Bending Toward Justice

Over Thanksgiving I had a conversation with an old friend about how we should respond to institutional discrimination against others.  It wasn’t just the kind of philosophical chit-chat overthinkers like the two of us are prone to engage in.  The conversation arose from real circumstances that are causing a crisis of conscience for my friend.

At its heart, the question is this: If you are part of an institution that systematically discriminates against a group of people, is it better to leave so as not to be complicit in perpetuating the discrimination by supporting an institution that is too stubborn to change, or is it better to stay and fight the prejudice from within even if that means you try and fail, over and over, beating your head against an immovable wall? 

Generally, I’m a stay-and-fight, speak-truth-to-power kind of person, but I also recognize that there are times when your continued involvement does more harm than good, making it better to leave.  Sometimes the harm to your own spirit is enough to warrant your departure.

My friend has been fighting the discrimination from within for some time now, and it’s taking a toll on her.  She is unwavering in her commitment to justice.  She speaks up and advocates for marginalized people.  But she’s tired of being the lone voice, frustrated at the lack of progress, and increasingly convinced that she’s doing no good.  And so she has started to wonder, should she stay and keep fighting what might be an unwinnable battle, or should she leave and commit her talents to a different institution that treats people fairly because the battle has already been fought and won?  Which choice better promotes the cause of justice?

As you consider the question, ask yourself whether it matters who is facing discrimination or what kind of institution we’re talking about.  It could be discrimination against people of color, immigrants, Muslims, LGBTQ+, or any other group.  It could be occurring in a government office, private company, university, church, or even a preschool playgroup.  If you knew who and where, would that change your answer?  Should it change your answer?

We didn’t solve my friend’s dilemma in our afternoon of conversation.  I’m not sure there is a single best answer.

Since then, I’ve continued to mull it over.  I was so moved by my friend’s sincere desire to do what’s right that I haven’t been able to let the question go.  The more I think about it, the more Lillie Mae Bradford keeps popping into my mind.

In 1951, four years before Rosa Parks famously refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery city bus, Lillie Mae Bradford was arrested and charged with disorderly conduct for sitting in the white section of a bus in that same city.  Unlike Parks and unlike the plaintiffs in Browder v. Gayle, the case that eventually struck down bus segregation, Bradford found no justice and no recognition for her activism.  The arrest record plagued her throughout her life, limiting her employment options.  Even after the US Supreme Court affirmed in 1956 that bus segregation was unconstitutional, Bradford’s criminal record remained.  Fifty-five years passed before she was offered a pardon under the Rosa Parks Act, which became law in Alabama in 2006.   

Bradford did not change the world when she took a seat in the white section of the bus.  Her civil disobedience and subsequent arrest did not end segregation.  She did not win that day.  She was simply one person who chose to fight injustice, even though it must have felt like beating her head against an immovable wall.

Though her name has largely been forgotten, do you truly believe she made no difference?  Or do you believe, like I do, that she was a pioneer who showed others that it was possible for ordinary people to be brave and to fight for what is right? 

I don’t know who else was on the bus when Ms. Bradford took a seat that day, but I like to imagine the initial shock that rippled through both the white and black sections, slowly yielding to consternation, confusion, and then fear and anger, and later that day, that week, that month, the ongoing conversations in living rooms, bars, and church parking lots about what this one ordinary woman did and what it might mean.  Undoubtedly, many whites remained unflinchingly committed to the immovable wall of segregation.  And yet, she must have caused at least a hairline fracture in that wall.  There must have been some whites somewhere who felt the first pangs of doubt, the first hints that the world would change, that it must change, that they could not stop progress.  And what about people of color?  Surely, Ms. Bradford’s actions bolstered someone’s spirit and encouraged in them the same conviction that progress was inevitable if only because people like her kept beating on that immovable wall.  Who else did she embolden to take a swing at it?

Deep inside the story of Lillie Mae Bradford, and also in the story of my friend’s dilemma, is the question of what it means to be a hero, a term we often bandy about too freely with those who succeed but withhold from those who don’t.  It’s a term I think we mostly misunderstand. 

Heroism lies not in victory but in the courage to try.

Heroes don’t always win.  They aren’t always the last ones standing when the battle is over or the ones whose names and deeds everyone remembers.  But they matter.  They remind us we’re not alone.  They inspire us to act.  Without them, the rest of us might never find our own courage to stand up, speak out, and do what’s right.

This friend of mine who discussed her dilemma with me is one of my personal heroes.  Years ago, when I was struggling with the realization that I was gay, I was paralyzed by fear, fear of being rejected, fear of what it would mean for my future, fear that there was something deeply wrong with me.  Some people in my life kept their distance, or worse, fed my fears with their own.  Doubt wrapped itself around me like a dense fog, isolating me from the world, obscuring nearly everything good in my life. During that time, this friend was a bright light that never went out, cutting through the fog, giving me hope, helping me see my way through.

Her kindnesses were small and simple.  Friendship.  A lot of laughs.  A hug when I needed it.  And most of all, never treating me any differently after I came out.  Simple acts, offered freely and with love, that reminded me I was not alone. Those small kindnesses were powerful and healing.  She had courage to spare, and she shared it with me until I could find my own.

She is one of my heroes for the same reason she is struggling with her current decision, she believes in the kind of justice that is made of love and compassion, openness and understanding. 

Echoing the words of 19th century abolitionist Theodore Parker, Martin Luther King, Jr. reminded us that "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice." What that quote fails to note is that it doesn't bend on its own. It requires something of us to bend it. My friend has a gift for bending the moral universe toward justice. 

I don’t know what decision she will make in her current dilemma, to stay and keep pounding on the immovable wall, or to go and advocate for justice in another place, in another way.  Whatever she decides, I know this – it will be right, not because she will claim victory over discrimination, but because she has been and remains committed to fighting it with love.  And like that day in Montgomery in 1951, when Lillie Mae Bradford took a seat in the white section of the bus, others are watching.

Heroes don’t always win.  They don’t always conquer the bad guys or defeat injustice.  Sometimes, like Lillie Mae Bradford, and like my friend, they simply inspire us with their courage and remind us that we’re not alone.  And that bends the moral universe in the right direction.