged various social movements, like Black Lives Matter, for focusing on racial differences instead of acknowledging commonality. Even politically liberal commentators remarked wistfully that instilling a belief that we are more alike than different would help heal constantly erupting social pain.
I, too, yearn for cohesion and unity but I respect the powerful forces that pull people into bounded, archetypal groups.
I recently read a stirring article about the Worst Club with the Best Members, a group focused on female infertility trauma. Though now a mother of two, the author says that infertility will always be a part of her, and that the heartache she suffered will never go away. She proudly proclaims that she is never leaving that club even though she is now a mother.
The concept of belonging to a club resonated with me. I will forever identify with others who endured family tragedy as a young person. I am triggered by ringing telephones at odd hours or the silence of one of my kids during family on-line chats. If my husband does not text me, “Just landed” when expected, it is all I can do to convince myself that his cell phone is inaccessible or out of battery. I wait, sometimes with a pounding heart, my mind racing through agonizing scenarios.
Does the fear of calamity define me? Not exactly, but it is inextricably woven into the chain-mail fabric in my suit of armor. My identity is fashioned from a calico quilt of events, encounters, occurrences, choices, and circumstances. My individuality is formed by the combination of what I can control and what is thrust upon me without invitation. Ignoring the impact of trauma and dysfunction gives them the opportunity to sneak in the back door and wreak havoc with an otherwise cheerful emotional life.
I do not believe that our character is the summation of our life experiences, but the goal is not to cast them aside, either. I do not know what it is like to live as a person of color or one who confronts physical challenges or one who faces a predominately binary, heterosexual culture as a LGBTQ member.
It is not a matter of moving on instead of hanging on. None of this is an excuse to jettison hard work, discipline, or personal accountability, but it is an acknowledgement that my perspective on life, longevity, and the fragility of my existence might not align with yours. The goal is not to shed your identity but to use it to fuel your compassion, humanity, and kindness. It is managing the competing drivers in our lives, those that we bring forth with intention and those that linger despite our best efforts. What presently angers people the most is rooted in what wounded them in their past.
I do not possess the privilege, or the arrogance, to prioritize the justifiable passions or genuine heartaches of others. Remembering our trauma, our loss, and our outrage should not be a barrier between us but rather a bridge that connects us. Pain is pain -- whether rooted in childhood loss, economic fragility, disparate treatment, or capricious cruelty.
My goal is to appreciate that the underpinnings of fury and indignation are different for me than anyone else. My experience is not universal. The common bond of humanity is not what we have weathered or how we have suffered. It is, instead, using our pain for greater understanding and compassion.