 I was taught to be a nice girl. You know, nice and polite and quiet. It didn’t stick, thank God.
I’m connected, but not nice. I genuinely care about the people in my life. I pray for people in checkout lines while I wait. Really. I’ll also tell the people in my life the hard truth, like they need to end that broken relationship. Nice is surface. Connection is deep. Polite isn’t my gig. Caring is. I’ll show up at your house with dinner after you’ve had a baby, tell you all the gruesome facts about postpartum, laugh with you, cry with you, and go out to purchase you some hemorrhoid spray if you need it. Ms. Manners would have me leave a nice note with food at the door. This full postpartum disclosure is definitely not polite by my mother’s standards. I talk about everything, mixed company or not. By the way, what is mixed company nowadays, anyhow? I AM NOT QUIET. Outspoken? Without question. I am usually the loudest person in a room. I’m a preacher for goodness sakes! Stop telling me to be quiet unless someone is sleeping. I could have been that nice girl, maybe, but nice was too small and tidy a cage. I tried occasionally to fit my big personality into that cage, but it never fit. It always burst out. . *** Nancy Pelosi was probably taught to be a nice girl too. Yes, she grew up attending political rallies and learning the importance of social justice. Yet as the youngest of seven and the only daughter, who attended an all girls Catholic school, I’m certain she was exposed to the cult of nice. Ripping up Trump’s state of the union speech on prime time TV was not “nice.” It was not polite. Ironically, it was a very quiet LOUD action. It was angry. Here are some facts (not alternative facts, but real facts):
Trump and Limbaugh rip up humans. Nancy Pelosi ripped up a speech. That’s it. Her anger was contained. She was silent. She did not interrupt the state of the union. Nevertheless, her actions were labeled as childish, bitter, and classless by the same people who have embraced the hateful speech of the man who holds the highest office in the nation. Is this because they are hypocrites? Clearly. But it’s also because as a culture we do not tolerate angry women. Why are we not applauding Nancy Pelosi for keeping her anger in check for as long as she did in this hateful new political landscape? How did she keep from screaming against a bigot who practices cruel, sexism, racism, and nationalism? We should applaud her for appropriately and publicly revealing her anger toward not only a president, but also a senate that has embraced a corrupt president. If she were a man we would have applauded her. Men are allowed to prophesy, angrily. If Nancy Pelosi had a penis, she would have been celebrated as a powerful leader instead of a childish, bitter woman. But Nancy Pelosi isn’t bitter at men, she’s angry at injustice. And she should be. Jesus wants her to be. We just don’t know how to handle anger in those we have deemed inhuman and undeserving: people of color, women, LGBTQ+, immigrants, and others. White men, on the other hand, are allowed to be angry. You need look no further than Brett Kavanaugh’s rage or Lindsey Graham's theatrics during the confirmation hearings. There is also the POTUS who tweetstorms his fury daily. But Nancy Pelosi’s controlled, visible anger at the State of the Union riled the patriarchy because America can’t make room for women’s unabashed anger in our chauvinist culture. America likes nice girls, not powerful, bold women who show up ready to fight. *** Like Nancy, as a deeply connected christian, I cannot ignore the plight of others. Whole groups of people in our country are struggling with basic human rights such as health care, food, shelter, and education, due to the inhumane policies of our current administration. Nice can turn away from their suffering, but Nancy can’t, and I can’t. As a minister confronted daily with the needs of the least of God’s children, during an administration that dismisses and often mocks God’s beloved people, my anger rightfully rises. It rises because I am a disciple of Jesus. May yours rise as well.
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 My high school dean silenced me as a 17 year old girl with the exact words, “We already know what you think.” I had gathered a group of female classmates to tell her that the physics teacher was raping our classmate. She was annoyed with me, troublemaker that I am. You can learn more of my story in this blog. When the truth of my allegations came out 30 years later, after an extensive investigation by a law firm, she lost her job at my high school. There had been a culture of abuse, the law firm determined, and the dean had been complicit, so the school let her go.abbyhenrich.weebly.com/community/archives/10-2017
She was immediately hired at a prestigious college. What is the way forward after #MeToo? Should my dean’s career be ruined indefinitely for what she said to me 25 years ago and for her complicity in a culture of abuse and her willful denial? Or should she be forgiven and allowed to continue her work in education? These questions are important: How we heal as individuals and as a society is the significant work before us in this new #MeToo world. Let me begin by telling you what is NOT helpful in this healing process:
What IS helpful? I can only answer this question from my very individual perspective. Recently I have been learning about restorative justice as an alternative to our criminal justice system. At the heart of restorative justice is the involvement of the victim. If someone were to ask me what would restore justice to me after the #MeToo experience I endured at Nichols, I believe I have a clear answer:
That’s it. Face to face listening and an apology. From my perspective this is a simple request. Would it be emotionally exhausting? Yes. Would they be incredibly brave to do it? Yes. Without question. Would it be worth it? I deeply believe it would be. There is no way forward without reconciliation. Reconciliation takes telling and listening. It takes acknowledging pain, asking for forgiveness and offering forgiveness. It takes facing the past together and looking forward to a future. It takes collectively struggling for a new way. I also wonder if I were to come face to face with my dean and headmaster, if we could grieve together for the people we were, trapped in a terrible system. They might have been as trapped as I was and in need of just as much healing. I refuse to accept that they are morally bankrupt humans. Instead, I would guess that both are deeply troubled by what happened and desire a way forward. If I were granted an opportunity for restorative justice with my dean, how would that change my perception of her new position? If she was brave enough to engage with me in authentic conversation and listen with an open heart to my story, I would speak positively about her new beginning. I would remind others that we cannot judge someone solely on their past, and that together, as a community, we must move forward into this new #MeToo world bravely and honestly. Only this way can we create a world where everyone is safe. This is the work of our community. It is not the work of an individual alone in therapy who is told too often to forgive, move on, and get over it. I do not know how this can happen without reconciliation. As the victim, I feel powerless. I am too aware that some do not want to hear me call myself a victim nor admit that I feel powerless, but there it is, my truth. I am too worn out to do anymore of this work on my own. Who will the champion be?  It’s Christmas time. Everyone wants a tender story of goodwill. I could share one of those stories with you. I have at least ten. I could tell you how the outpouring of new coats filled my office so that I couldn’t even walk to my closet; we delivered over 60 coats to low income children at the Chittick School. I could tell you about the bags filled with good things for children who have nothing to eat delivered to my house daily. I could tell you about the two brand new bikes in the church parlor waiting to be delivered to children who would otherwise have nothing to open on Christmas day. I could even tell you about the breakfast spread for hard working teachers that folks with no connection to the school made happen because that is what staff at a school deserve. Instead I am going to tell you two stories that might leave you heartbroken, maybe hopeful, and awake to the power of social capital. Story one: Yesterday was food pantry day at Rose’s Bounty at the Stratford Street Church where I am pastor. Running a food pantry is exhausting, complicated, and a bit like managing utter chaos. A little girl was waiting outside with her mother. Wisely, the mother had her daughter wait just inside the door out of the cold. While walking to my office I discovered this sweet child, waiting patiently. She was warmly dressed and quiet. I asked her if her mom was outside. She looked at me with wide eyes. I then asked her if she would like a drink. No response, but an earnest wide-eyed look. I fetched her a juice box and raisins. She responded to my meager gift, “Gracias.” Manners and patience she had in abundance, and only Spanish. But why wasn’t she in school? She was old enough. Our Spanish speaking volunteer and client, Jamie, was the person to help. Before the commotion started, I recruited Jamie to help me speak with the parent so we could enroll this wide eyed child in school. Jamie didn’t forget. In the middle of the chaos, he found the mom and brought her to me, ready to translate. To our surprise, the mother spoke perfect English. How was this possible? In the middle of a hundred plus people shopping for food, I learned her story. She is Venezuelan. She lived in the U.S. for sometime as a child which is why her English was perfect. She returned to Venezuela with her family before high school, but the grinding poverty and political unrest was too much. Fortunately, she was able to escape, and she was able to bring her daughter. Tears rose in her eyes, falling silently as she gripped the pink jacket enfolding her daughter in warmth. The daughter watched as we cried. Her daughter wasn’t in school because she didn’t want to lose her. What if ICE found her in school? What if the teachers reported her? What if she was deported? I have social capital: I am a well educated, rich white woman AND a pastor. Somehow when the poor discover I am a pastor they immediately trust me. I only have to utter the words “I am a minister” and faces relax, language slows, and always there is an exhale. I assured this desperate mom that all children, regardless of their housing situation, citizenship status, or language, can attend school in Boston. Quickly she shared this news with her daughter whose little face lit up. She could go to school. I grabbed that mother’s hands and assured her that her daughter would not be taken from her, that they were safe, that they would survive, and then I cried with her. I’m not sure if I cried from joy or because I knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. I do believe that in Boston, with the right precautions, you are relatively safe as an undocumented immigrant, especially in the school system. Yet before me was a loving mother who had risked everything to escape grinding poverty in Venezuela, but in America was terrified to send her child to school. What kind of world do we live in? Later today I received a text from the mother, “You have been an angel for my daughter and me that I cannot put into words. Thank you, thank you. Bless you this Christmas.” I am no angel. I am just a privileged woman who knows the federal law: public schools may not ask about a child’s immigration status, Plyler vs. Doe (457 U.S. 202 (1982)). Story two: We had a new client at the food pantry today. She saw we had children’s coats and asked if she could look through them for her son. Of course, we told her. She found me outside later, shoveling the walkway. She wanted to make sure she thanked me for the help. Then she asked, “Do you have another shovel?” I insisted she didn’t need to help me. “Go home and unpack your groceries.” “I feel bad,” she told me. “What for?” I asked. “Because I don’t want you shoveling alone.” I retrieved the other snow shovel. We talked while we shoveled. I found out this tall woman was not only a mom but a college graduate. Where from I asked? Northeastern. She is also an immigrant. She is also the first person in her family to graduate from college. Her career derailed when her young son started having seizures and her young brother died. She had to leave work to care for her son and her depression was overwhelming after her brother’s death. She was homeless for over a year, but she moved into section eight housing in August. Her son is doing so much better since they have been living in permanent housing. Once, she had dreamed of going to law school. Now, she is hopeful that she is back on track. If my son had seizures, my job would give me time off. If I was deeply depressed my family would take care of me, as my in-laws did when they moved in for three weeks while I had postpartum depression. I would never be homeless. I know so many people with extra rooms, extra houses (!), and extra bank accounts. I would be fine. It would be hard, but I would be fine. My life trajectory might be paused, but never derailed. Social Capital: Social Capital is difficult to measure. I know I have a lot, but yesterdayI learned I have even more social capital than I realized. I knew a wide-eyed child could go to school and my life wasn’t derailed by postpartum depression because I am: 
Mary and Joseph had very little social capital. They were homeless migrants, and later immigrants when they fled Herod’s violent rule. No relatives in Bethlehem would take them into their homes (remember Bethlehem was Joseph’s hometown). As far as we know they were uneducated peasants. The miracle of Christmas is this: it was to these two people first, and then to all of us, that the Prince of Peace, the Savior, was born. Emmanuel. God with us. Social capital did not enter into God’s Emmanuel equation. This Christmas, let us remember the story of a child born to parents with no social capital. Let us remember that God first came to them. Today, let us be reassured that God is first with the Venezuelan mother and her daughter and the homeless college graduate and her son. The story of Christmas is not a story of cheap charity. The story of Christmas is the of a God who accompanies those who are the least, the last, the forgotten. If we trust in this God, then social capital can no longer be the yardstick by which we measure an individual’s worth. In God’s eyes, we are all infinitely valuable.   This is not a joke. The following people walk into a coffee shop: A white man, well dressed and handsome. Ivy League educated. A black man in a hoodie. A punked out teenage girl with dreads. A female jewish rabbi with a brush cut. A gorgeous Brazilian woman (This is my stereotype. I’ve yet to meet a Brazilian woman who is not gorgeous). A white teenage girl, nondescript, shy. A white teenage boy, nondescript. A Hispanic teenage boy wearing a football jersey. An imam (Muslim minister), wearing his clerical dress. A six foot-two transgendered woman. A white female minister who is a rabid feminist (yes that’s me). Who is likely to kill everyone in the coffee shop with a gun? Yep, one of the white men. Statistically, when it comes to mass murder in America, white men are disproportionately responsible. You can read proof of this assertion here. Who is most likely to be a sexual assailant? I don’t think I need to even answer that one for you, but just in case you are confused: any man in the coffee shop. Any man could assault any woman. This DOES NOT mean all the men will, or any man will. Yet we cannot ignore that 1 in 3 women in America are sexually assaulted or raped by a man in their lifetime. Who could be sexually assaulted? Any woman in the coffee shop. Any woman. Sexual assault has nothing to do with looks. It has to do with power. Predators often prey upon the “nondescript shy girl” because she seems the least powerful. In addition, the teenage boy could be assaulted due to his less powerful position. Transgender and queer folks report an even higher percentage of sexual assault than straight women. Let that sink in. Who is likely to start a physical fight? The Rabbi and Imam? Nope. In fact, if they are working hard for peace like many religious leaders in this country, they might be really pleased to find themselves in a coffee shop together, the common cup of java between them. After what we saw during Brett Kavanagh’s confirmation hearing, I would venture to guess in this America First Culture that the most likely person to start a fight is the ivy-league-educated, well dressed white man. Especially if he’s had some beer, because he really likes beer. He might become really angry when he discovers he can’t be the first in line, or that his barista doesn’t speak perfect English, or that the man with the hoodie needs to use the bathroom. Who knows, maybe he’ll be really belligerent when he discovers that it’s a coffee house, not a bar, with no beer on tap. Because you know, he really likes beer. And he’ll certainly think it is his prerogative to interrupt and belittle you whenever he gets the chance because he has always been in power. Always. He has no idea there is any other way to act because all of his life everyone has listened, cleared the way, and honored his power. If I were in that coffee shop, I would be most afraid of the white man. Hopefully, in my recent I-am-so-angry state, I wouldn’t pick a fight with him. **** Everything I just wrote is hypothetical. It relies heavily on stereotypes, assumes many things, and places everyone in simplified categories. But it also makes a point, doesn’t it? The “old bulls,” as Dan Rather named them, have been in control from the beginning of this country’s inception. They don’t want to lose their power, so they are spinning alternative realities to match alternative facts that attest they are the ones oppressed. They are not going to give up their power without an epic battle. That’s why, after the Kavanaugh hearings, Republicans reported a spike in contributions. That is also why they are crying wolf. The old bulls are unwilling to look seriously at how power has eaten away at their moral center. Yet some white men are willing to converse, are willing to consider the painful stereotypes I imagined in the coffee shop. But are they truly white men, if they are willing to move beyond their tribal identity and join the rest of our melting pot beauty, where we all enter a coffee shop on equal footing? ****  After Kavanaugh's hearing, it has became apparent to me that the old bulls are unwilling to look critically at their behavior or the way that power and privilege has corrupted their souls.
In response, I have developed a new personal strategy: White men can no longer assume my respect; they must earn it. Everytime. Everytime. Imagine if white men had to earn our respect instead of assuming they already have it? Suppose they had to serve their way into responsibility, instead of ruling their way into power? I’m serious. Think about it. What if when that well dressed, Ivy league educated white man walked into the coffee house, he worked hard to win everyone’s respect? What if he was gracious, patient, and engaged with his community around him? What if he gave a large tip to the barista since he makes the most money? (BTW, men do tend to be better tippers than women). What if he let the quiet shy girl cut in front of him? What if he talked about “the game” or even the weather or the coffee with everyone else in line or at tables, especially those folks around him who have been inculturated to feel like his subordinate? What would happen then? **** As a young, female minister, I had to earn the respect of my male colleagues and the congregations I served. This was sometimes unjust and other times appropriate. As a twenty five year old candidate for ordination I had to answer questions my male colleagues didn’t: How do you plan on being a mother and pastor? I also had to endure critiques about my high voice (give me a break) and misplaced guidance about how as a young woman I should really be an associate pastor for families and youth (spare me). I even had to manage my looks: What should I wear on a Sunday morning under that robe? Thank you for your well wishes, but no, you can’t tell me you like my legs(!). This balancing act, always wondering just what I could say and how I could act in a way still authentic to myself, while also winning the approval of those who granted me my authority was exhausting. I am certain my male white colleagues were not under such pressure. Appropriately, as a newly ordained minister, I also had to earn my stripes. This took thoughtful and meaningful attention to my job. With each interaction, I earned my beloved parishioners trust as I visited in hospitals, taught confirmation classes, showed up at fall clean up day, and preached. This earnest attention, although at times exhausting, was also life giving. I was living into my call as a pastor. I misstepped, soared, learned, changed, goofed, and grew. In the end, I earned my stripes, solely because the majority of people I served respected me as their pastor and trusted me as a person. I do not, and will never, take this respect lightly. In fact, it is an abiding blessing that sustains me in my work. Just as I am certain my male colleagues never had to pay attention to their clothes nor answer questions about the pitch of their voice, I am also certain, like me, they had to earn the trust and respect of their congregations. I have a hunch it was easier for them. They wore suits on Sunday. Their voices were naturally deeper. They had potential, whereas I was a wild card. But still, I know my dear male colleagues worked hard to earn their stripes too. I have many “white male” colleagues whom I deeply admire and know for a fact worked hard to shed stereotypes about “male ministers” that often created harmful barriers between themselves and their congregations. **** What if white men, like every young female on the planet, had to earn our respect first instead of stampeding through our common spaces like the old bulls they are? What if they saw themselves not as entitled to power, but instead as one of many called to share in the creation of a just and equal society? What if they had to, like I had to as a young minister, earn the trust and respect of others with whom they shared this country? For this angry female minister, it’s over. You old bulls don’t automatically have my respect any longer. You have to earn it. So start working. And if you don’t care, that’s okay. We will be voting you out. We will stop buying from your companies, because there are more of us than there are of you. You are OLD bulls. A whole new herd is moving in. If you do care, welcome to this beautiful community called America. Because here, in the real America, we, all of us--men, women, white, black, brown, gay, straight, religious, atheist, rich, poor, LGBTQ+, straight, educated or not--together, we are building a democracy.  Before the #metoo movement became defined with a hashtag, I found myself in the throws of an intense sexual abuse investigation. With an open letter to the Board of Trustees at our high school, my childhood friend, Liza, and I forced our alma mater to look deep into its past and its current culture regarding sexual abuse. The incident we brought to their attention occurred over twenty years prior to our letter, but it was as raw to us as when we were 17 year old girl-women. Although I was not the abused, but rather the “defender” of my abused friend, Liza and I share this story intimately. Our roles and experiences are different, but we were both victims of a culture that ignored sexual abuse. The investigation we triggered was simultaneously healing and difficult. You can read the blog I wrote about this almost cliche sexual abuse story of institutional preservation, male power, and female silencing.
When the news broke this week about Professor Christine Blasey Ford’s story of survival and courage, my experience confronting my alma mater came crashing back. Each news story, each detailed article incessantly picked at my #metoo wound. I was pleased to discover that my wound is mostly healed, but I could not ignore the connections. I could not ignore the anger that rose from deep within. I also could not ignore how defeated I felt. How many times will I have to listen to commentators ask, “Why is she telling her story now?” or “It happened 30 years ago. How can she be sure?” Let me offer “you” some answers, “you” being the emotionally-bankrupt-head-in-the-sand politicians who ask such ignorant questions! Or as the Hawaii Sen Mazie Hirono said, “Shut up and Step Up!” But in my case I want you to Shut Up and Listen Up. Professor Ford is confronting a country. I only confronted a school. Imagine her courage. She has nothing to gain! Nor did I. Why is she telling her story now? Um, isn’t that obvious? Because Brett Kavanaugh has been nominated to the Supreme Court. Professor Ford is a patriot for sacrificing her privacy for the good of our country. If you need a more nuanced answer: Christine Blasely Ford did tell her story earlier to her husband, therapist and probably many others. Women have been telling our stories of sexual abuse for centuries, but we have been silenced. For many of us our silencing has been covert. We’ve been silenced by our culture everytime we hear, “Boys will be boys” or my personal favorite, “It was just locker room talk.” We’ve been silenced when our mothers told us never to find ourselves in a room alone with a boy, because whatever happens after would be our fault. We’ve been silenced by our fellow classmates who heard the rumors about what happened and lowered their heads in shame, unable to look at us . . . as if we were at fault. We’ve been silenced by every comment that insinuates the way we dress, the way we act, the way we look, “asks for it.” We have been silenced by our sexual partners who didn’t want the past to inconveniently interrupt their pleasure. I am confident that Professor Ford told a handful of people her story about the bathing suit that saved her. In fact, I am positive everytime she found herself struggling to take off a one piece bathing suit in a bathroom stall, she murmured a silent thanks. I can imagine the telling of her story, piece by piece, that has moved her from a place of shame and fear to a new place of survival and healing. She has told her story. Now she is telling it again. We have all told our stories before. YOU HAVEN’T LISTENED. I told my my headmaster twice that my friend was being abused by a teacher. He didn’t listen and worse, he didn’t care. I then told my dean and she told me to be quiet. Her words, “Abby, we already know what you think. Be quiet!” echo in my psyche. Stop asking why we’ve never spoken up before. We have. You haven’t listened. And just to be clear, we get to share our stories of abuse and survival whenever we want. They belong to us. Not you. How can she be sure what happened 30 years ago? Scientists have proven that traumatic experiences leave a signature in the brain that is hard to erase. I can attest to this truth. I can tell you where all my classrooms were located in my high school, my teachers’ names, and more. I have a very good memory. I could not tell you, however, the color of the walls, where each teacher placed book shelves or desks. I could only guess. But I can tell you every detail of my dean’s office. I can tell you every detail of the meeting, where a group of other students and I went to seek help for our classmate who was being abused. I can tell you where I sat in that small room and where the dean first sat, and then stood, leaning against her desk. I can remember the hesitant, almost stalling voices of my classmates, too afraid to say the word, “sex.” I know now that my memory is so clear because the experience was traumatic. I’ve carried this moment with me for years in technicolor, and I can hear my dean’s voice, “Abby, we already know what you think. Be quiet!” I am not surprised that Professor Ford can remember the sequence of events during that particular high school party: the two drunks boys pushing her into a deserted room, the struggle, the bathing suit, the hand over her mouth, the tumble, and her escape. Years do not erase the memory of trauma. If only they did. When such memories are buried by the psyche so the victim can survive, they always return to haunt their hosts. In my work as a pastor I can’t tell you the number of times I have borne witness to women in the throws of terrible depressions who discover they have buried memories of sexual abuse. I have seen the scars on teenage girls’ arms after they have cut themselves because it was the only way they could dull the repressed memory-pain of sexual abuse. I have listened to a 60 year old woman tell of her father’s daily rape that she had blocked from her memory until she finally felt safe after his death. Professor Ford has a story to tell. She remembers this story too vividly. Sexual abuse will never stop until we listen and believe. She is telling this story again with clarity and courage because it matters to the future of our country. It also matters to the many women who are still hiding their #metoo stories. Telling and listening is the only way as a nation we can heal and move forward into a new way of living as sexual beings of all gendered identities who never accept abuse as the norm. #MeToo #UsToo #AllofUs “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper |
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