Years ago we lured Millard Farmer — the iconic social justice lawyer featured in the book “Dead Man Walking” — to speak at our high school (CRMS) on Martin Luther King Jr. Day. We gathered in the early morning. Millard was tall and lean in all ways, an impressive presence, comfortable standing before 200 sleepy students. He told us he would ask us a question later that night in an all-school meeting and wanted to give us a day to think about our answer.
He said, “Today is Martin’s birthday, and we gotta give him a present. What do you think he might like? He doesn’t want a tie, or shoes, or a new suit… ” Millard smiled and said he couldn’t wait to hear our thoughts that evening. We left and realized we were “on” and in way over our collective heads.
We reconvened that evening, terrified, reluctant to speak and embarrass ourselves. Millard smiled and said, “So what do you think Martin wants?” A long and uncomfortable silence was finally broken by a daring mother who stood up and said, “Perhaps Martin might just want us to bring our best selves to the party.” Millard reared back his head and laughed, “Yup, it’s just that simple.”
We often think of our “best selves” as when we are “right,” know what we’re doing, know the “right” answer, and know what to say, when our party shoes are properly polished. But what if our best selves are tucked into the arduous process of actually polishing our shoes — and our souls — when we’re working hard to be present?
A very sharp student recently found me before class and observed that my questions seemed confusing. I asked her if she thought the questions were too obscure or if she might be uncomfortable with uncertainty. I said that, as a teacher, I hoped for an appropriate level of confusion, as that is where so much of our lives take place. She smiled and said, “I am not fond of uncertainty!”
I often have given my students ethically unclear situations and asked them what they would do in such situations. These stories are real and carry a fair amount of cultural and political charge — much like real life in a culturally-diverse democracy. These classes always incite a deep level of engagement, heated conversations, the emergence of subtle awarenesses and discovery, and ironically often point to what it means to bring our best selves to the party.
These are the classes most often mentioned by my former students, moments when they discovered who they were—when they found their “voice.” These are not easy classes, but students regularly persevere in these challenging conversations, cycling through the shallow pleasure of blaming the “other,” ultimately recognizing they will never understand the complexities of different perspectives and responses unless they allow themselves time to think, ask questions and listen.
These generous responses don’t often happen though when we’re impressed with ourselves, when we think we have it all figured out. Once we are certain, we become hesitant to open to uncertainty again and are less willing to consciously wrestle with important questions. We get righteous and rigid and forget the wisdom of Socrates, who believed that knowledge of absolute truth is elusive and that the pursuit of it is more valuable than its attainment. Forty out of 40 students in class last week stated that their best selves live and thrive in vulnerability.
Isaac Gerber, soon to leave for the University of Chicago, writes, “Tension is inexorable. We live in a world full of a spectrum of different people, all with differing ideas and beliefs that make them unique. This difference and the tension that exists between each of us, I would argue, is what makes the world so beautiful. Peace is always underpinned by justice, because justice allows such tensions to coexist, and often harmonize.”
If these “tensions” create beauty, and if this process rests squarely on the shoulders of justice, we must work for justice. “I want Dr. Martin Luther King to know that he wasn’t just saving his race but my race also, and a lot of other races in America,” said Savannah Ricehill, an American Indian student.
King, on his last night on Earth, said, “All we say to America, is be true to what you said on paper.” This is an intergenerational call, too much for fair-weather sailors. It calls for our best selves to emerge, with humility, and an acceptance of the uncertainties embedded in life. Let’s not fool ourselves — we are the ones who need to show up at the party. Aware of our frailties, but courageously sailing towards dignity and decency, committed to showing up for each other.
King said, “Justice at its best is love correcting everything that stands against love.” Perhaps we need no other gift for Martin than our willingness to be brave and wise for the most powerful and generous form of human connection, love.