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Here in Costa Rica there’s a river near us called Rio Lajas, which is several kilometers long and flows from deep in the jungle into the ocean. Its waters pour over smooth rocks with pockets of deep pools that are like sitting in a cool jacuzzi. Families barbecue on its shores, and it’s a place we’ve met many dear locals. However, when it rains, the river turns a latte color, which is a sign not to get in. It’s best to wait until the silt carrying bacteria from farmlands flows through–otherwise you can get sick.
Unlike rivers, which clearly turn from crystal blue to muck, recently several people (some I know well and some in the news) have been making choices or statements that as poet and author Saeed Jones, in his GQ piece about comic Dave Chapelle, recently termed “ashy” that compel me and many others to make a decision. Where do we stand? It is easy to react, flail with anger, accuse, or cancel the other without thought. I have been contemplating how that disappointment, that need to be uncomfortable is so important. To slow down and sit with the the expression of that in our bodies BEFORE we respond and take a stand —and take a stand we must. But this slowing down step allows us to process. Typically, and especially if we are on the receiving end of being called out for being ashy, we excuse ourselves–hurry to dispel discomfort–using one of the following strategies or reasons:
‘Watching Chappelle contort himself to justify ashy ideas about gender, queerness and identity is harrowing, because the only thing more brutal than someone saying hurtful s**t is someone saying hurtful s**t moments after making you laugh, moments after cracking you up in a way that’s both fun and deeply needed, moments after making you feel like you all got free together.’
Poet & author Saeed Jones
Silence does a number on us. When white people chronically don’t speak up as they see small injustices, they physiologically harden themselves bit by bit–and that’s what makes it easier to not stand up or wrongly justify the bigger racial violence. Pre-1600s, white folks (who weren’t called white) brutalized each other before they brutalized Black and Indigenous people. And they often haven’t considered the consequences of that intergenerational harm on their bodies or their thinking about race.
When we are called out, we can hurl the discomfort at someone else (the victim, the victim’s parents, the system, the board, the network, the government) without processing our own discomfort; it feels good in the short term. But this addiction to outrage seems to be its own contagion and is not a path to healing.
Sometimes crying privately is part of processing discomfort or deep hurt–a good release. But public tears or proclamations of how bad you’ve been or currently are… Or to the other extreme–“I’m not like all the _____ people you know. Or, “I am _____ so I can’t be to blame for ____. ” …all of it deflects the real work from your body onto other people. It’s a control move, namely demonstrating your fear of how you will be perceived. And the discomfort stays lodged in your body.
Somatic therapist and author Resmaa Menakem, in his book My Grandmother’s Hands, talks about the difference between clean and dirty pain that I think is useful in this situation.
“By walking into pain, experiencing it fully, and moving through it, you metabolize it and put an end to it. In the process you also grow, create more room in your nervous system for flow and coherence, and build your capacity for further growth. Clean pain is about choosing integrity over fear.”
It is doing the thing that doesn’t feel good to your soul, even if it does dispel some energy in the moment. Some examples that frequently occur when people or organizations are held accountable include:
It may feel counterintuitive in our culture, but try to sit with discomfort. You got called out. Accept it and let it process instead of fleeing from it. And please don’t try as Menakem says, “to blow your pain through another.” I’m so grateful for many people I’m surrounded by who reflect, take their time, and then they have the courage to take a stand–they are walking in integrity, not fear. I’m grateful for the women of color who have called me out on my white fragility and racial screw ups. It’s not their job, but they cared enough to do it anyway. Slow processing of discomfort on your own, not on the shoulders of others, is adulting. It is something I’m learning to do more of each day.
Nature is often a clearer communicator than humans. It doesn’t blame, lie, or deny. It’s okay with sometimes being murky and not ready for swimmers, and other times inviting, clear and blue.