justice delayed is justice denied

It’s Martin Luther King’s birthday. I spent the evening at a Youth Speaks Poetry Slam. Youth Speaks is a remarkable organization that’s mobilized young people to write poetry. My goddess daughter Hazel is in it, and my young friend Susanna, who in 9^th grade took an elements of magic class from me and rapidly became extended family. It’s an amazing group of kids from both privilege and poverty, bonded in their belief in the power of the spoken word, and you can feel the magic as soon as the first kid gets up. Poems about MLK, about first love, about striving to be “cool”, about being of mixed race, about being queer, about purely being, all had a place here. “Clap it up!” was yelled after each poet, all getting a loud round of applause, all praised for their bravery and their story. The guy who started this is one of those heroes of the Aquarian age, not taking center stage, but passing the power and glory all around. I was in tears less than a minute into it.

It was a great thing to do today. Earlier in the day, I had one of those conversations that use to unhinge me for days, but today, having dropped my role as Lucifer, it was disturbing, but not disabling. In fact, the upshot of the conversation pointed to a crack in the storyline, a shake-up in roles. One of the members of the selection committee for California Witchcamp called to talk to me about my response to a e-mail I’d been sent thanking me for applying, telling me to apply again, and letting me know that preference was given to those who teach in their home communities. Jeez. I had e-mailed back suggesting that honesty might be a better policy, and the sooner there was acknowledgement that I and a sizable group of others who do teach in our home community were blacklisted from teaching at this camp, the sooner the possibility of some healing could start. Old habits die hard.

The conversation started with the usual vexing Reclaiming doublespeak. I wasn’t picked because I’m so hard to work with, such a troublemaker, and there’s no way I’d be welcomed at a camp I say I’m blacklisted from. Whew! Now that last one is really tricky! It ended with recognition that there is a structural problem with California camp, and even acknowledgment that I’ve played a Cassandra role in the community. I said it was a little more like Lucifer, and to spread the word that Cassandra or Lucifer, that role was open to a new taker. As we talked, I felt the comfort of the detachment that’s been growing for over a year or so. Free at last! The selection committee member grudgedly admitted that what has gone down is unjust, that I’ve been scapegoated for speaking what so many others also believe but won't say publicly. She spoke of things taking time, of fear of open conflict tearing the community apart. That happened a long time back. It’s a done deal.

How refreshing to end the day in a room full of young people encouraged to tell the truth about their lives, to speak out with passion, to each be applauded for their story, in all their exquisite variations. If I had a dream, this would be it. Clap it up!