This morning I fully intended to go on strike: I had had enough and was going to stop out of my life. All of it. Well, most of it. A funny thing happened on the way to the strike: I didn’t. I’m not sure how it happened. I was pretty determined that I was not going to engage with the world in any meaningful way today and for the foreseeable future. And then suddenly there I was engaging with the world. I am tired, I reasoned with myself, I should be able to take a break. I’m going to walk away from everything. And then, I didn’t. There’s no other way to explain it. I got up, made my bed, engaged in all my usual morning ablutions, took care of the dog, got into my car and headed onto the Beltway toward work. When I got to work, I was pretty determined that I was not going to interact with anyone there in any meaningful way, though I had to lead a meeting and interact with staff in any number of ways that would make being on strike difficult. In the end I conducted the meeting, though I ranted and went off topic a few times. Afterward I returned to my office somewhat bemused by how I hadn’t been on strike and had in fact led the meeting in spite of my intentions.
A few minutes later, the answer came to me. I was cleaning up my computer desktop at work and ran across a jpg file titled, “Jared and Friends.” When I opened it I saw a sweet picture of my son smiling into the camera. “Ah,” I sighed and all the air went out of my strike. I remembered why I do what I do. Why have I spent over half of my life working to create safe spaces for young people of color to thrive and excel in environments unwelcoming or even hostile to them? The environments in which I’ve worked were often unwelcoming and hostile to me, especially doing the work I was doing. I realize now that I was often stretching myself over them, sheltering and protecting them as best I could from the forces coming against them. Even as the blows rained down on me from all sides, they were, inasmuch as was possible, unharmed. I, however, was bruised and bloodied–not physically of course, but emotionally, psychically. Then I look at the picture of my son looking back at me from my computer screen and I think about how I have stretched myself over him and my daughter throughout their lives. And now that they are living on their own and outside of my immediate protection, all I can do is cover them with my prayers and love. And I can stretch myself over other people’s children as best I can, knowing that as I shelter them, some other force is sheltering my children.
Obviously I cannot shelter and protect everyone: one could suggest that in reality I can’t really shelter and protect anyone–at least not in a physical sense. Still I do my best to continue providing places of support for young people in particular, but anyone I can. I often don’t see with my natural eyes the real flesh and blood beneficiaries of the work I do: I work on programs and policies and deal with budgets and training and personnel matters. Sometimes others get to do the “fun stuff” of interacting with the students or are more out front benefiting from or receiving acknowledgment for the results that my work has produced. My ego rears up and I get bent out of shape about all the hard work I do behind the scenes. But then I remember what (and who) I am doing this all for and I let it go. Because in the end it’s about them, it’s not about me.
I was earnest in my attempt to go on strike this morning, but I find that I am grateful to have once again failed. Perhaps I need to take up a different kind of quest; I’m clearly not good at going on strike or quitting this work. I’ll either need to get a new attitude or a new metaphor. Until then, I’ll take time outs when I really need a break from the demands of the work, the emotional overload or exhaustion that sometimes overcomes me. I’ll breathe in gratitude and move forward as best I can.
