Hope – Yet Again

Photo by Ian Taylor on Unsplash

The older I get, the more I rely on hope.  I last wrote about hope at the beginning of the COVID pandemic, when uncertainty and dread predominated around the world and in me.  I wrote to remind myself that hope is not a gift, but a practice and a ritual, like brushing teeth or lighting candles to signal an occasion. 

But here we are, only five years later, and the world again feels chaotic.  I nurture my shrinking store of hope with a new practice: limiting my morning news consumption to headlines and then moving into meditation.  I rewrite stories of a bleak future by thinking about the promise of a younger person in my life, where younger can mean 50 or 5. I consider, like other friends, leaving my social websites.  Think of the time I will have to read more books! …and call people on the phone.  Every conversation is an opportunity to connect with hope.

However, I can’t avoid everything. I logged in to LinkedIn and confronted a despairing post about the Target corporation’s decision to eliminate its diversity, equity and inclusion office.  Then I remind myself that change is non-linear. A famous quote, “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” is often interpreted as a call to patience and perseverance, ignoring MLK’s deep experience with progress and predictable backlash.  If there is progress, it is like a spiral. 

Efforts to label DEI, initiated to redress historical exclusion, as discrimination are jaw-dropping: Should I rail in anguish? Now I can anticipate boycotts of Target as well, all in the name of resisting the threat of oligarchy and a retreat from what seemed like progress in confronting our individual and national shadow selves

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But does overt resistance bring us hope?  Or, should I be reminded of Arundhati Roy’s profound observation: “the rupture exists….And in the midst of this terrible despair …it is a gateway between one world and the next.”  I need to remain open to alternative stories.

I reconsider a small investigation that I conducted with a group of students years ago, which rewrote our story of failure.  I moved to the University of Minnesota because of a new president who sought to re-energize the role of a state-funded research university, paring away historical artifacts to embrace a more limber capacity to respond to emerging social needs.  The initiative was optimistically titled Commitment to Focus.   Unfortunately, a list of recommendations from a faculty committee included sharing the Veterinary and Dental Schools with an adjoining state.  Between outraged farmers driving their tractors onto an urban campus, and the implacable opposition of the state’s professional associations, Ken Keller was blamed for insensitivity to “real Minnesota” and his position became nonviable in a state where populist legislators wanted to continue every program along with the tradition of accepting most students who could breathe (even though the result was a high rate of failure). 

When my students and I interviewed administrators and faculty a year later to understand the harm done by Keller’s abrupt departure, it became clear that the interim president had adopted his agenda with minor tweaks and a different name.  The subsequent president changed the name again but went forward with the plan (minus visible changes in Dental and Veterinary programs).

Based on this experience, how might we respond when highly publicized diversity, equity and inclusion offices are officially disbanded?  I propose hope, not because corporations (or universities) do the right thing, but because the arc of justice is not embedded in a name, but in actions.

Photo by Austin Kirk at Unsplash

Diversity initiatives have a positive effect on corporate bottom lines — even the ultra-conservative Forbes agrees — and these pre-existed DEI offices. This, has, of course, been the argument in higher ed for decades:  diversity in the opinions, experiences and backgrounds that students and faculty bring with them are the “juice” that stimulates learning and improvement. In other words, universities and corporations have self-interest as well as social commitments to keeping the spiral moving in the direction of diversity.

So, is abandoning a label and office always corrupt or a cop out?  Or is it a story of how resistance can also be a portal, allowing us to see it afresh?  We know that when lofty ideas (like DEI offices) spread rapidly, easy initiatives are adopted more often than challenging efforts.  Low-quality diversity training, on which billions are spent, has limited effects on  the individuals and groups that it is supposed to benefit.  A few universities and corporations have already taken the longer route toward changing the organizational culture to be more welcoming and supportive of difference (which is associated with better decision making and positive organizational outcomes).

If circumstances force people or groups to give up one treasured item or habit, some will quit or sulk.  But many go on and search for replacements, which may involve novel approaches, new ways of thinking.  Will that be the case with Target?  With universities in states where mandates have decimated DEI offices?

It may happen.  It may not.  But it pleases me to think about resistance as subversive innovation…. turning the spiral toward justice.  And I think about my grandchildren, just bursting with ideas and ideals, with confidence – beyond optimism – that their generation will imagine new ways of organizing, working, and changing that will allow them to carry on the family tradition of working at hope. 

Photo by Miguel Bruna on Unsplash

I recently signed up for a woman’s retreat whose aim is “to free us from disillusionment, negativity, lack of imagination, anger, busyness, and more.”  Sounds like just what I need…and I will continue to find those whose opinions I value, to bring curiosity back in – along with hope.

Through a Tiny Door….

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My children and I disappeared down the rabbit hole with Alice and into a parallel world through a closet in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, while in the surrealist comedy, Being John Malkovich, a door leads John Cusack’s character into the eponymous actor’s mind.  But not all portals are doors: Peggy Noonan claims that, when she read War and Peace, she “entered another world”.  According to Arundhati Roy, the Covid pandemic should be viewed as a portal to a changed reality. In all of these, a portal is metaphor for an insistent call to experience the world differently.  Most people have had at least a brief glimpse of déjà vu, where you know, absolutely, that you are in a situation that you have lived through before…a portal. 

We can hunt for portals, but they usually appear by chance. I had that experience this week as I dropped a small pen and ink drawing off at a framer’s shop.

East Heath Road–Google Maps

The drawing is of a street in Hampstead, London where my parents and sister lived in 1965-66, and where I joined them during the spring of my junior year of college.  I bought it several years later when I was again living in London and wanted to get my mother something special.  Then I didn’t  think about it until it ended up in my possession after she died.

But when the door of the fame shop clicked closed, I panicked.  No picture of the drawing?  Had I left it with a perfect stranger who would be holding it for two months? Racing to my next stop (which I distractedly drove past), I was struck:  the drawing was an unacknowledged portal to accumulated experiences that shaped my life. 

My excuse for leaving college was to research a senior thesis – on the improbable (invented) topic of the influence of the Spanish Civil War on the British Communist Party. I managed to secure access to the old British Museum Reading Room where, like all the “real scholars”, I could order my well-kept books and have them delivered to me on a daily basis. When I went to the more obscure Marx Memorial Library, guarded by a single elderly gentleman and embedded with decades of dust, I encountered for the first time the excitement of not only consuming knowledge, but also discovering it…a life-changing event, whose significance was revealed several years later when I decided to get a PhD in Sociology.

Somehow my parents agreed to let me travel by myself to Greece during that summer. Other than briefly meeting two friends in Athens, I took boats, busses and donkeys for three weeks, choosing where next to go based on the Guide Bleu (I hoped that it would improve my French).  I hitched rides with local young men on their motorbikes in Crete and shared retsina with elderly families on boats between the islands.  I left feeling adventuresome, brave, and that I could probably do whatever I wanted.  This was a new feeling for me and stirred my development into real adulthood.

I also fell in love with another undergraduate working in the British Museum Reading Room.  He introduced me to Cambridge, Indian food, and his London, ranging from Soho to Golders Green, and including most of the museums and bookstores.  At 20, to experience another country with a person who knew it inside-out, it was a revelation.  Since then, I have rarely wanted to be a tourist but instead to know another place through the eyes of people for whom it is just daily life.  That urge shaped a lot of the choices that I have made.in work, friendships, and what I like to read. 

I have relived these familiar stories many times, but until I dropped off the drawing I did not connect the dots.   Yet their linked temporal proximity clearly fashioned much of what I became:  I chose a life of discovery. International Karen (as my husband calls that side of me) became purpose rather than play.  I sought every opportunity to do research with colleagues in other countries, to discover what our cultures share and how they are  different.  I lived in other countries when I could, celebrating the small adventures of daily life more than the great sights.

Ok, I wasn’t spit out into a ditch in New Jersey like the John Cusak character.  But to take my insights from the Hampstead portal seriously, I must acknowledge that that my emergent purpose shut out other opportunities– like feeling rooted or having a home place, and exploring the fascinations of my own country.  What I need to consider now, without regret, is what I need to let go of.  A trip into a portal should be a stimulus to see the world differently and cannot be allowed to become a drag on whatever “future me” is emerging….

I am reframing the Hampstead drawing for my sister, who has always liked it.  My recent experience of it as a portal makes me even happier to give it to her: It has served its door-opening purpose for me. She will have her own version of the stories evoked by our flat in East Heath Road…or maybe she will be presented with a different portal.