There were many delightful moments, too much to document here, so I will offer two details:
1. I was blessed to be the organizer for The HDS Film Festival, and in the process, combined my love of connecting people with eye-opening films, conversations and future collaborations. My stand-out day was Friday, Feb 7th, when we showed Gay Chorus: Deep South and the Oscar-nominated film: Honeyland. The Director of Gay Chorus -- David Charles Rodrigues -- was able to join us for a lunch conversation as well as the scrreening and I was literally brought to tears when people who'd wanted to see the film were able to finally see it. Google the film if you want to know more about i and I encourage you to see it, if you get the chance.
2. On Wednesdays, we have a Noon Service, each hosted by a different group. Sometimes denominational, sometimes not, these services are occasions to experience "worship" (or not) as others live it. (As an aside I will throw out the observation that what we have come to understand is that when you experience this, it can be both enlightening AND strengthing of your own beliefs -- not diminishing.) On the Wednesday after the film festival, I was part of the host group which was HDS Staff Members. We'd chosen a theme of "belonging", as a way to connect ourselves to the larger questions at the University -- who belongs? What does it take to feel like you belong? I offered a short reflection which follows. I volunteered myself for this because it is something I think and write about regularly, though I'd never had the chance to speak about it at HDS.
Below are some of my deepest truths. I hope you find resonance.
Peace
BELONGING ~
Thirty years ago this summer, I went to a writers conference –and in the world of writing conferences, this one is a pretty famous. That August, I went to Bread Loaf. Set on the edge of the gorgeous campus of Middlebury College in Vermont, Bread Loaf is a ten-day opportunity for writers, editors, publishers, and agents to come together and do what we do – write, edit, brainstorm – as well as well as the real goal, which is schmoozing. I was 29 at the time, had just gotten an MFA in writing, and felt like I was part of something. I was stepping up. One unique detail about Bread Loaf is that there is a tiered hierarchy, among those who are accepted. There are three levels of attendees: those who are given full scholarships (usually those who have had some publishing success already) those who are given partial scholarships (writers with great potential but at Bread Loaf, must work off their scholarships, usually in the dining room waiting tables or working in the kitchen) and then there are the rest, who pay full freight to go.
I was...in that last category.
So there I was. And it was on the second or third day there -- everyone was still sizing each other up --when I was walking towards the “Barn,” where I was staying. I noticed a middle-aged man coming towards me on the path. We were just about to cross each other when he stopped, pointed to me and asked: “Hey are you someone?” I choked out a laugh, shook my head, and assured him that I was NOT. You can argue that I should have stood up tall and announced that of COURSE I was...and if a similar event happened now, I probably would. But.
I have thought about that moment over the years. The desire, of course, was to be someone, someone with a certain amount of fame, part of that elite group. I knew that I did not belong to that club. I look back on it now, both appalled and unsurprised. It was a total set-up. But the thing about Bread Loaf – and I am absolutely serious when I say this – it really IS an honor to be invited to go, even if you pay. It didn’t believe it then, though.
When we have Orientation here at HDS each fall, something the Dean of Students makes a point of saying to each incoming class is: You belong here. The first time I heard former Dean, Maritza Hernandez, say it several years ago, I just about fell over at its beautiful truth . “We didn’t make a mistake accepting you,” she said. “You may think that everyone else belongs but you’re the exception. It’s not true.”
Like many of you, I think about privilege a lot. I think about marginalized people a lot. I know I am unbelievably lucky in my job. One of the many blessings of my position is that I get to know students and hear their stories. I meet some who have lived through circumstances, have grown up with situations, and have been limited by factors that I haven’t experienced and couldn’t imagine.
Feeling like you belong takes trust. Trust is earned. Each of us knows what it’s like to feel like you can’t trust or don’t belong. And the country, the world? It’s so, so much.
But. Sometimes, change does happen. Last November, Bread Loaf announced that it was ending its Wait Scholars Program, which is what that tiered system was called. The New York Times reported that the conference was “changing its aid offerings after attendees raised concerns ranging from sexual harassment to racism to cutting into the seminars they came for in the first place.”
A Wait Scholar from 2016 had written a blistering piece that finally, FINALLY, got the dinosaur to move. The following year, the assistant director, the conference’s -former director and the poet Michael Collier met with the waiters. One waiter said “All of us wept as we told stories of our working-class backgrounds and stories of racism and sexism and how this experience brought up those issues.”
Of course, it did.
Someday I’m going to get a shirt with the words emblazed on it: TELL ME YOUR STORY SO I CAN UNDERSTAND. To me, part of belonging means being seen and being heard. Each time someone tells me their story, where they come from, what they hope for, I know that I am being trusted with a connection.
I want to put it out there publicly, wear it on a shirt, because I know I DON’T understand. I have no idea what it means to be a person of color today, no idea what it means to be a Native American today, NO idea what it is to be Muslim, a trans person, an undocumented person – an anyone. Anyone, except myself, really. And just being in this place where I am trusted with your stories is an honor.
If I don’t know your story, tell me. Tell me your story, so I’ll understand. What brought you here? What are you going to do next? What’s your cat like? Can you cook? Most importantly, what kind of M & Ms do you like?
Life can be heartbreaking. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I promise you, when you stop by my desk for some M & Ms and tea, you are somebody. You belong.
