On Kneeling
We have more in common than we think.
It’s been months since Colin Kaepernick’s initial demonstration, and to-kneel-or-not-to-kneel is still a debate in America. In the latest iteration of the argument, sparked by mass-kneeling during last weekend’s NFL games, it seems that many people, maybe even some of the NFL players themselves, have forgotten the original reasons the demonstration began.
It’s not about the president, it’s not about the anthem, it’s not about the flag, and it’s not about the military. I think that many of us are forgetting, or maybe not realizing, that both those kneeling and those protesting the act are doing so on behalf of people who have died. Whether they solemnly kneel or proudly stand, both parties are motivated by a deep personal story that tells them that this is what they must do. Whether they stand or kneel, they do so in honor of beloved human beings whose lives have been needlessly and violently lost.
We have so much more in common than we think.
The issue of race is such a worn path in America that many of us simply tune out when we hear certain buzz words. I’m guilty of this. I think we all are, in some way. On either end of the political spectrum, people tend to develop radars for certain words. These words are magic. All you have to do is say them, and your opposition immediately believes that you’re just another “brainwashed” member of the left or right! In such a complicated world, it’s nice to have something be so simple.
Example: When liberals hear “All lives matter!”, they either tap out or dig in. When conservatives hear the phrase “white privilege”, they often scoff and dismiss whatever comes after. They’re out. If you think only liberal snowflakes have triggers, think again.
For that reason, let’s try and come at this from another angle. Initially, when I was trying to understand why someone would kneel during the national anthem, I thought about analogizing the LGBT community. What if members of my community were treated violently, harassed, or killed with regularity?
Well, for one, they already are. But I know that this another one of those worn paths. I know that at the phrase “LGBT community” in the previous paragraph, some of my friends or family members’ eyes glazed over, or maybe they stopped reading.
So I’m going to play with a different idea: Mormons.
My soul, upbringing, heart, core beliefs, and family are LDS. Being gay, I am no longer active in the church for a lot of reasons, but I have a steady warmth in my heart for all the lessons I learned growing up in that spiritual world. I think back fondly on the activities and friends and support that I found in the Mormon community. It’s a part of me — a huge part — and that will never change.
I miss it. A lot, sometimes.
Now, imagine that Mormons had some sort of clear identifier, like blue skin. Imagine if I were to turn on the news (or more likely boot up Facebook) to see a video of a cop beating a defenseless Mormon man.
Seeing a member of my community helpless and dehumanized, I would feel some vital and deeply personal part of me lurch. I would check over my shoulder a bit more often. I would trust authority a bit less.
Now imagine if I were to see another video of the same nature. And then another, and then another. A blue-skinned man is thrown to the ground. A blue-skinned man is tazed. A blue-skinned high schooler is thrown over a desk. And none of them seem to have done anything serious to deserve it.
In some videos, sure. Criminals exist. Cops chase people. Cops use force sometimes. Things get messy. It’s the nature of the job. But I imagine seeing a video of a Mormon man who looks a lot like my dad running from a cop, and I imagine knowing, already, how this one is going to end. I imagine hearing muffled gunshots through the speakers as the man crumples to the ground, and suddenly someone who looks like my dad is dead.
There are comments on the video saying that he deserved it, and comments citing generalizations about my community that aren’t familiar to me, a member. I imagine reading the comments, cold and stony-eyed. I imagine having heard it all already, on loop my entire life, and always from people who don’t have blue skin. Always from non-Mormons.
And how would they know? How do they assume to understand why things happen the way that they do in my culture? My culture is nuanced, elegant, and complex. How could an outsider possibly understand our reality?
In thinking about this I felt a sickness rise up inside me. What if I had experienced, regularly — in spite of any statistics and critics who disagreed —, that my brothers, and dad, and cousins, and uncles, and grandparents, and friends were all excessively stopped, stalked, threatened and even killed. What if nothing ever seemed to be done about it, and if I had a platform through which millions could see my plea for their acknowledgment? If I did, I think I would kneel for them. I would have to.
Just as those who can’t imagine kneeling feel that they must stand during the anthem for their bravely fallen friends and family, I would feel an absolute necessity to bring awareness to mine. And kneeling solemnly during the televised anthem is an effective way of asking your country to please, pay attention.
I would kneel not because I hate my country, not because I take its servicepeople’s sacrifice for granted, but precisely because those men and women sacrificed too much outside of our blessed borders for us to continue to kill each other within them. I would kneel because I love my country enough to ask it to keep trying, and I would kneel because nothing else seems to work.
And it would hurt. It would be like kneeling on broken glass.
When I experimentally picture myself participating in this protest I see tears streaming down my face, my hand over my heart. I love this country. This is my home. I feel blessed to be here, and so lucky to have this life when so many begin with much less. My beloved grandfather served as a marine and is one of the greatest men I know. I cry when I hear the national anthem — almost every time.
I love america and its wild, proud menagerie of peoples and cultures, and I imagine that many players who knelt this past weekend feel the same. I imagine that many have a friend or family member who has spent time in the armed forces, and have maybe even lost their lives. I imagine that for some that knelt this past weekend, the act was as difficult as it would be for me.
So imagine this, if only as an experiment: if you love this country as I do, and as I am admittedly assuming many of these NFL players do — they are indeed the beneficiaries of great American opportunity and comfort — , what kind of cutting and personal injustice would prompt you to kneel in protest before the sacred symbol of your beloved home?
My hope is that they knelt not solely because of the recent taunting of our president, but because they saw fit to kneel in solidarity with the black members of our human family. Because for me, it would have to be serious. It would have to be necessary. Therefore, I interpret this act as a loud, yet peaceful protest of something gravely real in a great, yet imperfect country.
Most NFL players weren’t always rich; they certainly weren’t always professional athletes making millions a year. Some of them came from nothing. I grew up awakening to peaceful mornings and going to private schools, while other kids were learning to sleep through gunshots. I know nothing of that life, I’ve never had to, but when different people keep telling me the same stories, I’m inclined to believe them.
So when it comes to kneeling, I take these people at their word that there’s a problem. That they’ve experienced things I know nothing about, and that they kneel not as a way of disgracing our military, but as a quiet way of saying that there are still things left to improve.
I trust them when they say that an entire people within our country experience disproportionate violence and inhumanity that they never signed up for, though some of these players were lucky enough to escape. So few do.
Once we’re all aware of that, they’ll stop kneeling.