Abortion Stories

As Alabama was passing its total abortion ban, a friend posted a CNN clip that I didn’t watch in which a guest or the anchor seemed to imply that a fetus was akin to an organ in a woman’s body that she might choose do with as she pleases. My friend posed the following question with this post: “Will one of my SANE pro-abortion friends explain this to me?” When no one responded, she took this to mean that her “pro-abortion” friends could not answer something so ridiculous and therefore this meant that they knew deep in their hearts how evil their pro-choice position was. When I tried to go back to the post later, in order to watch the clip and to decide whether to respond, the post was gone. Perhaps things got ugly…Truly, so little good comes from engaging in such conversations on Facebook or Twitter. Against my better judgment, I do engage sometimes but it generally ends with me ghosting out before or after someone dismisses my thinking while telling me how much I mean to them.  Pointless all the way around.  Maybe that is why no one “sane” responded to my friend’s post…

But everyday there is a new threat to reproductive rights, including the choice to abort, in this country. Yesterday, saw the most restrictive law yet move forward in Alabama. Many states now have only one abortion provider and in some cases none.  Yet, the majority of the U.S. population supports the right to abortion in all or most cases. https://www.pewforum.org/fact-sheet/public-opinion-on-abortion/

My opinions have been largely consistent since I was in about the seventh or eighth grade, approximately four years after Roe was decided. As abortion became a possibility in every state, the public debate came with it. I remember the cover of TIME or maybe NEWSWEEK with a picture of a fetus in utero promoting an article that examined the “when does life begin” question.  I read it and decided that should I ever need to, as long as I could have an early abortion meaning before 10 weeks or so, I would do it. That was my own thinking and for a long time I kept that opinion to myself.

My parents each approached the topic of an early pregnancy differently.  My mother told me around this time period, meaning when I was about 13, that if I became pregnant she would want me to carry the pregnancy to term. I remember the scene in great detail. I was in her room. It was summer and I was wearing my favorite multi-colored short shorts. The memory is probably so clear because I was terrified. Not because I was sexually active, but because I believed that it was up to me to never make a mistake; that if I did, I would have no choice over what would happen to me; and that if I wanted to have a choice, I could not turn to my mother for help. I am sure she would be devastated to hear me say that.  And perhaps those were the beliefs of a young adolescent that did not reflect what really might have happened.  But beliefs of teens are often not articulated and as such parents have no way to correct them.

Several years later, perhaps when I was leaving for college, my father gave me a very different message. He wrote me a letter tucked in the trunk of my car where he often left me a little extra cash. In it, he told me to avoid pregnancy at any cost during my college years. I was shocked by this part of the letter. I never talked about such things with my dad. But I did ask him about it the next time I saw him and he was clearly embarrassed. Avoiding further conversation, he simply said, “A girl has to know when to say no, because when you are pregnant and you don’t want to be there are no good options. But if that ever happens to you, you come to me and I’ll help you.” That statement has been etched on my heart ever since.  In so many ways it sums up my relationship with my father. He has always been the person who could simultaneously clearly state his expectations and his beliefs about how I should conduct myself – “pretty is as pretty does” –and at the same time acknowledge the realities of being human.

Fast-forward another seven, or eight years and I was working in a teen clinic in a hospital located in an extremely high need neighborhood. I did all kinds of things in that clinic and one of my main activities was “options counseling” for teen girls who were pregnant.  I was not so far away from adolescence myself and began this work with the view that an early pregnancy represented a crisis.  Overtime, I learned that an early pregnancy represented as many possibilities as there were young women in that circumstance.  For some, it was a joy, a happy accident of which their family was aware and supportive.  For others it was a secret and they were convinced, as I would’ve been, that they could never talk with their mothers about their situation. It was my practice to encourage them to talk with their moms and many times I helped facilitate those conversations. By then I knew that no matter what mothers say to their teens, when the chips are down, they want to help and they do not want their daughters to go through challenging experiences alone.  And, I knew, that the best decisions teens make – 9 times out of 10 – are decisions that fit with their families’ beliefs and values – not mine and not yours.  But notice that qualifier – 9 times out of 10.  There are exceptions. Families that are hardly families at all, where young people have been raising themselves and making their own way for years. There are families whose belief systems are so rigid and a young person desperately wants something different that to involve the family would be to risk harm to the girl’s life or leave her with no place to live unless she followed their wishes. And, these wishes could go either way.  Sometimes families felt that having a baby was punishment for being sexually active. On the flip side, I had family members call me and yell at me because I would not “make” their daughter have an abortion. Never mind that a forced abortion is illegal in this country; a doctor doing such a thing would be prosecuted for assault and battery.  So what I learned in this role was the wisdom both of my profession, which prioritizes individual autonomy, and also the wisdom of my father: my goal was to help them make a their own decision, not tell them what their decision should be.

And so to my friend and so many like her who cheer these repressive laws and the pre-ordained paths those laws produce, I would ask, who would you want me to be for your daughter or your son’s girlfriend or one night stand?  Would you want me to tell her what she has to do because the government has decreed what that choice should be?  Or would you want me to help her talk to people who are important to her. Maybe you, maybe her minister, her aunt, or her father, so that the decision would reflect something thought through, examined, carefully weighed, and freely chosen. Would you want me to shuttle her off to prenatal care without a second look or would you want me help her know her own heart and mind? These laws take away the possibility that a woman might find a non-judgmental ear, someone to help her talk to others who care about her, or simply some space to consider how to move forward.

The arguments on TV and elsewhere about abortion are all ridiculous in different ways. Of course an embryo or a fetus is not an organ like an extra kidney or an appendix. It is sad that we spend so much of our public discourse on red herrings. Abortion is one of, if not the most ancient of medical procedures. http://www.bbc.co.uk/ethics/abortion/legal/history_1.shtml  Cultures around the world have recognized for centuries that there are times and circumstances in which carrying a pregnancy to term is terrible idea. Abortion was made legal across this country because women seek abortions whether they are legal or not.  But when they are illegal, women are maimed, infected, often made sterile, or sometimes die at that hands of charlatans and mercenaries that prey on their desperation.  That is why a network of clergy existed to help women get safe abortions in this country before it was made legal in every state. https://www.npr.org/2017/05/19/529175737/50-years-ago-a-network-of-clergy-helped-women-seeking-abortion That is why physicians campaigned for legal abortion as a matter of public health.

Are there times that people regret a decision to have either an abortion or a baby? Of course. Are there times they regret a decision to place a child for adoption? Undoubtedly. But that is the price of freedom – the chance to make our own decisions, as long as they do not hurt the wider community, and to live with the consequences, whether they are positive, negative, or indeed a complex web of regrets, hopes, and contentment that make up the reality of our lives.

 

Note about the photo: If you click next to the colon below, you will be taken to the site where the photo originates from, the archive of the St. Louis Post Dispatch.

Photo credit: 

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San Francisco

When we saw her sit down and her tears begin, we dropped to our knees in front of her and joined hands forming a circle with to share and acknowledge her sorrow. What a gift to share our collective grief  with this stranger-friend for a moment.

 

Just back after four days in San Francisco, a city I don’t know well but that has captivated my imagination since I read Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City series in my 20s. For the most part, I spent my time this visit doing pretty standard work conference activities. But the last night, a colleague cum friend sent a text inviting me to join her and her husband at a Market Street wine bar.  After a longer-than-expected walk, I arrived to a quiet scene.  My friends were there along with two gender bending, male-identified men behind the bar and two women, apparently a couple, sharing quiet conversation.

We were enjoying appetizers and a bottle of wine when my colleague’s husband burst into song with a falsetto that let me know this was going to be no ordinary night.  The three of us are in our 50’s and the songs of our youth were topping the playlist. As my colleague and I talked shop, her husband kept singing and befriended the couple to his left.  Soon enough we put away our workplace concerns and let the impulse to sing and dance take over.  At first, it was the three of us.  One of the bartenders began to act as DJ, taking requests. First Journey, Queen, Pat Benetar, then Bye Bye Miss American Pie, The Cars, more Journey….music that took me back. Another colleague arrived and joined the fun. Eventually, one member of the unknown couple decided to dance with us, and with some trepidation her reluctant partner joined in.  Soon enough the bar tenders were strutting their stuff and we jumped into a joyous, raucous-for-me, evening. I’ve been basking in the glow of the laughter and camaraderie ever since.

But there was so much more to that evening than a spontaneous dance party in a far away city.  Our evening stood in contrast to the news story that had broken that afternoon in which a group of boys from a Catholic school in full MAGA gear appeared to taunt and disrespect a Native American elder at a protest in Washington D.C. What actually happened is now the subject of debate and I’ve not followed every nuance. But our current national life is so filled with stories of open prejudice and hatred that the complexity of this situation hardly matters. We hear similar things almost weekly, incidents that are either ignored or celebrated by our leaders.

Indeed at one point in the night, in the midst of the dancing and laughter, one of the women we met began to cry. A Latinx lesbian woman who valued her Catholic faith even though many who share it would reject her, she was dismayed by the boys’ behavior.  (For the record, many claiming Christ would reject this woman. Her Catholic Church is not alone its exclusion.) For her, because the boys were Catholic she hoped that they would choose to represent a message of Christian love. When we saw her sit down and her tears begin, we dropped to our knees in front of her and joined hands forming a circle to share and acknowledge her sorrow. What a gift to share our collective grief  with this stranger-friend for a moment.

The tears passed and we kept dancing, singing, and laughing. Two very young couples joined the mix, and soon thereafter it was time to call it a night. As we said good-bye, one of the bar tenders explained it was his first night on the job and said we had made it great for him. But really we all made it great for each other. For one evening, by tacit agreement, we all remembered what it was like to be young and open to new people and experiences. We agreed to let our stereotypes drop, stereotypes about how 50 plus straight people, and 40 plus lesbian people, and 30-ish gender bending people are “supposed to” act and relate. Those stereotypes would have kept us in our corners, no spontaneous falsetto, no singing, no dancing, no understanding, no joyful connection. For a moment, as the song goes, we belonged to the light, we belonged to each other, and we belonged together.

 

Preparation

We stood speechless as we scrolled through the images that she had sent without captions. Utter misery inflicted on desperate people at our Southern border. How in God’s name are we allowing this?

This afternoon I sat in a coffee shop preparing for work later this week with a group of medical fellows. We will be talking about the Latinx immigrant population in our community using an intervention called, “Yo Veo,” meaning “I See.” We will use a series of photographs by the photographer, Janet Jarman http://janetjarman.com to begin our conversation. The images from her story, Marisol and the American Dream, form a jumping off point to consider the ways in which migration experiences shape an individual’s experience with various systems, such as health care or education. As we go through Marisol’s story, we will also spend time with data collected from young people and their parents here in North Carolina. Some of that data comes from studies I’ve done with colleagues through the years and some comes from the good work of others.

Using visual images and the performing arts to promote nuanced and reflective conversation about race, ethnicity, culture, migration, difference, and professional practice is an approach I and others I work with have been refining since 2010. Although we use a particular method to structure these experiences, the conversations are open-ended and unpredictable. Sometimes the mood is tense. Other times the room floods with empathy. Usually, at least at first, there is a mixture of wariness and confusion as participants search for a “right” answer to the questions posed. Gradually, the group grows more comfortable with not knowing, a posture which overtime gives way to understanding, reconsideration, and respect. Although the structure is the same, no two Yo Veo conversations are alike. As a facilitator, comfort with ambiguity, trust in the process, and a willingness to let the images work is key. This flexibility and responsiveness is what gives the approach its power and differentiates it from more traditional “trainings” focused on diversity or difference. Our research indicates that what we do does influence professionals’ attitudes and motivation to engage with clients, students, or patients whose backgrounds leave them open to disparate health and educational outcomes. For those interested, links to some of our published research articles are at the end of this post.
Immigration questions appear to be evergreen in our society, a consistently hot topic. As such, whenever I prepare for a Yo Veo conversation, I end up tweaking the slide deck. Sometimes, I am tailoring for a particular type of audience or a particular timeframe. But usually, I am incorporating images and information that speak to the current moment. A month or so ago, Janet sent me images from her recent time in Tijuana covering “the caravan.” My son was in the kitchen when I opened the file. We stood speechless as we scrolled through the images that she had sent without captions. Utter misery inflicted on desperate people at our Southern border. How in God’s name are we allowing this?

Today was no different. I looked at more images taken by other photographers that document the separation, loss, atrocity, occasional resilience, and faith that characterize the current, shameful chapter in our national immigration story. As I look, I know our Yo Veo conversation this week will be meaningful. But it is hard to focus on the work through my tears…

 

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/256198342_How_images_work_An_analysis_of_a_visual_intervention_used_to_facilitate_a_difficult_conversation_and_promote_understanding

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/316751923_Making_a_difference_in_medical_trainees’_attitudes_toward_Latino_patients_A_pilot_study_of_an_intervention_to_modify_implicit_and_explicit_attitudes?_sg=S7zdUrG8227FpulXPLcUwk2i40_pBF7TXCnkRG1BQX3yJfFDdkACTP_U4HOG6_K3pFui-4hDRWzYKnLpB_Wrg666VffmqQS-1qxgGs4a.NU_7u7ToJ1VTc0TIDKXbtmKhf54TXaOZyl-7LxuODnrtyrHC_UGQCuLV-wYSyg9pND38LuYGQ-lj16rSoxHTpA

 

Photograph Credit: https://static01.nyt.com/images/2018/12/26/podcasts/27daily/26daily-superJumbo.jpg?quality=90&auto=webp

Pray for the Woman

His voice broke most notably when he recounted his 10-year-old daughter suggesting that their family “pray for the woman.” His tears at that moment are no coincidence. They are evidence of guilt, a guilt that he does not believe he can confess, take responsibility for, and atone for. Such a situation is ripe for the anguish and rage we saw on display.

Now that the shouting is over and a vote is apparently eminent, we are left to try and make sense of what we have witnessed. I believe Dr. Ford. I first read her statement on line the night before the hearing. It has the “ring of truth.” Nothing I saw in the hearings changed that opinion. I identify with her. She, like me, is a professor who grew up with more privilege than anyone should expect. I know the world she inhabited, although mine was a south Texas version. I know about the heavy drinking of that era, the tightropes girls had to walk to seem like “ one of the guys” but still “a lady.” The days at the country club and the loosely supervised nights are familiar. It is also a world I left, like Dr. Ford, to find my own corner of the sky in academia.

What might surprise you is that I was also moved by Judge Kavanagh’s testimony. Not because I believe him, I don’t. Everything we know and hear points to him, in his adolescence being an excessive drinker in a highly male-centric, privileged life, a life that breeds entitlement to fun at women’s expense. To this day, so many assaults between students are aided by alcohol, the un-indicted co-conspirator. But something that happened in the hearing leads me to believe he has a conscience, that he knows the truth of what happened in the summer of 1982, and that he regrets it. His voice broke most notably when he recounted his 10-year-old daughter suggesting that their family “pray for the woman.” His tears at that moment are no coincidence. They are evidence of guilt, a guilt that he does not believe he can confess, take responsibility for, and atone for. Such a situation is ripe for the anguish and rage we saw on display.

Admittedly, this is supposition. But I think Dr. Ford may have told us this too. When she testified about the laughter that haunted her, she seemed to recognize that, at that moment, those two boys were not thinking about her at all, perhaps not realizing how frightened she was, or how outrageous their behavior. They were playing what many women of the era will recognize as an unnamed male game that I’ll call, “scare the girls.” Here’s a much milder version that I remember growing up in the early 80’s.  I’d been studying at our local library and ran into two boys from my neighborhood. They offered to drive me home and I accepted. On the way, a possum ran in front of the car. The boy driving, about 16 years old, stopped, grabbed the possum by the tail and brought it around to my side of the car swinging it into the back seat where I was. The possum, mouth open, teeth exposed, drooling, was now playing dead. I was screaming, truly frightened, and the two boys were laughing at my fear.  After a few minutes, they let the possum go and happily took me home. Scare the girl, have a few laughs, everything back to normal, still friends, no harm, no foul. Perhaps for Kavanaugh and his friend, too inebriated to realize they’d crossed a line, ‘scare the girl’ went too far. Only now, as an adult, with his life’s goal of a Supreme Court seat so close he can smell it, is he confronted with the harm his high school version of “scare the girl,” aided by the disinhibition that comes with drinking, caused. And because he wants his seat on the Supreme Court so badly, he ignores, at least publicly, his conscience.  It’s a Faustian bargain and he is selling is soul.

His little daughter, with the faith of a child, is showing him another path: do what his faith demands of him.  Pray for the woman, do unto others, let the truth set you free.  Given what he and others describe about the outsized role that drinking played in his early life, there is almost no way he can say with certainty anything about his behavior under the influence. The talking points of, “I worked hard. I studied. I played sports.  I would never do this. I remember everything. I like beer. So what?” are simply insufficient in the current circumstance. He diminishes himself and all he has accomplished with his false bravado.

I feel sorry for him; anyone can understand how much someone in his position would want this job and how embarrassed and ashamed he feels having his drinking behavior and his participation the misogyny of the time unveiled before the world. But he is not fragile and he owes it to himself and everyone else to confront and, indeed embrace, an ugly and uncomfortable truth.  “Yes. There was a period of time where I drank far too much and it impaired my judgment. Yes. My friends and I were disrespectful in the way we talked about women, even as we cared deeply about many of them. Yes. There were parties and gatherings in the summer of 1982; I was drunk at several of them; I don’t know whether I did this terrible thing to this credible and accomplished woman or not. It sounds like I could have and she says I did. I believe her. I am sorry. It was wrong. It is not who I want to be or how I’ve lived my life as an adult. Please forgive me.”

What would happen then is uncertain. But the truth is disarming. Dr. Ford showed us that yesterday.  Perhaps such a statement by Judge Kavanaugh would allow us all to put away our arms. Judge, listen to your little daughter. She is showing you the way. Pray for the woman, not for yourself, your position, or your reputation. Pray for understanding, pray for guidance and discernment, and then listen to the still, small voice of conscience that will tell you what you need to do.

Seventeen

And then I told him what twenty-something me took away from watching Anita Hill, although I could not have articulated it then.

What a week to be the mother of a 17-year-old boy.  At dinner a few nights ago, my son asked me if I would talk with him about Anita Hill. His AP Government class is studying the episode and he wanted to know what I remembered about it.  When my teen asks me questions beyond, “What’s for dinner?” my policy is to drop everything and engage. We talked for almost two hours.

He was interested in all of it. Where I was living: seven blocks behind the Capitol. How engaged I was in the coverage: I watched every minute I could and read every news article.  I told him about how electrified I was by the photograph featured here of the seven women who marched from the House to the Senate and demanded that the allegations be investigated. How I desperately wished I could go to the hearings myself.

Then, I told him what I remembered of Professor Hill. How she spoke clearly, without malice, with great dignity, how she introduced her parents to the committee, how she simply told the truth over and over. I told him how, until that time, I had liked Arlen Specter, the senator from Pennsylvania. But after his relentless attempts to embarrass Professor Hill I hated him. I remembered that the senator from Alabama, whose name escapes me, asked her in his slow southern drawl if she was, “a woman scorned” or if she wanted to “write a book.”  And then I told him how every man on that committee, including Joe Biden, cowered in response to Clarence Thomas’ opening punch accusing them of a “high tech lynching.”

And then I told him what twenty-something me took away from watching Anita Hill, although I could not have articulated it then. I learned that, as a woman, it did not matter that you were smart, well-spoken, modest, church going, high achieving, or from a hard-working family.  You could be a “good woman” or one with a more complicated past. But, if you told the truth about how men treat women, you would be over-ruled even if those men knew, in their heart of hearts, you were telling the truth. I told him about my own experiences of harassment and assault, even though they are mild in comparison to others. I told him that if something had happened to me in high school like what Professor Ford says happened to her, I would not have even had language to describe it, much less think it was illegal. Like her, I would have thought it was my fault or at least that there was nothing to be done about it.  I too would’ve been quiet. Indeed, about most violations that have happened in my life, I have been silent or made them into a joke.

We talked again last night after I insisted on listening together to this extraordinary podcast in which Caitlyn Flanagan and Michael Barbaro talk about an attempted ‘date rape’ in Flanagan’s high school past*. Embodied in their talk is the essence of atonement, a demonstration of what miracles are wrought by thorough and sincere apologies. It is a lesson in empathy, forgiveness, and redemption. Judge Kavanaugh should listen to it.  https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/20/podcasts/the-daily/kavanaugh-christine-blasey-ford-caitlin-flanagan-sexual-assault.html.

As we listened and then talked, I realized that this oldest and most complicated son of mine has grown up a lot in the last three years. He spoke with great empathy about what he is learning now that he has more female friends that tell him about how they live and move in the world. He cried as he listened to Ms. Flanagan describe her suicide attempt following the attack. He is recognizing the privileged place he occupies and how little the culture asks him to think about his safety or worth. He seems to be reckoning with the responsibility that comes with the unearned privilege he has as he makes choices about the adult he wants to be.

What will happen in the current circumstance is anybody’s guess. The values central to the situation – truth, honor, justice, or even mercy – are being completely ignored, ironic given the goal of filling a seat on our highest court. My son told me he thinks his generation of young men is different. I nodded in agreement, but in truth I doubt it. Unless they are extraordinary, young men will do what older men in their orbits do and what their culture tells them they can.  As the Kavanaugh confirmation continues to unfold, we will learn more about what our culture believes about women today. Silence does not serve us, and as the podcast points out, it does not serve our young men either.

*She wrote about this experience a few days ago in the Atlantic magazine. https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2018/09/me-too/570520/

Photo Credit: PAUL HOSEFROS/THE NEW YORK TIMES/

The Confederates in My Attic

For our campus, this moment is a reckoning, a time to face the difficult realities that echo through our buildings, bubble up on our quadrangles, and that have remained hidden for far too long.

Saturday afternoon on my screened porch in Chapel Hill: You might think I’d hear birdsong and insects as the sticky summer weather lingers in early September. Instead, I hear sirens and helicopters. Once again white supremacist groups from neighboring counties are coming to stand guard at the confederate stump that once held the statue on our campus known as “Silent Sam.” The last time they visited, we walked up to take a look.  Draped in the stars and bars, the group carried well-printed signs about monuments and heritage preservation that told little about their lives or motivations.  We stayed for a bit and then headed home shaken and wondering how this conflict would resolve.

As our campus has been grappling with our confederate past, I have been learning about the confederates in my own family attic. Their stories are complex and in some ways mysterious. Although I’ve known they existed for along time, only recently have I learned some of the details of their stories.

My father is fast approaching 98. He grew up living with his paternal grandfather, a confederate veteran who lost his arm in a civil war battle near Helena, Arkansas. My injured great grandfather John was saved by his brother who dragged him behind a church then left to continue the fight. Union soldiers then captured John, completed the amputation of his arm, and paroled him to a nearby plantation for the remainder of the war. Family lore has it that after his arm healed, those same Union soldiers allowed John to fish the rivers of his childhood and sell those fish to Union troops. The money he earned bought the Missouri farm I roamed during my childhood summer visits. Because John lost his arm, he had to re-learn to write with the opposite hand, was elected county tax assessor, and became a peacemaker in his divided community of northern and southern sympathizers. Think Missouri compromise if you want to know why these two groups were living in such close proximity.

He is not the only confederate in my attic. His father before him, one Coleman Chapman, joined the confederate army to flee the Jay Hawks of Kansas. Great, great, grandfather Coleman was a minister and wheelwright, moving west from Tennessee to make wagon-wheels for the gold rush. He married Annie, the daughter of a slave-holding family. As my father tells it, even though Coleman and Annie did not enslave people themselves, they were not allowed to settle in certain states because of Annie’s family’s actions. They believed they were unfairly persecuted as “southern people,” and my father points out that to his knowledge no one on the Chapman side ever enslaved someone. He is wrong. This summer I found a will in which an ancestor in the 1700’s in South Carolina willed a young girl as a piece of property to one of his descendants. Probably the tip of the iceberg. When I read that will, I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. Nothing compared to what that young girl must have endured.

Then there is the Union soldier in my attic known as Uncle Lem. As my father tells it the divided state of Missouri was populated by what were essentially gangs – much like those described in the novel Cold Mountain. Young men had to join for basic safety and Lem, like Coleman who joined a confederate aligned group to escape the Jayhawks, joined up with a Union aligned militia. He was sent west to a Union garrison in what would become Montana where he was likely involved in “subduing” native populations. He came back to the same Missouri community as his confederate brothers, ran the local store, and made sure my dad had lunch every day through the Great Depression.

To my father, each of these people is a hero in their own way. They are brothers who saved one another’s lives. They are men who persevered after losing a limb so that they could feed their families and contribute to their community. Among these civil war veterans are individuals as real to him as he is to me, who created safety and sustenance for him through bleak days. When I tell him about the confederate statue coming down, he dislikes the idea, believes it dishonors people, long dead, but that he loves still. I try not to talk about it too much.

But I  think about these long gone ancestors as our campus struggles to find a path forward. Should they be honored, and if so, for what? History is a harsh judge; the simple version might make all of them villains. Even Uncle Lem, supposedly on the historically right side, was involved or at least a witness to crimes against native populations. Villain? Victim? Victor? Vanquished?

What I honor in their stories is not what they did or did not do during the civil war. For each of them, their choices may have been as much about survival as conviction. What I honor in these passed down stories are their choices after this conflict, particularly Great Grandfather John. Blessed are the peacemakers and he became one settling Hatfield and McCoy type feuds between northern and southern sympathizers and knitting his town back together through his church and government service. Peacemaking is something to which I can aspire, admire, and honor. Does any confederate statue do that?

As I’ve written previously on this blog, to read the speech that was given at the statue’s dedication in 1913 erases all doubt about the immoral ideals it celebrates. https://exhibits.lib.unc.edu/files/original/c1160e4341b86794b7e842cb042fb414.pdf Its presence is an insult to my colleagues of color and taints the good work done daily at UNC. In the easy version of the story, we’d leave the statue in his undisclosed location and erect something that honors our common work, work that bridges divides, finds solutions to vexing problems, celebrates knowledge, and promotes creation of life-changing art and scholarship. But this story is not easy. Like my own confederate history, there is a lot we don’t know or have not acknowledged. For our campus, this moment is a reckoning, a time to face the difficult realities that echo through our buildings, bubble up on our quadrangles, and that have remained hidden for far too long. Once we, as a community, stand together and face the truth that enslaved people were housed in the basement of South Building, that our beautiful campus was built with slave labor, that it was 1966 before we had an African- American faculty member, https://museum.unc.edu/exhibits/show/integration/roberta-and-blyden-jackson, and all the rest of our yet unspoken history, then we will have peace. I like to think, although it may be wishful thinking, that Great Grandfather John, the peacemaker, the one who befriended his Union captors, the one who brought North and South back together in his community, would agree.

Acknowledgement: Title adapted from the Tony Horowitz book, “Confederates in the Attic.”

There is no excuse.

How long do we have to listen to our leaders defend the indefensible practice of separating children from their parents on our southern border? How long do these children have to cry in their tents, wonder what will happen to them, and wonder what has become of their parents? How long do we have to listen to competing stories of when and why this horrific policy/practice of separating children from their parents at the border started? How long do we have to listen to leaders pass the buck and defend the horror they are perpetuating?

Everyday I wake up thinking that someone with the power to do so will stop this barbarity.  Indeed, candidates are leading marches; former first ladies are speaking out; doctors, social workers, and other professionals are writing strong position statements; citizens are calling agencies and representatives; some clergy are speaking out, while others are stunningly silent. But here it is another Tuesday morning with kids still suffering and no end in sight.  I’m beginning to believe that the only people who can stop this are the border patrol agents themselves. They need to stand down and say they will not participate in this cruelty. Nothing else is getting our leaders’ attention and action. Maybe border agents standing up will.

There are facts about this situation that have been well documented. You can read them here. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/fact-checker/wp/2018/06/19/the-facts-about-trumps-policy-of-separating-families-at-the-border/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.0a010c6d9569 Perhaps there are policy questions to debate. Fine. Debate them, later! Right now, we must stop this practice. Years ago, I was in positions where I had to be a part of separating children from families because of child abuse. Even in those circumstances, in which separation was the only option and desperately needed, the act of witnessing the child’s fear and the parent’s grief was one of the worst experiences of a professional life in which I’ve born witness to many horrific situations. Separating children and parents when it is not necessary to protect someone’s life is unconscionable.  There can be no equivocation and no excuse. Every person who excuses, negates, minimizes, or ignores this horror is complicit. We have to all do what we can, no matter, how small and keep doing it. Each drop raises the whole sea. We have to drown this practice out.

Photo Credit: https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwiRzePx59_bAhULIqwKHdHtCB0Qjhx6BAgBEAM&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.vox.com%2F2018%2F6%2F11%2F17443198%2Fchildren-immigrant-families-separated-parents&psig=AOvVaw0Qpqw84-c9hL788ALTHDI5&ust=1529500566981972