Every time I hear a story about someone who stands up to society, their peers, their family – someone who goes against the norm – to right an injustice, I wonder if I would be so brave. Fortunately, I have never had to put my own life on the line; fortunately, most of us never have to.
But most of us do encounter events in our daily lives when we see something happening that we know is wrong. Then we face the choice: engage or walk away, speak up or remain silent.
I confess, I have failed the test more often than I like to admit. One time in particular sticks in my mind.
For 30 years I worked in the public relations business, a job that sent me all over the United States interviewing farmers, veterinarians, and scientists who used my clients’ products. One trip to a North Carolina tobacco farm in 1977 opened my eyes to race relations as I’d never experienced it before, while leaving life-long scars on my heart.
As the interview wound down, the farmer and I were standing in the yard, exchanging pleasantries about the weather and local sports teams. Just then a young black boy, maybe eight or nine years old, came out of the barn.
“Hey, Joseph.” The farmer waved him over. “You need to dance for this lady.”
The boy stood, his arms limp at his sides, his bare feet covered in the soft dust of the lane.
I blanched. Dance for the lady? “Oh, no,” I excused myself. “I need to be going.”
“He likes to do it. He’s a real good dancer,” the farmer insisted.
The boy looked at me. I cannot recall if I smiled or even met his eyes.
Dance for the lady? All I could think about was slave owners forcing their slaves to entertain visitors. Sweat poured down my neck. Thunder roared in my ears. My eyes swam. I wanted no part of this. Yet I could see no way out.
The boy danced for me. And I said nothing.
Why? Out of some misguided sense that I would offend the farmer, my client’s customer? Because I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say? Because I was a coward? I really don’t know. What I do know is that I will always wear the shame of not stopping that demeaning act.
Confronted with a blatant injustice today, I hope I would do better, that I would have the courage to act. But who knows for sure? The circumstances are seldom simple, the decisions seldom clearcut.
The question of if, when, and how to engage in the face of injustice is at the heart of the novel I’m writing now. In the course of her work as a consultant, my main character must face her own biases and decide how long she can remain on the ‘it’s not my job’ fence.
The story is autobiographical only in that the issue is one I’ve always thought about. Like me, my main character doesn’t always get it right.
What has your experience been in speaking up – or not – when you saw something that seemed unfair?