Being Woke Is Simple, But Tell That To The Conservative American Christian

 

To be woke, as defined by dictionary.com, is “having or marked by an active awareness of systemic injustices and prejudices, especially those involving the treatment of ethnic, racial, or sexual minorities.”

Isn’t that a good thing? Shouldn’t we embrace a positive reaction to our historical and present-day negative actions? 

Wouldn’t you think those who profess to be Christians would be at the forefront of this movement—more woke than anyone else?

I would think so. But no. I would be wrong.

American Christians, most of whom are conservatives, use woke as a negative term and fight hard against changes in the world being made by those who recognize the movement's eyes-wide-open benefits.

The Woke Movement isn’t new. It’s been around since the early 1900s when Black Americans coined the term for use in the racial justice movement. It simply meant that a person was “informed, educated and conscious of social injustice and racial inequality,” according to Merriam-Webster Dictionary. I had never heard the term woke until recent years when the 24-hour news cycle and social media brought it to my attention because conservative American Christians were using it as a double-edged sword against those striving for progress and change.

I was discussing the definition of woke recently with a friend who said that Christians don’t see that there is a problem. Or that there ever has been a problem. He added that Christians view wokeness as an attack on them.

Investigating further, I read a post from a Reddit thread from a couple of years ago. The original poster believes woke means being sensitive to injustice and having compassion for the marginalized and minority groups, adding that conservatives mock “bleeding heart liberals” who understand movement and try to implement its intended change. A responder to that post spoke of the perceived toxic environment created by the Woke Movement, opining that when one doesn’t follow the rules perfectly as laid out by those in charge then one is reprimanded. (Who’s in charge?) Further into the thread, responses of “simply having respect” and “wokeness demands repentance but offers no forgivenesses” caught my attention.

Why is there no forgiveness? Why aren’t Christians the ones with bleeding hearts? Why does respecting another person’s color, sexuality, gender, gender identity, religious beliefs (or none), etc., cause such fear-based outrage?

I can’t answer these questions.

From what I remember in my nearly 18 years of going to Sunday school and Baptist worship services three times a week, this man Jesus was supposedly a kind, generous, loving person. He is characterized as a man who opened his heart and his arms to the sick and the poor, to kings and outcasts alike. And he supposedly taught lessons of acceptance and forgiveness.

As a queer from a small town in the red state of Kentucky, I sure know what it means to feel, and be, different. I know what learned fear feels like from the repeated warnings of a fire-and-brimstone preacher as he spoke of a God who would punish me for my sins, turn his back on me if I failed to heed his attempts to convict my heart to turn toward him, and send me to Hell for being gay. 

Side note: if we are all created in the image of this God of the Bible, then that means my non-binary, gay, queer, femme-ass self was made in the image of that God too. And I would suggest that you stop thinking of this God as some white-haired, white-bearded, white man who resides somewhere above the clouds. I suggest instead that you think of this God as an entity that posses both sexes, all colors, and every race. This God would be trans and bi and poly and glorious and glittering in his various shades of life. But I digress.

We all know this biblical God of the White Right, don’t we? And so, too, this man Jesus. (If either of them even exist.) But if this God does exists then he’s clearly a man with a penis. As is this man Jesus. That’s the only option for most American Christians. And the God of the American Christian doesn’t seem to want his followers to embrace trans people or queer people or gay people. No. This God wants his followers to close their eyes to the injustices perpetrated on these communities. They’re angry all the time and righteous as they point out how threatening we are. Their God wants his followers to speak with nasty vitriol and in some cases even perpetuate the injustices with violence. He doesn’t want those dirty fucking trannies to live happy lives. And we shouldn’t even speak of how he seems to feel about the nasty gays and their disgusting sexual habits. Not in His America. Hell no. 

Of course none of that is true. If there is a God how could this entity want anything but happiness and love and full lives for all of its creations? Human beings are the ones who don’t want that. Human beings live in fear of what we don’t understand. Human beings have decided they can speak for this God.

Let’s look specifically at two words in the above mentioned definition of woke: active awareness. That’s it, right there. To be woke is to have an active awareness. Of what? Well, of racism, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, to name just a few. And with an active awareness, a person can actively work against these negatives. 

So why are so many Christians actively working against being woke? To simply respect and support other people seems like something this man Jesus would do, something very Christlike.

This feels like the perfect time to bring up the word “agenda.” I am aware that many American Christians think anything different, or new, is part of someone’s “agenda.” They love to say these “agendas” are being shoved down their throats. We’ve all heard of the Gay Agenda. Of course now there’s the Trans Agenda. And we can’t forget that old stalwart, the Black Lives Matter Agenda.

Agenda is not a bad word. It’s a plan. And the agenda for any of these movements is to shine a light on the disparities and the prejudices and the treatment of people in these communities. But these “agendas” sure rile people up, don’t they?

It’s American Christian who have the biggest “agenda.” Example: you may be a person that’s against abortion. And that’s fine. You can be against abortion. To me, that means you’re not going to have an abortion.

But many Christians rejoiced when the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, even though that meant millions of women most of who these Christians will never know, lost access to safe and legal abortion. Tell me Christians don’t have an agenda. And theirs is the Agenda being shoved down the throats of too many Americans on a daily basis.

What about your Ten Commandments? What about the Golden Rule? What about “Judge not lest ye be judged?”

Woke merely means I see you. I acknowledge your struggle. I recognize your community hasn’t been treated well. I want to understand. I want to help. I have empathy. I include you.

If I seem frustrated, maybe even a little angry, (and a bit more than anti-Christian) you’re not wrong (and, yes, I am). The truths is I, too, struggle with being woke. But it ain’t that deep. And it sure as hell isn’t something that conservative American Christians should be getting their panties in a twist over.

When I Took My Heels On Vacation: A Redux

The current television ad for Pacifico Beer says, “Live life with anchors up.” 

Remember two years ago when I took my heels to Cherry Grove on Fire Island? I had all kinds of plans to just be my fabulous self—“strut, pout, put it out." But when I got there, intimidation cloaked itself around me like a 1950s Balenciaga opera coat. I was filled with anxiety. I couldn’t walk out of my cottage with them on. I was so afraid of being openly mocked or talked about behind my back. I couldn’t (or wouldn’t), and didn’t give any person there a chance to support me. I didn’t even support myself. 

I was so frustrated with my stuck-in-a-rut fear that I didn’t return the next season. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face myself. I was embarrassed.

So here I am, two years later, headed back to the boardwalks. Before I left my house for Cherry Grove, the two fingernails that I paint (I only paint two. It’s my thing) were perfectly painted hot pink. My eyes were shadowed, lined, and mascara’d. My lips sticked in my favorite Tom Ford pink, a sheer named “Ellie.” I was going to express myself even if the anxiety made me feel as if vomiting would be an easier alternative. But guess what? The anxiety was pretty low grade. My heart was pounding, yes, but from a little bit of anxiety and a whole lot of excitement. 

I knew this trip was going to be different because I was different from the last time I’d made it. I’m normally reserved and a bit shy at first around strangers. But as I waited for the ferry to take me to that Mecca of Freedom where it seems everyone except for me thrives, I decided to get out of my way. I heard the pop of a top on what turned out to be a can of Corona. I needed one. The desire was immediate. A cold beer was the only thing that would do in the moment. I hadn’t ordered a pre-ferry beverage before. Uptight?

While waiting at the bar for my Montauk Summer Ale to arrive, I met Rick and David. Rick immediately fell in love with my hot pink t-shirt emblazoned with the likenesses of Alexis Carrington and Dominique Devereaux from the “It’s burned” scene from Dynasty circa 1984. He took a picture and from there a conversation flowed. It was easy. It should be easy. We’re all human beings. And those of us who frequent Cherry Grove have something in common. We’re either LGBTQ or an LGBTQ ally. Cue George Michael’s “Freedom 90” and play it loud. Lets all love and support each other. How about it? 

I took a deep breath of liberating air and boarded the ferry…beer in hand.

The category is: Fem Queer Living Life

I’m going to narrow this down to the “live” part of the word living. I had to live. No one was stopping me but me. I am an expressive, creative person, and I am fabulous. I’m not an abnormality. I’m as normal as any one else—and we’re all a little fucked up. And you know what? Heels are just shoes. And makeup is just pigment. Neither have power on their own. Only by my making either, or both, a big deal do they have power.  

I thought about putting my heels on the minute I dropped all my belonging off at my cottage. But I hesitated because, honestly, my fuchsia Chuck Taylor’s were too cute and the heels weren’t going to be as cute with that t-shirt. Looking back, I was probably having a relapse of my Fear of Expression and Vulnerability Syndrome. I feel like a femme fatale trapped by his own male insecurity. Move it or lose it girl!

I knew my deeply rooted fears weren’t going to magically vanish when my feet hit the boardwalk. I also knew that I was two years stronger into expressing myself. So, within the first 24 hours in Cherry Grove I wore those heels out and about three times. It was easier each time. No one said anything negative. There was no judgement, except me judging myself. I’m only slightly less exhausting than I was two years ago. But ultimately, I felt ebullient, excited, and dare I say, comfortable.

Then I damaged my right shoe. Can you believe it? On the inside where the Throat meets the Shank (shoe lingo), the shoe started to detach. There I was finally feeling liberated enough to let myself shine, and I damaged the damn shoe. Believe me when I tell you that I contemplated just feeling relieved at no longer having to challenge myself to wear the shoes. Old habits die hard. But, that contemplation was brief. In actuality, I was pissed off. The shoes were broken. I wanted to wear them. That option was taken away. I wasn’t in control. The more I looked at those shoes sitting dormant and unused, the more pissed off I got.

Two days later I had a flash of an image. I had seen black electrical tape in one of the junk drawers in the cottage. Eureka! I knew I would be able to use that tape to repair, if only temporarily, the damaged shoe. 

And temporarily it was. I only got to wear them one more time before the tape gave way to a detachment that was too damaged to repair. It’s ok. They were cheap. But their cork platforms were perfect for a beachy getaway where boardwalks exist instead of roads. And I had finally been excited, and somewhat secure, to be wearing them.

Two things happened that day though that proved to me how unfounded my fears had always been. In the final stroll that broke them, I encountered a man that said, “Nice shoes,” as he passed me, then he went back to his previous conversation because me wearing heels wasn’t a bit weird or unnatural. Hours later as I headed to the beach for a late afternoon sit, I encountered a woman who asked, “Where are your shoes?” I was slightly taken aback but completely confirmed. I told her about the irreparable damage. She suggested glue. I told her about the electrical tape. We had a chuckle. As I walked away she yelled, “You’re still glamorous.” 

The support of others goes a long way toward nurturing your courage. Dare I say the support of strangers can lift you even higher? I wouldn’t let the strangers support me two years ago.

Thinking back to the t-shirt I was wearing on the day I arrived, I realized I was wearing the image of two strong female characters. Alexis Carrington and Dominique Devereaux did not let anything, or anyone, stand in their way.

Why do I continue to limit myself? Why do I let myself be paralyzed by my own fears? I was once told in college to put razor blades on my elbows and run. There has never been a more right time for me personally to put those razor blades on and run. Maybe I need to put them on a pair of heels. Gucci produced a fabulous pair a few seasons ago with spikes. I should pull those back outta the box. Anchors up!

My journey continues...