I found myself in a four-hour virtual conference yesterday. Four. Hours. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the virtual platforms. That technology has allowed me and millions of others the opportunity to continue to work during this never-ending COVID dance. But we were about five minutes in when I found myself thinking, “I don’t belong here.”
By all rights, I did belong there. The information was directly in line with my work. To be real, it was a required meeting, so there’s that. But scrolling through the list of attendees turned up one familiar face and maybe one or two others who appeared to be someone I would feel comfortable approaching. And nothing makes a four-hour marathon Zoom call longer than feeling alone.
I bought a shirt last month that has “I’m not as calm as I look” emblazoned across the chest. Most people think that it’s easy for me to speak where I do, whether that’s at a local community meeting or in front of Congress, but, the truth is, I am always very nervous and uncomfortable. My hands shake. My knees shake. I find myself short of breath and rushed. And if I’m emotionally involved, my voice will crack and I’ll have to fight back tears. I am not afraid of the stage (I sang for years), but it’s always a bit unnerving.
Despite that, I generally end up there and it doesn’t quite make sense, does it? It’s weird because the systems marginalized folks battle on a large national scale are the same on the state level and on a local level. They’re also a part of the industrial nonprofit complex. Since that’s where I spend a majority of my time, that’s sometimes the hardest to swallow.
I know just enough when I enter these spaces “to be dangerous,” as my mom says. I usually sit quietly, especially if it’s a national call. Nowadays, though, someone always wants to hear from West Virginia because of our senator, and I’m often the only one on the call. Today, the question was about how West Virginians feel about tax something or other. There was an “also, while we think about that” added to the end and my mind was already planning an escape.
My thoughts went something like this: ” .”
I had nothing. I didn’t even finish listening to his question because my mind was already building an exit door. I said something about how I didn’t feel comfortable talking about it and how one area we could really improve is creating an education platform so everyone could understand and blah blah blah.
It worked. For nearly 30 minutes, the discussion was around how to change the way advocacy organizations should change the culture of the work to be more equitable and less exclusive. I see it as a win because that conversation needs to be had. Suddenly, there’s an elevated need to include affected people in the work because they’re the experts. I’m sure it’s because grants require that now from most funders, which is fine because marginalized folks need to be talked to and not about. But they shouldn’t have to feel afraid to do it if asked by a helper.
Here are some things to check:
*If your organization/group/agency says things like “we aren’t having any success with collecting stories” or “we are having a difficult time identifying people who want to be involved” or the word “they/them” because you don’t know anyone, then the obstacles you’re experiencing probably begin inside rather than outside.
*If you are inviting marginalized folks to sit in positions of power within your organization and then don’t allow any authentic participation, such as not offering or preparing for them to hold office, then you’re perpetuating the same ole system you’re claiming to dismantle. Serving on a board, in my opinion, should make a great entry on a resume and serve as a springboard.
*If you are in the business of advocating for folks and planning events in marginalized communities, look around the table to see who’s there from within that community. Because when attendance is low and you’re looking to place blame on the community, you’re ignoring your problematic approach.
And lastly, please hear this one:
*If you’re pushing the “feed them and they’ll come” rhetoric, don’t pretend that a couple slices of pizza, or a hot dog and chips, served with a side of raw broccoli and celery sticks, is worth the effort of rearranging schedules and adding stress to an already stressful life.
We need to flip the switch and stop pushing this “we’re doing great things for you and you need us” stuff and start listening to “we’re living through hard things and need an ally, not a savior.”
Onward,
Amy Jo
