Strike a Pose

If you were asked to strike a pose that represents the word "fear," what would you do with your body? Would you cower and crouch down on the ground? Would you hide behind your hands?

What if you were supposed to enact "courage?" Would you defiantly put your hands on your waist and stare out at the world with a powerful gaze?

And how would you explain, express, or enact a moment of transition between fear and courage? Might that pose include you peeking up from your hiding place? Perhaps standing up straight with a curious glance in one direction on the other?

Last night at the third of the six week series on The New Jim Crow, Amalia Deloney led us through a practice that emerged from the Theater of the Oppressed - you can read a little bit about it here and here. She explained "image theater" to us and then asked us to strike a pose, enacting words related to oppression, liberation, and the transition from the former to the latter.

The exercise we engaged in pushed us to ask and answer these questions - What happens in our minds when we hear certain words, when we are asked to respond to those words, when we allow our bodies to reveal what our minds have understood? And then, how do we explain how we decided to strike the pose we have struck?

And all those questions got me thinking about more questions.

How does my mind respond, how does my body respond when I read that a friend of mine was held up at gunpoint down in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, yesterday?

How does my mind respond, how does my body respond when I hear that someone dear to someone I love has been diagnosed with stage 4 kanswer?

How does my mind respond, how does my body respond when my twenty year old son texts me at midnight and tells me that he is about to leave a friend's house and drive home?


How do the minds and bodies of young children respond when they are asked to read a book out loud - especially when those young children are struggling with reading on their grade level? Do they make excuses for why they can't figure out the words? Do they claim to be tired, too tired to have to keep doing their work? Do they look up from the book and begin to tell stories unrelated to the book in order to avoid reading? Do their minds conjure up self-sabotaging statements like, "I can't do this"? "This is boring."

What pose can I strike that helps them realize that they don't have to make excuses?
They don't have to make up stories.
They don't have to guess at the words.
I'm there to read with them, not embarrass them.
I'm there to help them sound out new words, not shame them for what they don't yet know.
How can I use my face, my hands, my body to express to them that they are safe with me?
That they can relax and trust that we will work through this tough word,
this convoluted story together?

And what happens when those same kids become teenagers and they are still uncomfortable reading and writing? What happens when they are teased by classmates and humiliated by teachers and others in authority over them? What poses do they strike then? Do they put their hands on their hips with exaggerated bravado and turn into frightened, defensive, aggressive bullies? Do they drop out of school and drop into a life of violence, crime, and drugs? Do they find themselves striking a pose in a police precinct having their photos taken, from the front, the sides, and the back?

What they do not and cannot fully comprehend at their young ages is that the first time they strike that prisoner pose, they are being ushered into a system that will never let them go. Jail. Prison. Parole. Probation. Loss of the right to vote, to sit on a jury, to obtain public assistance if they need it, public housing, school loans, many jobs. All of which are the themes of The New Jim Crow. It's reminds me of that famous line from the old Eagles song, Hotel California, that says, "You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave." But the mass incarceration system of the United State of America does not let you check out anytime you like. Nor can you ever leave. The label "felon" holds you captive for life.


What if a few hours of tutoring,
helping elementary school students learn to read more confidently,
teaching middle school students the joy and fun and freedom of journaling,
encouraging high school and college age young people to put their words on paper,
to tell their stories,
reminding them that their stories matter,
that their black lives matter,
that their immigrant lives matter,
that their existence matters,
that their stories matter,
that their words matter -
what if just a few hours spent with a few kids makes a difference somehow?
What if a few hours of personal attention, of encouragement, of dependable presence matter?

Let's forget about the kids for a moment... well, let's never forget about the kids.
But let's take a look in the mirror for a moment.

What poses are we striking these days?
Especially when someone mentions race and racism?
Poverty and wealth?
Crime and drug addiction?
Politics and the government?
Police brutality and repeated acquittals for killing unarmed and innocent people?
Do our shoulders drop in shame or fear?
Do our spines stiffen with anger or indignation?
Do we turn and look away, hoping the subject will change?
Do we pretend to be asleep, so that we don't have to talk about these topics at all?

Speaking of being asleep, what pose would you strike if someone asked you to enact the word "asleep"? That's actually a pretty easy word to act out. Shut your eyes. Lay down. Sit on a comfortable chair. Put your feet up. Turn away from everyone and everything around you.

How would your mind respond, how would your body respond if you heard the word "awake"?
If you heard the phrase "Stay 'woke," what would you do with your body?
Now that you are hearing all these tragic stories of injustice and murder,
now that you are becoming aware of the racism and hate that are so prevalent in our country,
now that many of the tragedies that have been described are being videotaped,
what does it mean to "stay 'woke"? To stay alert?
To act on what you are now awakened to?
Because once you wake up, you can't go back to sleep on this stuff.
Once you see what you are seeing, you cannot "unsee" it.
I know I can't.

Over the past few months, when I think about writing a blog post, I often hold back because I am repeatedly drawn back to these difficult, uncomfortable, impolite, inconvenient, un-funny issues and topics. It's not that I'm not thankful on Thursdays anymore. It's just that sometimes writing a gratitude post feels so superficial when people are living on the street. When people are dying in the street. When people are being tossed out onto the street because of "urban renewal" and "gentrification." It's increasingly difficult to write lists of the things I'm privileged to eat, drink, and do with my free time when some of the children I've met and read with may not have anything to eat for dinner tonight.

So I find myself, like my classmates last night, figuring out what my transitional poses are.
I find it increasingly necessary to a pose that depicts my current state of being between being asleep and staying 'woke. Here are few of the poses I've been striking lately -

* sitting next to rising first graders, reading with them, asking them questions about the books we read, watching them draw pictures of scenes they remember from the books we've read
* standing in front of 30 rising fourth, fifth, and sixth graders, telling them that their lives do matter, and they they can pick a notebook and write down or draw out the stories of their lives that they want to tell
* looking up into the face of a homeless man, HIV positive, riddled with anxiety, so much so that he cannot even sleep at men's shelters because the presence of so many people incites unmitigated panic, listening to his story, crying with him as he talked about his wife's recent death due to kanswer, his subsequent house fire, and how he has had to use his Social Security money to pay for his wife's grave plot, not able to do anything but listen and cry and give him a hug before he took the bus to part of Charlotte where he has established his campsite.
* sitting and looking up, watching and listening to Patrice as she drops gems of wisdom into the center of the room every Thursday night, as she firmly challenges people deeply mired in patterns of self-centeredness and domination to wake up, and as she refuses to let any of us fall back asleep in our silos of safety.

Last night, as I walked around my classmates, pondering the poses they were striking,
as I listened to their stories of encounters with police,
stories of their children's encounters with police,
stories of white privilege and white fragility,
stories of fear and anger,
stories of hope and courage,
of determination and action,
as I watched Patrice and Amalia watch us wrestle with concepts we've never learned before,
I was thankful for our individual and collective humility to
strike a pose
as students, as apprentices,
as newly awakened co-travelers on this journey
towards wholeness,
towards knowledge,
towards power,
towards healing,
towards hope,
towards justice.

Please consider joining us.
Please consider joining the movement wherever you are.
Please wake up, stand up, and act up.


PS. I guess it was a Thankful Thursday after all.