My church is full of loving, liberal-minded, enlightened people whose ideals match mine to a large extent.
I’m looking at the safety pin my church gave me on Sunday … it is still attached to a card made of thick paper.
The Safety Pin Movement is a response to the perception (which appears to have some merit in light of current events) that Donald Trump’s election may embolden certain people, i.e. people who have negative, even hostile, views toward “minority” populations, to act out that hostility.
The card basically says that if I wear it I’m pledging to take action if I witness verbal or physical attacks on others. It says I should be prepared to intervene “with my physical body” if necessary. The card lists these potential victims: “women, LGBTQA, transfolks, people of color, those wearing religious garb, people speaking languages other than English, those who are visibly different—anyone.”
My first response is to think, “What a wonderful, simple thing to do to show solidarity with, and a willingness to come to the aid of, others who may be thought to be disenfranchised or under threat by certain segments of society.” I think, “I can do that.”
Wear a pin? Yes. I can do that, obviously. Place myself (potentially) in harm’s way to protect others? Well…
That’s a far harder question, isn’t it?
I mean, I totally want to wear the pin. The principle behind it is a good one, the intention is awesome and laudable.
I ask myself: Would I, in fact, risk harm to myself to stand up for this principle of unity?
The answer: I don’t know.
I ask myself: Have I ever stood up for someone before?
I can say, yes to that.
A time or two. In very small ways. In grade school and in high school I can think of two times I stood up for kids who were being picked on at school for being “different.” The kids doing the picking on were just being mocking, they weren’t trying to beat up anyone. Nor were the perpetrators particularly “dangerous” fellows. And in both cases, we were on school grounds—so there was pretty much zero real physical threat to me.
What if it had been at night in an alleyway, far from the safety of adults in authority? What if there had been pushing, or worse? Would I have acted?
Doubtful. Maybe run for help. But intervened? Sadly, probably not. I wasn’t at all a tough kid. I’d never been in a serious scrap. Wasn’t athletic. Wasn’t particularly courageous.
I’m 56 and none of that, regrettably, is any different.
So, would I stand up, today, for someone if I thought there was pretty much no possibility of violence? Yeah, I would. Would I be happy to be a friend and support to someone in one of these categories who came to me distraught? Yep, I would. Would I call 911 from across the street? You bet.
But am I going to risk real physical harm to myself? Probably not. That’s just the unfortunate truth of that.
Does that make me a coward? Maybe.
But wearing it without feeling certain I could follow through with the pledge that the pin represents? Well, that presents its own moral dilemma, doesn’t it?
I feel like I just got jabbed with a pin that I haven’t even put on.
Maybe that jab wants to teach me something. (Like, now is the time to take that self-defense class you’ve always wanted to take?)
Am I doing the right thing by not wearing the pin?