Martha

A brief friendship that will never die

This is an account of my friend, Martha, who has drifted away, and (as you will see) with good reason. It is also an account of why I am no longer a Unitarian Universalist (UU). In this case, it was I who drifted away after a two-decades-long association.

It is also about race in America and how, as a non-white and non-black American, I stand at the intersection of where the two most dominant racial groups seem unable to connect. I am at a loss to know how I can be part of the solution and not just a silent witness.

My recollection is that the temperature of racial discourse started to rise after the 2016 election. The few “people of color” in my Unitarian Universalist congregation started complaining loudly and insistently using an entirely new language. “Micro-aggressions,” “white supremacy,” and “white fragility.” A couple of Sunday services were led by aggrieved individuals to create awareness and give voice to their pain and anguish.

A twenty-something African American woman complained that despite having been a member for over two years, she still got asked if she was new. Two Asian-American women complained that they were often mistaken for each other. One of them also complained about the fact that there were very few other Asian Americans in our midst. An African American man complained that no one had reached out to him after his son ended his life. A Japanese American writer went on a rant because her book about UUs “of color” had been rejected by a UU press.

I had different opinions about each one of these complaints. In a congregation of almost five hundred members, many of whom skewed older, with shifting attendance from week to week, I was not at all surprised that people were mistaken for being new or for being someone else.

As for the low numbers of Asian Americans in the congregation, I wanted to tell the speaker that she was the best ambassador for the UU philosophy among her Asian American friends; that it was not fair to blame the congregation for the low numbers of people of her ilk.

Also, I know from personal experience that most hyphenated Americans, become more traditional after the giant leap of immigration. They are not inclined to leave the inherited fold and sample a UU Sunday service, let alone join a UU community. So, in my view, it is an uphill battle to attract people who are not searching for (and in need of) what UUs offer.

The African American man had, just a few months earlier, described the “above-and-beyond” help that he had received from members of the congregation for finding housing when he first moved to the area. It seemed that although on some level he understood that the congregation had not intentionally neglected his pain, he felt the need to publicly criticize the congregation anyway and insinuate a racial motivation. As for the disgruntled writer, I wished I could tell her about the countless rejections I had received for my essays and books and about the volume of equal opportunity “rejection lit” that can be found with a few keystrokes on Google.

I chose not to say anything. I did not want to cause pain to the people who had spoken up courageously. As a new member of the congregation (I had moved to the area just a couple of years previously), I did not feel that I had an ally who would engage thoughtfully with me. At best, I imagined receiving a non-committal polite hearing. I did not want to jeopardize my standing in the one place where I found spiritual sustenance, inspiration, and community.

Guilt by virtue of skin color

A few weeks later, a sixty-something white woman named Martha offered a “personal testimonial” during the Sunday service. My natural preference is to NOT use a person’s color as a parameter when describing that person on my relationship or interaction with them. So, I cringe as I identify her by her color. However, I am doing so only because it is relevant to the story I am about to tell.

Martha stood on the stage and “confessed.” She castigated herself in the most anguished way. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she described how she had once asked a person if they were new to the congregation. She offered that she had not meant any disrespect. She went so far as to say that she now understood that she had inadvertently caused pain to the person. She felt sad that this had happened even though her only motivation had been to be friendly and welcoming.

My heart went out to her, both in the moment and during the ensuing weeks and months. I had the urge to tell her that in my book she had done no wrong. That intentions count. However, reluctant to reopen her wound and make her relive the painful self-flagellating experience, I did not say anything to her.

Looking back, I wish I had had the gumption to talk privately with one of the congregants to suggest reaching out to Martha as a group and offering her an absolution of some sort. But I was leery of stepping into the charged waters. I had not yet developed the courage to reveal myself as out-of-step with what was emerging as a UU article of faith.

Accidental grace

Fortunately, the Universe is kind sometimes. It did give me a way to heal Martha as well as, selfishly, myself.

One of the community-building activities that the congregation sponsored periodically was Circle Dinners. I offered to host one in my home and Martha was one of the six guests who signed up. On the day of, when Martha arrived, I thought, but couldn’t be certain, that she was the person who had given that impassioned speech. Martha and I hit it off right away and decided to meet one-on-one the following week.

Over coffee I learnt that Martha’s was a hard life. Her husband had had an affair, and this had resulted in her getting divorced. Her adult son had severe mental health issues and was in and out of prison. Her ex-husband had washed his hands of his paternal duty. Martha’s daughter lived in a different city. In short, in her retirement, Martha was single-handedly dealing with a situation that was challenging to her finances as well as her soul. Once again, my heart went out to Martha, as much because of her hardships, as because she was trying to live a meaningful life while carrying out her maternal role without any support.

Martha was curious about me. I understood that this was because, as a person of Indian origin, I am an unexpected presence in a UU congregation. I gave her a broad outline about how I had ended up in her congregation after a quarter century in New England (and over a decade in a UU congregation there) and growing up in India before that.

Truth revealed, a wound healed

Finally, my curiosity got the better of me. I asked Martha, “Were you the person who spoke up a few months ago?” “Yes,” she said. And then, quickly, “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” I asked, even as the expression on her face suggested that she was about to reveal something extraordinary. It was me to whom Martha had addressed her fervent apology.

I explained to Martha that I didn’t have a recollection of either her or anyone else asking me the question, “Are you new here?” And I went on to explain why the questioners had not registered with me, let alone caused me any pain.

I had often been in gatherings where I was the newcomer. Even though the regulars could tell I was new—unfamiliar face, standing alone, not chatting with anyone—not one of them had tried to get to know me or invited me to sit with them. Even though I consider myself outgoing and self-confident, these repeated cold shoulders had left me feeling bruised. The reason? All these experiences had taken place in different Indian communities, over many years, and in different geographies. I had been repeatedly ignored—by people whom I had every reason to see as “my” people—even before I had had a chance to introduce myself.

And so, this is what I told Martha: I would rather be asked if I am new, than not be seen at all. I understand that the person who asks me if I am new is doing so in the spirit of being friendly and welcoming, and out of a desire to integrate me into the community as quickly as possible.

As I spoke, I saw the weight lift from Martha’s shoulders. She nodded her head while, it seemed, the frayed and tangled synapses in her brain and in her soul rearranged themselves into a more orderly pattern.

By the end of our meeting, I knew I had made a new friend, a special one because we shared a special bond, a bond based in forgiveness of self even though no forgiveness was necessary.

Over the ensuing months, each time we saw each other at church, Martha’s face beamed and we exchanged the most heartfelt hugs. I invited her to a Meetup group of spiritual dance and to a movie. Unfortunately, neither plan worked out due to weather and schedule conflicts. I knew these were not rejections as I felt secure in the friendship that Martha and I had forged.

Drifting away silently

Over the ensuing months, seeing Martha’s smiling face, there developed in me a desire to jettison my reserve and tell the congregation the story that now linked Martha and me. But Martha was reluctant. I accepted her decision—I understood that reopening that wound was more fraught for her than for me.

A few months later, noticing her absence from Sunday services, I learnt from friends that Martha had moved to live near her daughter. I felt sad that Martha had slipped away quietly and that here had been no opportunity for goodbyes and for good wishes for the next phase of her life. I cannot help wondering if she chose a low-key exit because of her difficult experience.

Questions without answers

I often think of Martha, especially when I hear accusations of blanket “white privilege.” What “white privilege” does someone like Martha command? I want to ask.

I also ask myself: What is my responsibility as the person standing in the middle of where “people of color” and whites don’t meet? What is my role/responsibility as the person with the accidental “privilege” of being free of the burden of a fraught history and of being instead empowered with an immigrant’s faith in America?

I wish that the UU community (at the congregational and denominational levels) and the larger American society was a welcoming space for people like me to talk about our journeys and how those journeys inform our genuinely diverse views.

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Photo by Tim Foster on Unsplash