30

In many cultures, I have already turned 30. And for the past year or so, I have gotten used to (although preemptive) referring to myself as “a thirty year old.” I remember after 2004 when my friend Bolla flashed a badge to me from her work in Ohio on the Presidential Campaign. She said casually to me as an Ohio Kerry alum- “here’s my street cred.” I think turning 30 this Tuesday is a bit of street cred for me. Maybe I should print myself a badge. And put it around my neck.

I think that I have I’ve survived a lot. So I am proud of turning 30. On the other hand, I do feel a death of a certain life. By no means do I expect my 30’s to be tired or without travel. Ethiopia and El Salvador are next on my list, and as spiritual pilgrimages. I do not expect to have less sex or become more conservative politically, I simply imagine that in this next age, I shall be better. I want to be kinder, and more empathetic. I want to wear lipstick regularly, and go by my nicknames more frequently. I want to find a good PhD program, and pour my heart into my research. I want to commit to a life partner whom I admire beyond words. I want to visit my parents more, because I miss them. And I want to love Luke in ways that I never imagined.

This is all I want.

Because I am so lucky, I have so very little to want.

Ministry

Today, I believe that I ministered for the first time, and not by example or deed, or any of those creative ways in which we hold tribute to living in the way of God’s kingdom, but in real conversation as a woman with a past to a woman with a past. I didn’t realize that I had ministered this afternoon, until several hours later while washing my dishes, and it just came over me. I remembered the joy I felt in my afternoon ministry; the comfort I felt in being there, and most of all, the normalcy of it to me - - it flooded my body, and I left the soapy sponge, in the crusty pasta sauce, in the bowl, in the sink, so I could sit down and think for a few minutes about the encounter.

Despite all the discussion about the topic at Divinity School, my brain is continually skeptical of forgiveness. My heart, - - a big fan of grace. But mercy, -- that’s what gives me a lump in my throat. My friend Sam who lives at Riverbend Maximum Security Institute is sort of like a grandfather figure to me, and he says that I must always remember mercy. He says God is only about mercy. “If he can remember mercy, why can’t I,” I often wonder.

Today I sat with a woman who is pursuing her PhD, and we talked about our lives, and the story of our twenties. I asked what she had done before her graduate school work. Laughing, at first she said she was a prostitute. I made a joke about her clientel. Then she paused and she said, “No, actually, in all seriousness, I was a drug dealer and I went to jail. And my boyfriend who I told you about, I met him in a halfway house.” In the shadow of Vanderbilt’s Kirkland Hall, I thought she was pulling my leg. But I quickly thought about my own life. A montage of my past came through my vision: the struggles, the goodbyes, the violence, the wilderness of my existence. I remembered that I am as much a victim and a sinner, as everybody else, and I realized that this woman was telling me the truth. She was a drug dealer before she was an academic. She was a liar before she was seeking the truth in these halls. So we talked, and talked, and talked, about our lives. There were no tears. There were no ah-ha moments. And when we were done, we got up with our lattes, and walked in the sunshine, back to our school work. And when I washed my dishes, I realized that I finally understood what ministry was about. Mercy.

resurrection

Even though the world has failed, the healing capacity of the human experience has no limits. I can never know your pain, but I can tell you about mine. Together, we may live in communion, and change the failures of the world.

Today, in a lecture on the ethics of sex (within the context of the norm of the black church's no-talk policy), my professor discussed “sexual consent” and his own experience as a rape survivor. He read some of his new book that addresses this topic. Needless to say, I was profoundly surprised by his choice to speak so openly about something so painful and rarely discussed. He said that he has had a lot of time and therapy to get to the other side of this, to take power from it, name it, and talk with people about it. After class, I went to his office to thank him for the lecture. I said, “That room is full of rape survivors. You just know it.” We will never be able to measure the impact of Victor’s lecture today. He inspired future church leaders to speak about the sexual problems going on sometimes right in the choir chambers of the church. He also gave permission to all of us, to take back our lives; lives that have been slowly stolen from us at the hands of sexual violence, shame, and silence. There is a life after the silence.

Eight years ago, I was followed into a public restroom in Washington, DC, and my head was slammed against a mirror several times, and I was raped. People nearby could hear my frantic laughter as it was happening. I was left alone with my attacker, and then taken by him to a second location where he continued to rape me. Thank goodness, the only thing that I can remember from the second location was waking up and screaming when my head was being bashed again. The following day was probably the weirdest day of my life. During the weeks of panic attacks, issued blame, and months of anxiety, I worked closely with a therapist, as I tried to reclaim my life, and get better. My parents and friends helped me too. It was an imperfect journey, ignited by the social sin of rape, and guided by the human instinct for survival. By being honest and committing to do this work, ultimately my life was saved. Obviously this is the very abbreviated version of what happened to me, and of how it profoundly affected my life and my personhood. But at the end of the day, the details are not the story.

There is one book that I found to be tremendously helpful, and I think everyone should read it, rape survivor or not: After Silence, Rape and My Journey Back, by Nancy Venable Raine.

Before Raine published the book, close friends said things to her like, ''Let's face it, no one wants to hear about such terrible things.'' And, ''I just can't imagine how you can write about something so . . . so very personal.'' And, ''Shall we get off rape to something . . . agreeable?'' Shame presupposes wrongdoing. The things we do not talk about are the things we have done wrong, right? A DUI? A divorce? An F in a class. She writes: ''The sense that I was responsible for the rape supported a more important belief, one that I could not give up, although it had been severely damaged. It was the belief that I could control what happened to me, that my actions had a bearing on the outcome of my life.''

The vast topic of rape is something I occasionally talk to friends about. I never know what they have been through. Without it becoming my identity, I hope that my openness about this can somehow help others who have suffered with the aftermath of a rape, - -people who understand that it is the terror of the violence and the power and the robbing of one’s personhood that is the story of rape, or repeat rapes. It is about being told: "you are not human." Eight years later, I remember dealing with the anxiety, panic, depression, helplessness, and confusion, - - but I usually think of the people who do not have access to help, or who never got help in time. I on the other hand, have been given a new life.

We all need to be part of an open conversation about this social demon, in order to save the lives of those suffering in silence. Inspired by Victor’s lecture, today I am reaching out to you.

to be a witness and an actor

"I heard something else; at the foot of that cross, inside the thousands of churches across the city, I imagined the stories of ordinary black people merging with the stories of David and Goliath, Moses and Pharaoh, the Christians in the lion's den, Ezekiel's field of dry bones. Those stories of survival, and freedom, and hope became our story, my story; the blood that had spilled was our blood, the tears our tears; until this black church, on this bright day, seemed once more a vessel carrying the story of a people into future generations and into a larger world. Our trials and triumphs became at once unique and universal, black and more than black; in chronicling our journey, the stories and songs gave us a means to reclaim memories that we didn't need to feel shame about memories that all people might study and cherish and with which we could start to rebuild." - Barack Obama, today

Today at Starbucks, my friend spoke of how liberation theology became embodied for her at the recent ordination of our colleague Darius. She said, "sometimes liberation theology is just so structured and I just can't feel the person in it." While listening to Obama, today and nearly everyday - a human face is exposed in the black church experience. Black, white, female, male,gay, straight - may we all seek to confront the ethnic imperialism of the white, Protestant, heteronormative experience.

if laughing is loving

A friend recently forwarded this email to me; an email that I sent out last June. Rereading it, I think it can be applied to my life in general, not just that particular trip. As I prepare to visit Bangladesh for the first time, I wonder what will confront my senses and ignite my passions, but I don't think anything has ever ignited my passions the way my friendships have.

- - -
To All~

I have the privilege of traveling in Haiti until August 21. Access to email will be sporadic, but please email me. I will be visiting new towns, and old friends from last summer, while I gather information for my Masters thesis. Haiti brings to my life unequivocal inspiration along with deep spiritual and intellectual angst. In Haiti, there are no distractions from the need, or the joy, of the moment.

When scary things happen in Haiti, --things that I can't control-- I will think of you, and your laughter, and the very funny moments I've shared with you. If laughing is loving, then I am the luckiest woman in the world to love and to be loved with such severity. Vibrant photos promised upon my return to Nashville.

Before the grace of you, go I.

Love, Kate

live the call of your own dexter avenue

Coretta Scott King and her husband, a leader and martyr of the Civil Rights movement, - were heroes among heroes. She was a mother and an activist. She was a dignified widow who continued her husband Martin’s work. She had faith that could move mountains. Through my political work, and Washingtonian social relationships I have had the pleasure of meeting numerous historical figures, celebrities, and writers - but meeting Mrs. King was one encounter that I will always remember.

My sophomore and junior years in college, I was very involved with a student lecture series on campus at American University called The Kennedy Political Union (KPU). As Director of Logistics, it was my responsibility to “make sure the trains run on time.” Before each event, I would often spend a week coordinating all of the on and off campus entities pertinent in making a lecture happen. During my time with KPU, we hosted a wide range of historical and political icons including His Holiness the Dali Lama and Charleton Heston.

It was October of 1998 when Mrs. King was our guest speaker. In preparation, her handler - a very protective assistant - was quite particular about how things would need to be on the day of her speech. The arrangement we agreed upon with her assistant was as follows: On the day of the speech, she (and her assistant) would have cocktails at President Ladner's house before heading over to campus. Upon her arrival, we would greet hold a small meet and greet for KPU members with Mrs. King. Then, the officers would escort the President, his wife, Mrs. King, (and her handler of course), by elevator, down to the stage. Mrs. King would speak for however long and then return for a private reception with the members of the Kennedy Political Union. It was essential in the handler’s orders that Mrs. King not encounter any one other than KPU staff before and after the speech. This may have been a security measure.

For an hour or so before this, I arranged that the elevator essentially go into “lock” mode so no random American University folks could possibly get on board and interrupt our journey with Mrs. King down to the floor of the gymnasium where she would walk to the stage for speaking. As back up, I placed a student with a walkie-talkie on every single floor with the explicit instructions "do not let anyone on to the elevator.” When it was time, I sent the message to them all via walkie-talkie that Mrs. King, the Ladners, and the Officers have gotten into the elevator. Things were going smoothly. We rode in silence. Then the elevator stopped on floor seven. "Why is the elevator stopped, what is happening?” It is holds for a few seconds. The doors open and a sweaty, stinky, gross guy on rollerblades wearing a bizarre hat gets right on!!

I was tempted to say “hey- stop - you can’t get on,” but I didn’t want to appear ungracious in front of a woman who had allowed the most gracious act possible – the sacrifice of her husband, and the father of her children. Derrida says the only true gift is the gift of one’s life. I stood in an elevator with a woman who had given a sacred gift for our country, and prevailed not in silence but with a voice. Appearing to be absolutely unaware of the serious-looking and dignified Mrs. King in a bright red suit, along with the President of the University and his wife dressed to the nines--- this guy rollerblades right into the elevator and journeys with us all the way to the gym floor.

It was difficult for me to hold back the laughter. With in a few seconds that seemed to pass like hours- the doors opened and Mrs. King exited – arm in arm with her handler, who gave the stare of death to the poor kid on the gym floor with the walkie-talkie.

After a most inspiring speech to nearly two thousand people, I visited with Mrs. King at the private reception upstairs. With a big lump in my throat, I approached her, and I felt such humility. She was sitting down, resting in a chair. I walked over and thanked her for her work, and for the inspiring speech. With her left hand she squeezed my left hand. I looked down at her wedding ring, and thought about her husband. She continued to hold my hand for longer than I expected and she said, "Soon, you will be doing this too. You will be doing the work my husband and I dedicated our lives to.”

That moment and those words are so accessible and fresh in my memory. Yet, it was almost a decade ago. Reflecting, I think about how I have most certainly failed in the covenant I made on that day. But I also think of the old adage that says - if you are not backsliding then your standards are just not high enough.

I took this photo in 2006 on a mini-pilgrimage to Montgomery, Alabama. The Kings lived in this house from 1954 to 1960 while Rev. King was ministering at Dexter Avenue. He initially took the position at Dexter Avenue thinking it would be a quiet place to work and finish up his PhD dissertation, but the black domestic workers and cooks were organizing. They were waiting for him. And he arrived.

where is baby jesus?

We must not seek the child Jesus
in the pretty figures of our Christmas cribs.
We must seek him among the undernourished children
who have gone to bed at night with nothing to eat,
among the poor newsboys
who will sleep covered with newspapers in doorways.
Archbishop Oscar Romero, December 24, 1979

so then you will know who you are

Yesterday, Cal Turner, Jr. (a big time financial donor to Vanderbilt and Project Pyramid) spoke to a class that I am in. As the CEO of Dollar General for 40 years, Cal Turner engaged a business model that allowed him to cater to the needs of the working and lower classes while involving thousands of employees in the management and profits of the company and still he managed to out shine people like Jack Welch in shareholder profits. He was very wise, funny, and smart about the business of mixing God’s work with the business world. For me, this was the most striking thing that he said:

“You must find where you feel the least adequate but where there is the most need, because it is in that place where the opportunity for the most impact lies. What is your greatest challenge? Are you willing to accept the freedom of accepting your greatest challenge? If your work has an underlying mission to it, your work can help you understand who you are. So then, when the (whatever you call it in the halls of Divinity school) hits the fan, you will know who you are.”

everybody wants to be found

but then what?