I was sitting in a café in Warsaw, in a work meeting, with tears streaming down my face. I had just watched the video of Ft. Worth City Councilman Joel Burns genuinely sharing from his heart about his experience, with a plea to youth who are being bullied and contemplating suicide to stick around, that life would get better. (If you have not yet seen this video, watch it here.)
Our tendency, when confronted with something that is painful, such as the suffering Mr. Burns shared, is to want to escape it, to turn away. I did not want to fall into this habitual reaction; I wanted to find the meaning that watching this video had for me. I used the basic components of Nonviolent Communication (NVC)—observation, feeling, need, and request—to connect with myself and get in touch with what was alive in me.
My observation was in part the video itself, what Joel Burns was saying and the situations he was relating—the children who tragically are no longer with us, and his own experience being in their situation. However, I also realized that much of my reaction was due to the observation of my memories.
I know now that some of my closest friends as an adolescent were gay, and I was not aware of that at the time. I’m sure I was mindlessly saying things that were painful for them to hear; I doubt they trusted me, and likely did not feel connected or safe with me. I can only imagine how hard it must have been for these people that I cared about to not feel safe enough to tell me they were gay and include me fully into their lives.
In my later years, including very recently, I have had many young friends, children of friends of mine, who have committed suicide in their teens. I have and continue to witness the devastation in their families.
Another observation is that I have been on both sides: perpetrator and victim, oppressor and oppressed. I grew up in rural south Texas, a place where the numbers on a football jersey could be turned into a reason to bash someone for being gay. The number 41 was queer; if by the luck of the draw, or because of the coach’s malice, coach gave you #41, you were stigmatized and ridiculed regardless of who you were. Coming from that milieu, it’s no surprise that I have been perpetrator at times, and have treated other people as less than because they differed from me in some way. At the same time, I have also been victim; in that same town, I was ruffed up, intimidated and humiliated, repeatedly, because I was white and the privileged son of a high status family.
Thus, at this level my observation is a lifetime of growing always more aware of how much pain is caused by people who try to protect themselves and fit in through attacking others over sexual orientation, religion, skin color, ethnicity, class, and so on.
After getting clear on my observations, I turn to my feelings. The primary feeling that arose in me from these observations was clear: grief. I felt deeply saddened by what I had experienced, the pain that I likely stimulated in others close to me when I was young, the pain of the youth that I have known who have committed suicide and their families, and the pain of all the people marginalized, bullied, or feeling less than human because of their treatment due to some difference, perceived or real.
My grief extends from my own personal experience and connects with the suffering of all beings, that we all do this to each other; we are all perpetrators and we are all victims. As Thich Nhat Hanh says in his poem “Call Me By My True Names:”
I am the twelve-year-old girl,
refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean
after being raped by a sea pirate.
And I am the pirate,
my heart not yet capable
of seeing and loving.
My needs that give rise to these feelings are for safety and compassion; I would like people to be safe from physical and emotional abuse brought about at the hands of others due to their differences, and I want compassion for all, both the bullies and the bullied. Another need is for inclusion; I want all people to be included in the community of humanity, for everyone to be accepted the way they are, their differences not a reason to exclude and marginalize but to welcome and embrace.
Finally, my requests; obviously, one of my requests was to request my co-writer to help write this blog entry and the ones that follow. Another request, though, was to not hurry, to be willing to stay with the sadness, to grieve, to refuse to run away. Sitting with the grief is saying yes, choosing to want love, compassion, care, and tenderness for all of us. It’s choosing life.
In a sense, my work as an NVC mediator and mediation trainer is also an ongoing request of myself that comes out of exactly this type of situation. My wish is for a way to intervene and break the cycle Mr. Burns is drawing attention to; NVC is the way that I believe holds the most hope. I’ve seen how much change this way of seeing the world and communicating with ourselves and others has brought to me and others. Simply my reaction to this video, considering where I came from, is testimony to the power of doing this work.
My hope for the work I’m doing—training people in NVC mediation, mediating, coaching—is for people to be able to be heard across gulfs of discord and cultural training and bigotry about sexual orientation, religion, culture, class, and so on. I want hope, and I want others to have hope, including the kids that Mr. Burns was speaking to, that we can deal with these issues in a way that leaves everyone clued in to the fact that we are all humans, all share the same basic needs, and all deserve the compassion and love that each of us yearn for.
This post was written by Ike Lasater with Julie Stiles