Discover Top Posts Tagged with #the marginalized

They only push you down when they know you’ll succeed if they don’t

A Southern California Christian group is suing a city so it can keep serving food to homeless people. Now, the Justice Department is weighin

These people might actually be REAL Christians!

#homelessness #the poor #the marginalized #christianity #meeting basic needs is loving thy neighbor

Little’s crimes are not unique, nor are they work of genius. Instead, the story of a brilliant, elusive serial killer turns the narrative even further away from the victims. It does not interrogate the value of their lives and offers only the spectacle of brilliance where there is none. It limits justice to a shaky confession decades later, emphasizing the speech of a killer over the lives of victims who continue to be pushed to the margins of their own story, overshadowed by true crime narratives that have little consideration for vulnerable women, but have boundless room for genius. There will be more Littles and there will be more Mariannes.

— Stassa Edwards, How to Get Away with Murder

#jezebel #stassa edwards #true crime #the Patriarchy #the marginalized #narrative tropes #point of view #responsible storytelling

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AHhhwwltkFA)

A week and a half before Christmas, I told my roommate I just wasn’t feeling the holiday spirit. I missed my mom and dad, and so many other people I love and can’t be with at present. I felt lonely. I felt left out. I went through the motions–going to Mass during Advent, buying and wrapping and mailing presents, sending cards, donating gift cards to St. Vincent de Paul for needy families–but it felt empty. “It’s gonna take a Christmas miracle,” I told Lisa, “and those are in short supply.”

And then a series of tiny miracles came my way and my heart swelled. My aunt and uncle asked if I would come visit the weekend before Christmas. “Dan and Heidi are coming over Sunday with Hannah. We’d all love to see you,” they said. Lately I have been paying attention to my gut and whether it says Fuck yeah! or Fuck no! and I felt a big Fuck yeah! So I went and saw Aunt Denise and Uncle George and Emilly, Heidi and Dan and Hannah, Joe and Ariel. I took Gramps on an overnight to see Uncle Dave, Aunt Alva, Josh, and Zach. I saw Gram, Uncle Dan, and Uncle Steve for a few minutes. I was given many Christmas gifts, to my surprise and embarrassment, since I brought nothing on my impromptu trip. Although I am a rather haphazard Catholic, Uncle Dan gave me Gram’s crucifix, which in turn belonged to her mother, Marie, whose name is my middle name. I was astonished.

It was all about love, that trip. So is Christmas. God loved humanity so much that he sent his Son to save us. He sent him to live in poverty, become a refugee, and ultimately die a young man. Mary so loved God that she agreed to bear this child, facing certain social stigma. Jesus so loved humanity, all of us his brothers and sisters, that he accepted his destiny and died. It does not matter if these were real events, or as Dave Matthews says, “another kind of fairy tale,” a story we tell to help us vanquish darkness and live right. This story is founded in and tells the tale of love.

Love was on my mind as I began my patrol on Christmas Eve. I started by checking my beat, working my way to a park by the water that is a popular place for all kinds of nefarious deeds. I like to get out of my car and walk the park, exploring every nook and cranny, so I zipped up my jacket against the clammy, near-freezing night and stepped out of my vehicle.

The park was mostly empty, but a tall, lanky man carrying a sizable backpack was drinking out of a large aluminum can in the center of the park. When he saw me he put the can on the ground. I approached him to tell him to take his malt liquor and finish it somewhere off National Park Service property. When I switched on my flashlight I saw it was actually a can of iced tea, so instead I said, “Merry Christmas. How are you tonight?”

His name was Lance, and he wasn’t doing well. He was cold and missed his family, and wanted a hot shower and a bed. I asked if I could call the Homeless Outreach Team for him, and he politely declined. He’s from St. Louis, and left about a year ago. “I can’t be with my family because of my health issues,” he said, which I guessed was code for mental illness like schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. He said he was having a hard time. I asked if he was thinking of hurting himself, which is not at all uncommon during the holidays. He vehemently denied that, then asked if the hospital sent me to check up on him. “No, I’m just checking my beat like I do every night,” I said. He looked uncomfortable, and I decided it was time to end the contact. I wished him a Merry Christmas and Good Luck, and walked back to my car.

When I opened the door, I thought of the Peppermint Crunch Luna bar in my duty bag. I retrieved it and returned to Lance, who was leaving the park. “Here,” I said, handing it to him. “It’s candy cane flavored. For Christmas. Merry Christmas.” When you’re a cop you can’t just say, “hey, I see how hard it is and I love you” to a mentally ill homeless dude. Sometimes love tastes like a chocolate peppermint bar. I drove away thinking it wasn’t enough on a freezing San Francisco night. I drove away thinking of the story of a baby born into poverty, in a dark, cramped, filthy, smelly stable, who grew into a man who went on the record saying this revolutionary thing: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so also you must love one another.”

After I checked my beat I decided to do some speed enforcement. Midnight approached and traffic dwindled to near nothing. I listened to the radio, singing along to “Christmas in Hollis” and nibbling on some homemade fudge I brought for my coworkers. After distributing it to everyone working, I had one little container left. As I munched, a figure lurched down the sidewalk towards me. As he approached my patrol vehicle he crossed the street, passed, then stumbled back across. I watched the apparent drunk with curiosity. When he started walking towards one of our unoccupied buildings, I pulled into the street.

When I drew abreast of him, I recognized one of our homeless “locals.” He treats his bipolar disorder with alcohol and makes do somehow. His family, across the country, has washed their hands of him. He’ll speak frankly about the time he did in San Quentin for burglary, but so far he’s mended his ways and doesn’t cause problems. “Carlos! Merry Christmas!” I called out.

He smiled his toothy grin and walked over. “Officer Sargeant! I didn’t know it was you! Merry Christmas! It’s cold out. I’ve got all my layers on though. You have to work tonight? On Christmas?”I said I did, and didn’t mind because I don’t have family in the area, but wished I could go to midnight Mass. “Oh, you’re Catholic? That’s cool. I have a magazine with some pictures of Pope Francis. Do you want them?” Carlos asked.

I said no thank you, and offered Carlos a piece of fudge. He said he has bad teeth in all four corners of his mouth, but wanted a piece anyway. In consideration of his dental problems I gave him the smallest piece, then felt stingy. He held it in his hand as we talked, and said how much he liked fudge. I thought he could use all the calories on a cold night, and figured Carlos knew best how to eat sweet things without hurting his teeth too much. “Have the whole thing, Carlos,” I said, handing him the container. I looked at the clock on my dashboard, which said 00:02. “And Merry Christmas! It’s past midnight! It’s Christmas day!” I exclaimed.

Carlos popped the square of fudge into his mouth and grinned. “Merry Christmas, Officer Sargeant!” he replied enthusiastically. “Hey, I get to be the first person to tell you Merry Christmas ON Christmas! How about that?”

How about that? My heart filled with joy. We talked for a few more minutes and Carlos said, “I’m going to keep walking. It’s cold. Merry Christmas again. And next time you go to Mass, will you say a prayer for me?” I assured him I would.

The story goes that when the baby was born, angels announced His birth to shepherds. I drove away thinking of Carlos and Lance, of shepherds and sheepdogs. I am proud to be a sheepdog, and take my calling seriously. That means standing guard against wolves, those who would harm others: making a DUI arrest, or transporting a combative drunk with a felony warrant from the hospital to jail, or running code to a domestic violence call–all things that happened this Christmas week. But it also means loving all the Shepherd’s sheep, even the ones at the very margins of the flock, and looking after them the best way I can.

Hey! Unto us a child is born, and so also must we love one another. Merry Christmas, everyone.

#sheepdogs #sheep #the homeless #the marginalized #merry christmas #love #love is all around #dave matthews band

Complacency and Crucifixion: Reflections on Faith

For those who adhere to the Christian faith, we worship a God who is alive and yet more often than not we act as if She’s an illusion. We go through services and engage in the mechanics of worship –clap, clap, clap, bible, read, clap, sing, sing, sing, listen, stand, sit, kneel, sit, listen, listen, listen- and yet when we leave the church and walk into the streets we crucify the worshipful by ignoring them, judging them, and being complicit in their subjugation. We see the poor and we don’t look at their humanity we see the burden they are on society. We see the Lesbian couple and we don’t look at their love we look at the abomination of same-sex fingers interlocked. We see the prisons filled with Black and Brown men and instead of seeing their lack of choice we say we don’t see color and applaud the police officers that protected us from the threat. We go from Sunday to Sunday without realizing the Jesus lives Monday through Saturday in the faces of those we ignore, judge, or don’t think twice about.

Over the past four years this is what I’ve learned about faith, this is what I’ve learned about God, this is what I’ve learned about community: that whenever you privilege the least of these –the marginalized, the hated, the sick, the lowly, those under systems not created by them- you have privileged the Christ who in his life, death, and resurrection privileged you. I have learned through Christians, Muslims, Jews, Atheists, Latino’s, South Africans, Koreans, and many others that our faith is one of discomfort, one founded on the reality of death with the hope of resurrection. I have learned that we are not called to sit idly but to move, to act, to function, to bring change and be the change because we’re empowered by he who changed the universe by first creating the universe and then dying for it. I have learned that imitating Christ means seeing the poor individual at the corner of the street and first asking if they’ve eaten and then asking why they’re there. I have learned that imitating Christ means first hearing the story of the lesbian couples love and then asking what it means to be a good neighbor to them. I have learned that imitating Christ means first understanding that as a brown man I too could be in prison and then using my life and my protest as a testament against the system that keeps those like me incarcerated. I have learned that imitating Christ means to love unconditionally and in discomfort. I have learned that imitating Christ means siding with the poor and marginalized. I have learned that imitating Christ means more than going to church on Sunday. I have learned that when Christ said that the greatest form of love is to be willing to die for your fellow human beings, he meant it. I have learned that clapping your hands in church isn’t enough.

#Worship #Church #Christianity #The Marginalized #Liberation Theology #Preferential Option