My First Service Retreat

I went on my first service retreat this weekend hosted by UChicago’s Catholic student group. About twenty students made the trek over to Our Lady of Angels mission on the west side (for those that don’t know, the site of the infamous 1959 school fire that killed 95 people). Catholics love their retreats, and I was glad to finally partake in one myself.

It was a short retreat, only an evening and morning, but I needed the space to refresh, recharge and refocus. Recently I’ve been a bit stressed over my thesis so this retreat was just the spiritually affirming experience that I needed. Friday night we had a time for Eucharistic adoration while journaling about our faith journeys, during which I wrote down this reflection:

Why am I Catholic?
-Peace. I found peace in the stillness before mass, the beauty of liturgy, the comforting atmosphere of the Blessed Sacrament.
-The intellectual tradition. I felt my faith and mind reconcile; it made sense, it had answers, though others may disagree.
-The joy. I met joyful Catholics, whose faith and life didn’t seem in conflict. They made me think , “This is what it means for faith to be seamlessly integrated into life.”
-The Eucharist. If it was real, how could I not want it?
-The authority. I needed authority in my life. I needed to know right from wrong.
-The freedom. The freedom of knowing right, a freedom that I don’t know how to explain. The freedom of knowing wrong, and always being able to ask for forgiveness, and receive a response. The freedom of knowing that when I ask for forgiveness something really does change in me.
-The saints. The true universality of our faith, that we are all bound in one body, and we share life in a way deeper than I can possibly understand.
-The accountability. I am challenged in my beliefs. The sense that faith is larger than me.
-The heart. The fact that service is at the front and center of what it means to be the Church.
-St. Augustine. An experience with a painting in an art gallery, that allowed me to see myself more clearly than I ever had before.
-I guess at the end of the day, I heard Jesus’ voice.

Post-adoration we split into small groups to share. In my group, a mixture of cradle Catholics and converts, we all felt led to share with each other about why we are Catholic. Everyone had a story; those I least expected had the most painful, and the most beautiful. The stories of changed lives brought by the light of hope, and of emerging from the other side of pain and suffering with faith moved us all. It amazed me that this collection of people from different walks of life, different backgrounds and different countries could be brought together so unexpectedly to reveal how much God had worked in each of our lives in ways so similar, so familiar. His hand that has comforted and guided me is the same hand that comforted and guided others through situations so far removed from my own experience.

The next morning commenced the service portion of our retreat. Up early for mass and breakfast, then it was time to get moving, preparing for the “mobile pantry.” The mobile pantry is an outdoor pantry the mission hosts each month, feeding about 250 families in the neighborhood. About 150 other volunteers and myself set out massive amounts of food, clothes, toys and housing supplies (we were also supposed to be giving away TVs but the truck broke down on the way there, so that will have to be saved for next time). We helped people bring groceries to their cars and homes, giving us the opportunity to chat for a bit. For the duration of the mobile pantry, volunteers took half hour shifts in prayer and adoration, praying for the community and the city. It was a COLD but beautiful morning. I think I was especially touched by all of the kid volunteers who were outside early on a frigid Saturday morning, uncomplaining and smiling.

Honestly, it was too short. Having a break from business as usual in a different setting really did wonders for my mental and emotional state. But what especially filled me was the community, and the acts of service.

I can’t thank the sisters of the mission enough for opening up their doors and providing such a welcoming space for us, and for being a haven in a city that I care deeply for.

Senseless Sensibilities: On Yale and Safe Spaces

Much has been written about the protests at Yale over the past week. I had no intention of wading into the fray of online arguments, but a persistent voice in my head kept reminding me to be “more than a placeholder for decency.” So, here I am tackling the issue from my personal perspective. I will not address every grievance of student protestors, I won’t attack methods of protest, and I will not discuss the call for removal of certain faculty members. This is not because I agree with every protest tactic or motivation (I neither completely agree nor disagree though I maintain their right to protest), but because I have a very specific focus in this post on an issue that has irked me for some time.

When I view not only the immediate catalyst for the events at Yale, but also the so-called list of “demands” I  notice a few common themes: administrative acknowledgment of student’s feelings, admission of guilt, decentralization of power, increased diversity training and consequences for transgressing boundaries, and especially the idea of a “safe space”. Safe space here is not used as a physical safe space, but an intellectual and moral enclosure in protection of one’s ideas, emotions and experiences.

In fact, it is the concept of a safe space that underlies most every other demand. In the very opening to the student demands for the institution, students claim they “want and need” certain actions of the administration in order to move forward. The underlying assumption of this document, and much of the protest, is that students need protection from those that transgress ideological boundaries: cultural appropriation through Halloween costumes, disagreement with faculty, and less than welcoming fraternities. Rather than engaging with potentially painful and offensive speech, a collective of Yale students seem to want to stamp it out all together, because such speech is so harmful that they cannot function in an environment where it exists. The Yale impulse seems to be in favor of forever wanting to protect certain mindsets, rather than recovering enough from past wounds to engage with the present context. Though the impulse to want to protect someone from exposure to painful and offensive speech is noble it is not ultimately helpful, as any parent watching their child mature can attest.

To be clear: if a fraternity is denying black women entrance to a party, that calls for an administrative response. If black people are being threatened with assault, that should prompt a security investigation. If professors are treating black students unfairly, that deserves administrative action. And if there is a pervasive problem of people running around chanting the n-word, then that deserves a reiteration of the rules and expectations for the community from those in authority. None of these responses, of course, would preclude appropriate consequences for transgressors. The problem with the current crop of Yale protests is that students are not separating actual harmful affronts to the community from their own subjective “hurtful” and offensive experiences. And no, expressing an opinion on an emotionally-charge and controversial topic does not equal racism, and certainly does not warrant censure. There are lines of common sense that Erika Christakis’ letter did not cross, but which opposing students have trampled over.

This concerns me as a black person. But on a deeper level, it concerns me as a human who sees a denial of some basic principles of life in the protestors’ chants and demands. We, all people, need safe spaces as refuges from an at times hostile world, not as replacements for the world. I cannot pound conformity into the world around me, but I can pound resilience into my own mind. My mind is my first safe space; my room is my next. I both compromise and strengthen my safe space when I widen it to include family and select friends. But I have destroyed my safe space if I feel that it must include everyone and everything I come into contact with. Student activists may not realize that that is what their mindset in this case amounts to; but if a space is only safe if everyone who does not agree with me is silent then I will live my life constantly feeling violated.

When I consider the painful history of my people, what sparks such joy in me is our resilience. Black people in America have endured so much, and yet we have done so much despite the burdens of slavery, segregation, racism, lack of economic opportunities, denial of humanity, etc. etc. When I consider the painful moments in the lives of my family members and myself, I become even more joyful at the obstacles that I have personally witnessed overcome. I would never wish a perpetual “safe space” on those I love; I care for their overall emotional wellbeing and their ability to adapt and advance past painful situations too much to lie to them. I’ll say it again: I love my family too much to want to hide from them the reality that they have to deal with pain and a world that does not always agree with them. Their pain is not the responsibility of everyone else who comes into contact with them.

One of my sisters is a gymnast. Several years ago, when she was about 11, she fell headfirst on her Yurchenko vault. Her hands slipped off the vaulting table, her head then back hit the ground with a loud crack and she blacked out. It took her about a year to physically recover from the accident, and even today her occasional back and hip pain can be traced to that instant. But my sister is fortunate: other girls who have fallen on that same vault have suffered paralysis, broken spines, and even death.

Looking back on her recovery, what is interesting to me is that the mental and emotional component was every bit as important as the physical recovery. It took her six months before she was finally able to even walk next to the vault. It took more time for her to touch the vault, and longer before she was willing to start vaulting again. Today she is an excellent vaulter; but this was accomplished by the support and even slight pressure of my mother, her coaches, and fellow gymnasts who did not let her give up, but forced her to conquer her fears. She was “triggered” every time she saw the vaulting table in those first several months. But being triggered was essential to her recovery process. She could not have recovered if in those early days she had not learned to work through the anxiety and panic that seeing the vaulting table gave her. What she did not do was demand that the vaulting table be removed from her presence; neither did she give in to the instinct to ignore the cause of her pain.

I am not advocating a disrespect of people’s experiences. I am also not advocating not speaking up against obvious violations of good conduct at colleges. What I am saying is that I cannot, in good conscience, “help” or “respect” family or friends in such as a way as to leave them more vulnerable to later emotional attacks. No one knows when they will see or hear something that sends thoughts and emotions spiraling backwards to a painful moment in personal history. The answer is not to remove every person or every idea that potentially (or even actually) causes conflict. Within my own family I can recall instances of racism, bullying, assault, and myriad other stressful situations. What is impressive to me is that some of the people who have suffered the most are those most willing to confront their festering wounds. That is the path to healing.