Reading
of the opening of the National Museum of African American History and Culture
in Washington, D.C. reminded me of the most difficult thing I saw when visiting
the Holocaust Museum last May.
There
are so many heartbreaking things to witness in that archive of brutality and
inhumanity, what I will describe may seem less consequential, but for me it
summed up everything, from the piles of shoes of concentration camp martyrs, to
the railroad car used for their transport, to the various devices used to end
their lives, not to mention the multiple ways intended to dehumanize them
before their incarceration.
These
things brought tears to my eyes, but what made me want to cry uncontrollably was seeing a youth—maybe 15—sitting quietly on
a bench in a side pocket room intended for rest and reflection. He looked so
disheartened, so disillusioned, so overwhelmed by what he saw, I felt for him.
This
is what our various histories do to young people: histories of anti-Semitism,
racism, ethnic hatred, sexism, classism, heterosexism, mistreatment of those
with disabilities, religious intolerance, and so on and so on—this is what we
do to the innocent, not only of times past but of the present day.
“Woe
to anyone who causes one of these little ones to stumble…” Jesus admonished.
Yet
frankly, my own disillusionment as a youth, learning of slavery, Jim Crow
segregation, lynching, racial hatred, bigotry, and prejudice made me a better
citizen. My own disillusionment in American foreign policy around Vietnam and
Latin America made me a better patriot. My disappointment at the inequality and
mistreatment of women made me a better person. (I say disappointment rather
than disillusionment in this case because I never had the illusion that women
were treated fairly.)
And
the disillusionment that led to my involvement in the reformation of the church
around LGBT inclusion made me a better Christian.
I’m
glad to learn that there will be a room in the new museum in which to reflect
and recover after visiting the exhibit devoted to Emmett Till, a black youth
brutalized and lynched after being accused of whistling at a white woman.
Whenever
I am able to visit that museum, I expect that I will see another youth sitting
in that room with the same downcast and forlorn expression that I saw last May.
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