The Stories We Tell.featured
The stories we tell matter. Immensely.
Story is essential. For individuals, for communities, and for societies. We long for a narrative that includes us. That grounds us and helps us make sense of the world and our place in it. That needs and values our contributions.
This belief has inundated every thread of my life as I weave my own story and the early chapters of my family’s story.
I read stories of bravery, sacrifice, and redemption to my children to show them how to live worthy lives full of imagination, kindness, courage, and hope.
But what about the stories that do the opposite under the guise of nobility? What about the stories we choose not to tell?
I was born in North Carolina 120 years after the Civil War ended. Further distanced from those events than they were from our country’s founding. And despite moving to the midwest at a young age, I grew up viewing myself as a proud Southerner.
The stories I grew up with, the tales of my ancestors meant to instill pride, were those of confederate nobility and courage in the face of big government oppression.
The Civil War was “The War of Northern Aggression,” and it was fought for the noble defense of states’ rights, not slavery. The atrocities of the war were tales of Sherman’s march to the sea and the trail of pillage and rape he left in his wake.
The atrocities that were not told were the centuries of the torture and rape of Black people. Of tearing families apart to maintain a system of control. Of a war fought to ensure a state’s right to allow slavery. Of scripture being used from the pulpit to undermine the dignity of humans made in God’s image.
I learned about Medgar Evers from the film Ghosts of Mississippi, which showed nothing of his life and work but glorified the white lawyer who prosecuted his killer years later under threat of harm.
Hearing these stories, and only these stories, creates a worldview that canonizes a group of almost exclusively white men who are considered true American patriots. It does this by ignoring, obscuring, and eliminating the atrocities they inflicted or were complicit in, primarily against indigenous and Black communities. It downplays the suffering and the crucial contribution of these individuals and communities to avoid the frustrating but important complexity of our nation’s history and its leaders.
It’s easy to think that these stories, while owed a place in our history books, are far from today’s reality. They aren’t. When my dad was nine, a century after the Civil War ended, he was taken to the South Carolina state house to touch the cannonballs still imbedded in the wall. He was told he should “always remember what the yankees did to us.”
Ruby Bridges is younger than my parents. She has an Instagram account.
It took years of hearing other stories and studying history outside of the classroom for me to realize how damaging and incomplete my worldview was. Even though I was taught that every human has inherent dignity and worth, not understanding the cruelty of slavery and the depth and insidiousness of racism in our culture left me woefully unequipped to understand its reach or contribute to meaningful solutions to root out its evil.
It can be difficult and overwhelming to find our place in history as we are living and creating it. To root ourselves in a tsunami of information and opinions, many clamoring for our attention, allegiance, and money.
I find myself once again turning to the quiet stories. Seeking out the events that were left out of the history books. Grieving the betrayal and utter failure of our country to live up to its ideal of equality.
Reading stories of saints who were victims of atrocities. Longing for a fraction of their courage and sacrifice in circumstances that would have crushed me. For the gift of faith that endured and blossomed in trials much more gruesome than my own.
Reading stories of saints who committed atrocities. Seeing paths to redemption that came from the recognition of the dignity etched in every person, the rejection of sin that would deny it, and the necessary penance joyfully given as reparation. Praying for the humility to face the truth of my own sin head-on and willingness to accept penance.
Listening to the voices of Black, Latina, and indigenous women. The pain they have endured and are still enduring. The abandonment and isolation they feel in a Church that has rallied so thoroughly around me in my pain. The exhaustion. The resolve. The understanding that they belong fully. Are loved fully. Are deserving of a chorus of voices standing up for their God-given dignity.
Recognizing that if I screamed out in pain and fear for my life, if my children were being ripped from my arms, I would want them to stand with me. Without hesitation. Without vetting me to decide if my pain was worthy enough to earn their support.
Believing their stories. Even and especially when they make me uncomfortable. Trusting that while my story in this moment is not the one that most needs to be heard, I need to answer their call to speak. To amplify their stories and support their work. To share the burden of the sin of racism.
Because, as Tolkien so eloquently portrays, in all the great stories, “[f]olk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding onto something…that there’s some good in this world…and it’s worth fighting for.”
The women I’m sharing do not have large political platforms. They don’t have social media managers and influencer salaries. They are faithful, Catholic women who are choosing to be vulnerable in sharing their stories and their faith. They engage directly with their followers. Many I have been following for years, and they responded to my diagnosis by adding me and my family to their own family’s intentions.
Follow them. Read their beautiful words. Get to know their stories. If you feel the urge to contradict, I challenge you to walk away for a day. To consider their words and remember their stories and engage thoughtfully from a place of humility, as they do every day.
Catholics United for Black Lives is an organization started this summer by Black Catholics after repeated denunciation of BLM’s platform from white Catholics.
I have also been inspired by the allyship of these women:
Please let me know if there are any voices in this space that have encouraged you or helped you grow. Or better yet, share them on your page so others can find them as well.
