I wrote today’s poem in a space of reflection about how, as Richard Rohr puts it, “pain that is not transformed is transmitted.” First, some context:
Lately, I’ve been seeing shame weaponized by some folks in activist spaces on social media. This fits a pattern I’ve observed over the last decade or so: the use of shame always seems to ratchet up when burnout and trauma are at a fever pitch amongst those working for justice in the world. (I know this has been true of my own invocations of shame). Shaming others appears as an understandable yet desperate reaction to our own frustration with the entrenchment of the status quo.
As Brené Brown teaches, guilt is the belief that “I did something bad,” while shame says, “I am bad.” In public discourse, shame paints broad generalizations like: “You people live lives of ease removed from reality and could never have any idea what my pain feels like, and that makes you the problem.”
It’s human nature, I think, to create categories of good and bad, and place people in those categories. It’s convenient, because it makes clear those who are with us and those who are against us. It allows blame to be transferred to an easily identifiable group. (It’s worth adding that though we sometimes stick ourselves in the “good” category — we’re also prone, at least in my experience, to put ourselves in the bad place).
Yet, shame is rarely socially strategic or spiritually transformative (I’ll note that I’m working really hard here to not use totalizing shame-based statements myself like “shame is bad.” And it’s a challenge!) When we’re deep in shame, we struggle to see people existing in what nonviolence practitioners refer to as the “spectrum of allies,” in which common cause can be found with a wider swath of the population than simply those who parrot your stance word for word, while those who are in active opposition are rarely the majority you fear.
Nonviolence, alternatively, invites us to courageously examine and transform the violence of the systems around us, as we simultaneously examine and transform the violence that exists within ourselves. This means placing the good/bad categories that are shame’s inheritance before Love’s gaze, where they appear nonsensical. “There is no us and them,” as Greg Boyle likes to point out. “There’s only us.”
This doesn’t mean dismissing the ways in which our respective social locations (our race, gender, economic status, sexual orientation, disability, nationality, etc.) insulate us from or subject us to suffering at widely varying degrees.
Nonviolence is not about denying reality. Rather, nonviolence invites us to see ourselves inhabiting a more expansive story of belonging, a story that is subversive of binary narratives of us vs. them. Nonviolence invites us to tell the truth about our shared humanity: our own, that of our neighbor, even that of our enemy.
When all the parts of us belong, communication changes. The way we organize changes. This is as much the case at the individual level as it is at the systemic. We’re compelled to reckon with why one part of us lashes out in fear against another, or why another part stays silent. Nonviolence invites us to say to the scared part of us, “Help me understand your fear,” to the angry part, “Let’s take some deep breaths together to notice what fear lies under your anger,” and to the quiet part, “Take courage, we are with you and we will amplify your voice.”
When none of us are defined by the worst thing we have done — nor the best for that matter — then no one is “the problem.” The problem, instead, is the stories that say that one group of people is superior to another group, stories that get codified in systems of religious belief, social infrastructure and political hierarchy. Each of us has a responsibility to attend to these shaming stories as they arise in our own hearts and in the world. And we do that, together, with love in courageous, strategic action. (More on that soon!)
That said, here’s the poem:
“catch more flies with honey”
the swatter satisfies some primal urge
doesn’t it?
treating each other
as disposable nasty pests
without purpose
me raising my hand
and you unprepared
on the other side of the screen
to receive this affront
hurtling through the air
without warning
while come to think of it
i am caught
by the saccharine allure
of power over
this sticky situation
without understanding
that we might simply be
with one another
I’ll leave you with some questions for reflection. I would love to hear from you in the comments!
What do you make of the impulse to swat — to lash out at those who are hurting your community, those who are seemingly unmoved by your community’s pain, or even, perhaps, those who are with you in the thick of suffering? How do you speak to this part of yourself?
Sometimes we are the fly getting hit, sometimes the one doing the hitting, and sometimes both back to back, depending on our context and social location. Where do you find yourself today?
Is there an alternative that isn’t about “catching” people at all, but instead about recognizing the ways in which we are all caught in the same system with its sickeningly sweet allure of power over others? How can we embrace freedom as our common cause within ourselves? Our families? Our communities?