About 10 years ago, I did a professional development day at a school in Michigan, and at the end of the day, I found myself surrounded by about 25 teachers for a Q&A session in a somewhat dimly lit, windowless classroom. My opening session that morning had been about how the world was changing (this was pre-Trump I, pre-Covid), and why we needed to engage in some reimagination when it comes to how we design and deliver the experience of schooling for kids. (Sound familiar?)
For the first 15 minutes or so, the questions from those assembled were pretty straight forward, centered on “how to,” asking for examples, and doing some general sharing of ideas. But at some point, a woman with a semi-distressed look on her face (that I had made note of when I walked into the room) raised her hand.
“Look,” she said. “I get it, and I actually agree with most of what you’re preaching, but the reality is that the kinds of changes you’re talking about just aren’t possible here.”
This was not an uncommon response…still isn’t. The status quo has claws.
“Not at all?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not in my experience.” Many of the other teachers nodded quietly.
“So, are you telling me that you’re powerless to change anything that you do in the course of the day?” I asked the room. “‘Cause if you are, then I can head out to the airport right now.”
The Great Regression
I was reminded of that moment this week as so many people in my orbit were voicing their own sense of powerlessness. Actually, when I was feeling a deep sense of powerlessness myself. As I write this two days after the inauguration, the speed with which the change is happening is kinda leaving me breathless. I mean, I knew the strategy was to “flood the zone with shit” to disorient the naysayers. And it’s working. It’s overwhelming, as well as infuriating and confusing and depressing, and it all has me wondering if the battle for equity, for the environment, for justice, is officially lost.
The regression that is coming, that has already started, is profound.
If you believe, as I do, that in order to have any chance at a future worth living in we have to stop spewing carbon into the air at record rates, the past two days have been a gut punch. We’ve pulled out of the Paris Climate Agreement, expanded offshore drilling for gas and oil, halted offshore wind energy, opened up vast Alaskan lands that had been protected from drilling and mining, and declared a totally ridiculous “energy emergency” just so fossil fuel projects can evade environmental protections, at a moment when we are producing more oil and gas in this country than ever before. In other news, we’ve pulled out of the World Health Organization (god help us if there is another pandemic in the next four years), and pretty much gutted any support for DEIJ work within the government, and we’re attempting to end birthright citizenship…I could go on…and on… and on. (The “Gulf of America”…really?)
Say a Prayer
And for me, the absolute worst (so far) was yesterday, when at an inaugural prayer service, Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde literally pleaded during a sermon to “have mercy upon the people who are scared now.”
There are gay, lesbian and transgender children in Democratic, Republican, and Independent families, some who fear for their lives. The people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings; who labor in poultry farms and meat packing plants; who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals. They…may not be citizens or have the proper documentation. But the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors. They are faithful members of our churches and mosques, synagogues, gurdwaras and temples. I ask you to have mercy, Mr. President, on those in our communities whose children fear that their parents will be taken away. And that you help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here.
The reaction, not unsurprisingly, was “It wasn’t a good service. It could have been better.” Because scared children aren’t worth a second thought compared to an agenda of regress that cares only about the wealthy. Remember, the “metacrisis” that we face is rooted in the fact that humans are out of relationship with one another and with all other living things on the planet. And if that isn’t Exhibit A, I’m not sure what is.
So, yeah, I’m worried. I’m worried for those children and for those families who are no doubt feeling powerless right now, because if I, in all of my privilege, am struggling with that feeling, they definitely are. And I’m worried for all of our children who are growing up in this moment that is increasingly narrowing their chances of a prosperous, thriving future. I can’t remember a stronger feeling of powerlessness to change things than I’m struggling with right now.
Digging Deep
But I know if I dig deep enough, if I keep turning to gratitude, and if I tap into my deep desire for all those things that we appear to be losing right now, I know I’m not actually powerless at all. None of us are. It might feel like all is lost right now, but it’s not. We may feel like we have no agency to determine our fate, but we do. And as things settle, the battles will once again be engaged. I know it will be harder to arrive at the destinations that I yearn for, yet they are still in reach.
Yeah, it will be harder. And it will take longer. But there is no choice.
For me, I’m going to start to use my power in my small town of 3,000 or so people. I’m starting a speaker series and the town library around the corner, looking into turning an unused, sunlit piece of property down the street into a community garden, and maybe even bringing together a group to create a vision for our town that we “yearn” for. And I’m going to do my damndest to create spaces online for anyone who cares about the futures our kids will be living in to meet and build and do together.
How any of that will impact the larger arc of the world, I don’t know. But if the solution starts with repairing our relationships with one another and all other life, then that’s the work I’ll focus on.
Oh, and those teachers? I’m not sure what happened after I left…when our full 90 minutes was up. But they did come around to the idea that yes, there were things they could do. Small acts, but acts nonetheless. That they weren’t actually powerless. That there was good work to be done.
“Hope is a discipline,” says Mariame Kaba. “We must practice it daily.”
So let’s get to it. We can flood the zone too, you know.
Ok-you got me....I will pull myself out of my angry, frustrated state.
Giving up or giving in is not an option.
There's work to do and like you, I have resources, agency and a responsibility.
To me, your question about what we can do connects to your previous post about "when" of collapse. If my goal was to "stop" the collapse, or even slow it down, I would feel completely powerless. In the short term, educating students won't impact the inevitable trajectory we've chosen. The urgency of the situation paralyses me.
I find peace and agency in thinking in the long term; only when I accept that I'm not "solving" the problems, but only doing my part in giving birth to a new system, do I feel empowered. And it makes every small step meaningful, even when constrained by all the external factors we're caught up in.