Good Work
Photographs via, all rights by their respective owners.
Dear John and James,
I was struck recently, reading John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley in Search of America, by his account of watching Ruby Bridges integrate William Frantz Elementary School.
I was struck first, obviously, by the hatred the white protestors subjected Ruby to. And then I was struck by his description of the white father who was the only one to send his daughter into the school with Ruby. One black and one white child, walking a gauntlet of bile that even adults should never have to face.
Those adults, screaming threats and obscenities, saw that white man and his five-year-old daughter as race traitors. Their house had to be protected by marshals. Their dog was stoned. Her grandparents lost the land they had sharecropped for decades.
And I look at that story and I’m afraid of the cost of bravery.
That white father was a good man. But was he a good father? To send his child, younger than either of you, on that terrifying walk, to learn in that empty school? To sacrifice his child’s innocence so that other children, someday, might get to be innocent? Would I do that with you? Reject your privilege and make you suffer alongside the children who have no choice? You are no more valuable than they are, except that I’m your parent and not theirs.
It feels like times are coming when these will not be abstract questions. I can’t promise you that you’ll feel safe, or even be safe, which seems like the one thing a parent should always be able to promise. History is full of children who have suffered because their parents didn’t stay quiet.
But as long as there are any children in this world whose parents can’t promise them safety, there is good work for us to do. And I hope you’ll see me doing it, and feel, if not safe, then at least assured that courage and conscience will always be available to you. Maybe helping you find your moral courage is more important than protecting you from the world.
But it’s a fool’s errand to tell your children how to perceive your actions. You’ll have to judge how I’ve done on your own.
I love you,
Dad
Photographs via, all rights by their respective owners.
Dear Aldo and Adelina,
There are two of you now. How beautiful you are… how innocent, pure, unscared and unscarred.
In the last letter, I promised you, Aldo, that there would be good work for you to do. Dearest Adelina - there is work for you, too.
It’s tempting to look at the world, especially when things are dark, and feel like humanity is inventing new ways of doing evil, and that we, therefore, have to invent new ways of responding with good.
But what the stories won’t tell you, because in stories villains have to be interesting, is that evil is fundamentally unoriginal and uncreative. They’re not inventing anything; they’re enacting the same old, boring cruelties that humankind has been fighting as long as there’s been a written record, and doubtless much longer.
We are not starting the fight, we are joining it. Which frees us from having to be saviors, and from having to invent our resistance.
There’s a saying I used to hear when I was growing up: “He who doesn’t talk to his father doesn’t know what his grandfather said.” So learn the history of resistance, both here in the USA, and back in your ancestral home, and remember that you’re not alone. Accept the baton your ancestors are handing you. Join them with hope and conviction.
That’s not to say the work will be easy. It will be a painful journey. That is baked into the experience of living. As my father often reminded me: “whether you are a man or a dog, you will pay the price for it.” You can face that truth in one of two ways. You can do good work, speak up, commit to raising up other marginalized people - or you can play the game, seeking money, comfort, and the path of least resistance. You’ll face consequences either way.
I hope you see me as part of the chain of ancestors doing good work. But it’s a fool’s errand to tell your kids how to perceive your actions. You’ll have to judge how I’ve done on your own.
I love you,
Papa