To Speaking Out

We preach it to our kids: if you see someone getting hurt or bullied, say something. Tell an adult. Speak up. Speak up for someone who can’t speak up. Do the right thing.

We know they don’t. We know they see it every day: the shove on the bus, one kid gets called “fag” in the hallway. No one sits with that kid at lunch. Her jeans don’t fit her right and she wears her ponytail just a little too far to one side. Be the nice kid, we say. Be a friend, make a friend.

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I see it every day, too. I tell myself I’m picking my battles, that adults are different, that our choices and behaviors are not like the children. I weigh it against upsetting a colleague, against my job, against what I think my reputation is.

But sometimes, I am just stunned.

I’m working with a woman and some volunteers on a church project. The woman turns to me, concerned. Our volunteers are all Black and we have offered them the leftover snacks to take home. She suggests I walk out with them, so no one thinks they are stealing. She whispers this to me.

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I feel broken. Stupid. Angry. Small. I cannot even think of what to say; I brush it off, “Oh, it’s just the snacks. It’s ok.” To speak up, I would have to have words. I would have to, in that split second, be able to frame it. I feel 12, in the lunch room, the loner is sitting alone and I know it’s wrong. The tensions hold us all on the surface, waiting for one small move.