perspective.

Walking by the Supreme Court: Equal Justice Under Law

We walked into Congresswoman Clark's office dripping wet. Not just soaking. Dripping. It was our first meeting of the day, and just as we stepped out of the church to head towards the House and Senate buildings, the skies opened up and drenched us. My feet sloshed around in my nice shoes, and my dress stuck to my body. My hair hung stringy around my face, and I'd had to wring out my sweater as we walked. At first we grumbled. After all, we were supposed to look polished and professional as we plead our case at each Congressional meeting that day, trying to win the support of our Representatives and Senators in our fight against modern-day slavery and human trafficking. We'd studied the bills and provisions the day before, and we'd rehearsed our parts - one of us would explain what we were asking for, and another would lay out the current state of slavery in the world: an estimated 30 million people enslaved, with at least 2 million children in the commercial sex trade. Slavery had become an estimated $150 billion industry, and we wanted the United States to take a stand. We were representing International Justice Mission, a human rights organization that fights human slavery and violence worldwide, and we wanted to make a good impression. Instead, we were disheveled, feeling humble and lowly as we dripped down the hallways of the House of Representatives.

The young aides in the office gave us paper towels, an almost humorous gesture as we tried to dry off enough to sit down on the stately leather chairs. When the staff member we were meeting with came out to greet us, he laughed. "This rain came out of nowhere!" he said, instantly putting us at ease. As we took out the soggy folder of materials to leave for the Congresswoman, I mentioned that on our walk over we'd tried to look on the bright side. "It could be so much worse," we'd decided, remembering why we were in Washington, D.C. in the first place. "We could be soaking wet and enslaved to another person. Instead, we're free." The staff member heartily agreed. "Doing this kind of work has given me so much perspective. It's hard for me to get upset about the little things when I remember what so many people are dealing with every day." We finished our meeting, and asked the staff member to extend our thanks to Congresswoman Clark, who had been a huge supporter of our efforts. We meekly tried to dry off the chairs as we stood up, but the staff member smiled and told us not to worry about it.

*

The next morning I was back in Boston, taking our dog Brady for his morning walk. I'd spent the evening before telling Kevin about the Advocacy Summit, and how this year it was even bigger than last year - 300 people from 45 states had come together in our nation's capital to meet with Congress and speak for those who can't speak for themselves. This was my second year going, and I knew I'd be going back next year. As I walked Brady up our street, I was still thinking about some of the images I'd seen - girls as young as 6 years old locked up in brothels and raped multiple times a day; hundreds of young boys in Ghana sold as slaves to work on fishing boats; entire families forced to work in brick factories in India. Whenever I stopped to truly reflect on these realities, I found it hard to breathe. Inevitably my eyes would fill, tears of sadness and rage and hopelessness for cruelty I'd never known. It was easy to feel overwhelmed by the problem, but my experience advocating in Washington had taught me that in my own small way I could help bring rescue and restoration, one meeting at a time.

I was lost in thought when I heard a gruff, "Excuse me." I looked up and saw a man on the porch at the house we'd stopped in front of, a house with lots of bushes along the sidewalk where Brady likes to leave his mark most mornings. A big golden retriever named Lily lived at this house; I'd often run into a woman walking Lily, and she and Brady would sniff each other out. Because of Lily and the woman, I always felt safe letting him lift his leg here. "Would you mind not letting your dog pee on my bushes? The bushes I spent a lot of time and money on?" I was shocked and embarrassed, somehow managing to stammer out, "I'm sorry, sir." He continued. "No, I see lots of people letting their dogs pee on my grass. I take my dog to a perfect spot to pee." He started walking away, and I could feel my face hot with shame, and managed another, "I'm sorry, sir." I wanted to cry. I'm a rule follower and hated to be scolded; I'm a friendly person and hated feeling that anyone on our block thought I wasn't a courteous neighbor.

As Brady and I continued our walk, my shame turned to anger. Somewhere in the world, children were being raped and drowning in Lake Volta. Somewhere a pimp was kidnapping a teenage girl and locking her in a brothel, and somewhere an old man was working 18 hours in the sun making bricks because of a debt his great-grandfather had never repaid. Somewhere, all these things were happening. And this man was outraged because my dog had peed on a nondescript bush outside his big, beautiful house. Where was his perspective? How small was his world? If he'd heard what I'd heard the day before, seen the pictures I'd seen, had the conversations I did, would he really care? Would this interaction with his neighbor have been pleasant instead? I walked the rest of the way feeling angry and defensive, and also feeling sad that the goodwill I'd established with Lily and the woman might suddenly be gone because of her grumpy husband.

*

The following morning I walked Brady on the other side of the street, feeling the same flush of shame as I looked at the house and remembered the man's anger. I remembered how wrong his perspective had been, how limited. And then I felt a new flush of shame, this time over my self-righteousness. Hadn't I, a young woman, walked out of my house alone, free to walk wherever I wanted? Hadn't my altercation with a man I didn't know simply resulted in him speaking to me in an angry tone - not even yelling - and hadn't he gone right back inside after? Hadn't I continued my walk without worrying that I was being followed, without fearing that he might hit me or rape me or kidnap me or kill me? What did I really know of shame? What did I know of the anger of a man older and bigger than me? What did I know about someone punishing me for something small? Nothing. Nothing at all.

I'd been so focused on the man's lack of perspective that I'd neglected my own. I'd thought about the girls in the brothels, but only so far as they should affect the way this man sees the world - not the way I see it. The worst thing that happened to me that day was a man asked me not to let my dog pee on his bushes. My anger had been because I thought he was overreacting, not because I'd been the victim of injustice. My shame had been because I was being scolded like a child, not because I'd been violated. My fear had been about being seen as inconsiderate, not because I was in any real danger.

For all my work with IJM, for all the money I spent supporting their mission and traveling to Washington, for all the effort I put into understanding the issues, the bills, and the positions of my members of Congress, for the days I took off from work and the passion with which I told my coworkers about where I'd been and why I'd gone, I really knew nothing about injustice. And I had no right to judge another person's perspective, as if I truly understood it, as if I could assume what this man knew or didn't know about the world outside our neighborhood. He and I knew nothing about each other that day, and our meeting hadn't been pleasant. After that morning, I hoped I'd never see him again. Now that I've had to reexamine my own perspective, I hope I'll have another chance to meet him. After all, restoration happens one meeting at a time.