A huge part of whether social change happens depends on what narrative people get. Whether publishing, social media, scriptures, what our friends and family repeat-stories literally shape our ideals, perspectives, what we do, who we support.
We have this illusion that we are given all the facts and are coming to our own conclusions-an illusion supported by the sheer volume of information we have access to that we didn’t before. I can see videos of police brutality in real time from a protestor on the street-I can see with my own eyes proof that a black man was assaulted. That isn’t an illusion. But the idea that because I have access to that democratizing flow of information my world view isn’t shaped is false. The narratives I see are still shaped by people who have agendas of their own-but it has become so seamless that it is hard to see.
Based on that illusion I was wondering why I was mostly fluff from O, Oprah Magazine on my social media feed. It seemed the strangest omission for this TV mogul, this billionaire who can make an author a best-seller with a recommendation, who produces Black TV and movies, who champions representaion-Oprah Winfrey knows how important her voice is. She knows exactly how to shape the way we think about issues, she hasn’t shied away from supporting the Black community. So why was I getting nothing but stories of Taylor Swift’s makeup? Or Meghan McCain’s pregnancy? Why wasn’t her name on anything related to George Floyd’s death, or Black Lives Matter, or protests around the country. It was a glaring omission. I had been on social media almost non-stop for the last 48 hours, glued to footage to try to make sense of the sheer volume of violence enacted by police on peaceful protestors, and these were the posts I saw from O Magazine.
So I went to the O, The Oprah Magazine’s page instead of relying on what was in my social media feed. It turns out that some algorithm had decided that I only wanted to see the fluffy posts. The next eleven screenshots are from O Magazine posts I had never seen.
Every single post about Black Lives Matter had been buried and hidden-even when the subject of one of those posts was Taylor Swift, a celebrity the algorithim had already decided I was interested in hearing about. Most startling to me are the posts where Oprah is directly addressing white women and their role in upholding systems of oppression-and I never saw them.
1.These are suppressed for a reason-if we had access to these stories about people caring deeply about injustice and police violence and racism it would absolutely shape they way we see the world. And there are obviously people who do not want to see that happen and are keeping white people from seeing this. These stories MATTER.
2. Even a billionaire with a media empire is subject to racist algorithms suppressing the messages she is trying to send. Do you have any doubt that social media had tried to suppress people without her vast resources and connections?
Today is Election Day in the United States. Voter participation is up in record-breaking ways already. The lines may be long today, so I thank everyone who sticks it out to participate in our representative democracy. It has it’s flaws as a system, but it is our system and right now it is a way we can peacefully neutralize some of the worst that has happened in the last two years.
If you care that we allowed 3000 preventable deaths in Puerto Rico, please vote.
If you care that the word “transgender” was stripped from official documents, please vote.
If you care that every time a mass shooting happens the government pretends that there is nothing they can do to help, please vote.
If you care that disabled and chronically ill people would die without health care, please vote.
If you care that black people are being executed extrajudicially by police officers, even in their own back yards holding a cell phone, please vote.
If you care that asylum seekers are being separated from their children and that they are being imprisoned indefinitely, and that TWO YEAR OLDS HAVE HAD TO REPRESENT THEMSELVES IN COURT, please vote.
If you care that our government has targeted Muslim people from coming to our country, even needing asylum, please vote.
If you care that we are doing nothing to prevent climate change and are selling our national parks to the highest bidder for profit, please vote.
If you care that our education system is being run by someone who doesn’t believe in public schools, please vote.
If you care that white supremacists have been emboldened once again, please vote.
If you care that a credibly accused, emotionally volatile man is now sitting on the Supreme Court, please vote.
If you care that the president has played nuclear chicken with North Korea, please vote.
If you care that we left the human rights committee of the UN, please vote.
If you care that our executive branch has lied thousands upon thousands of times in the last two years, please vote.
If you care that the executive branch has been nothing but a money-making scheme for the richest one percent, please vote.
I wrote this several years ago. Every winter day when I drove my children to school after Sandy Hook, I felt my chest tighten wondering if this would be the last time I saw them. I wouldn’t turn and walk away until I saw them safely in the building, knowing I would never live past the regret of not looking after them until the last possible second if they should die that day. I parked on a different street, walked a different route after that Friday in December, anxiety and magical thinking working together to make me believe that I was somehow protecting them by avoiding the things I did that day, the day small children were murdered in their school. A few months later the incident described below happened.
I think a few differences have happened over the last few years that make this story a time capsule of fear and hope that don’t carry over to today.
When this story took place, though I was scared, I felt that many good people were trying to figure out how to prevent mass shootings from happening again. I felt confident that every other mother and father in the country was feeling the weight on their hearts as I was. I was wrong. There were some very evil people who value money over children’s lives who have been operating covertly assuring that nothing-not even prior domestic abuse charges-got in the way of gun manufacturers selling more guns. Concealed carry became the norm in even blue states like Illinois. Open carry became the norm in red states like Texas. There is little to prevent any American from gathering as much ammunition and as many guns as a terrorist organization might procure. The mass shootings got even worse.
When this story took place I thought that we were starting to dismantle toxic masculinity. I thought we were turning a corner on how we raised our boys into men, that we were starting to assure them both that they were allowed to feel pain and that they were not allowed to use violence on their fellow human beings-that it wasn’t weakness to have feelings and it wasn’t a show of strength to abuse those within their world. Maybe this is a violent death rattle that will destroy so much more before these toxic ideas finally expire. I was a teacher. I had a firm belief that we had power to help change the lives of young men who could have turned to violence and enacted interventions to stop them. I still believe we can, but I do not believe there are enough people who want to find out how anymore. The young boys we had a chance of changing are now violent young men with more capacity to kill that we did nothing to dissuade.
When this story took place, I thought my fear could be contained by the idea of a school lockdown, that if I pinned my fears to this one location in space and time it wouldn’t infect the rest of my world. That the healthy white blood cells I had would route my panic and grief if I could stop it from spreading. Shootings have happened everywhere and the infection has spread. My white blood cells have given up; the infection has spread so far that I have forgotten what it was like to be fighting for my health and almost winning.
This story is both tinged with more fear than I now feel, because resignation has subsumed my alarm, and more hope than I now feel, because change I thought was coming was never on its way at all.
I never thought I would wish to be able to have the feelings in this story again. Once I get something so ugly on paper I hope to have flung the feelings that inspired it far away from my body. I now wish they still felt like they were a part of me.
There are red and white lights flashing as I pull into the parking lot, but no sirens. I go to stand in the cold with the other parents, waiting for our preschoolers to be released. They are not. A police car has come to silently join the fire truck and ambulance that are already here, and we realize that the children are in lockdown. This isn’t a drill.
“I knew they shouldn’t have put the little ones in a junior high.” The first parent among us starts to express our fears. I nod, almost imperceptibly, as I always thought it was strange to put three to five-year-olds in the same building as teenagers. It was a temporary solution to a space shortage, but an odd one. One that had already scared us, but we couldn’t protest as we were lucky to be getting services at all with so many budget cuts.
We sit stand quietly, tensed and staring at the door that won’t open.
“It’s been five minutes.”
I try to steady my breathing and hope against hell that the children don’t suspect that anything unusual is happening. That they are huddled in their coats and mittens and backpacks in a corner, following their teacher’s directions to stay silent and still. I am able to calm myself for a moment knowing that they always listen to her, even though they are squirmy tiny people.
“It’s been ten.”
We shift lightly back and forth on cold feet, trying to warm ourselves. Or maybe we are getting ready to spring. There are about forty of us who are realizing what it means to be the ones locked out: we can’t do anything to protect them. I fantasize about scooping up my thirty-five pound child and running, though I know that isn’t what you are supposed to do. And where could I possibly go to get far enough away? We are all listening, hoping that nothing unusual punctuates the silence inside the school.
The woman who first spoke up has a little boy who, at the end of each school day, runs straight for her laughing, yelling “Mommy!” She catches him up and swings him high into the air and lets him fall into her arms. Every day. She speaks again, “He had a twin sister. She had a hole in her heart and she died, as a baby.” More quietly she adds, “Nothing else can happen to him. To us.”
I finally use my words to dampen the panic in my throat. I say something about how it will be all right. I say something about how I know about these things, because I was a teacher. I was a teacher who handled these hormonal, dangerous teenagers for a long time. I knew they could be good and kind, and lonely and angry and confused. I tell them about how we handled a six-foot tall boy who brought a very large knife to school. Without injury. Without harm. And that the boy eventually came back and was welcomed and never hurt anyone. I say something about protocol, and drills, and empathy, and vigilance, and dedication. And redemption.
“It’s been fifteen minutes.”
I want to shatter the glass of the doors that won’t open and run to the room where I know my youngest is and be there with him. In case anything happens, it won’t happen without me. It can’t. I want to whisk him away from everyone else in the world forever. I want to put myself between him and everything. Where no one can get to him except through me, and he will not get to anyone else without my intervention.
Doors far from us open, and one slim boy is escorted out by four police officers. Silently, they box him in. He is in handcuffs, but his arms are not held to keep him from running away. He won’t. His face is the same as my six-foot tall boy’s.
The doors in front of us swing open and my preschooler is at my side. I grab his face in my hands to see that he is smiling, not worried. I hoist his thirty-five pounds against my hip, and realize how hard it would have been to run carrying him. And how impossible it would have been to know that I was locked away from him, and not even given the chance to try.