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By Dr. Bruce T. Marshall
October 17, 2010
There is a sign posted on the Davies property where it fronts on
Temple Hill Road, a sign that reads, “Hate-Free Zone.” I have
wondered about it, where that sign came from, what it means to the
congregation. So I asked several people and nobody had a strong
impression. “It just got put up,” someone said.
I have encountered similar signs at other Unitarian Universalist
congregations so I contacted the Unitarian Universalist Association.
“What’s the history of these Hate-Free Zone signs?” I asked. “What
do they mean?” My question got routed into the social justice
department, and the response I received was that the Hate-Free Zone
campaign did not originate with the UUA, and they’re not exactly
sure where it came from.
My impression has been that the Hate-Free Zone campaign is related
to the effort to secure human rights for the LGBT community, that
is, those who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender. Because
this is a group of people that has been and continues to be subject
to hatred simply because of who they are.
But when I googled “Hate Free Zone,” I was taken somewhere else, to
an organization called OneAmerica. OneAmerica, I learned from the
website, was founded in the days after 9/11 with the aim of
protecting the civil rights of immigrants in this country. As it is
stated on their website, “Initially named Hate Free Zone, the
organization was founded immediately after September 11, 2001 to
address the backlash in a post 9/11 world against immigrant
communities of color, primarily Muslims, Arab Americans, East
Africans, and South Asians.”
Another potential association, I thought, was with the
Anti-Defamation League’s campaign called, “No Place for Hate.” The
Anti-Defamation League describes its mission as, “To stop the
defamation of the Jewish people and to secure justice and fair
treatment (for) all.” Its “No Place for Hate” campaign is focused
specifically on schools. It offers students, teachers,
administrators and parents the opportunity to work together to
combat prejudice and enhance a culture of respect in the school
community.
It seems that hatred is still with us, in many forms, direct against
different people.
● ● ●
Hatred divides people into categories and then claims that the most
important thing about us is that we are of that category. Hate
groups target categories of people based on national origin, race,
religion, sexual orientation, ethnicity, or political beliefs. Hate
crimes are acts of violence directed not against specific people but
against those whose only offense is that they are part of a targeted
group. Hatred asserts that no matter who we are or what we have done
or what we aspire to—none of these really matter. All that matters
is this category we’re in that defines our identity and limits our
worth as human beings. In its essence, then, hatred is dehumanizing.
Hatred in our society seems to ebb and flow in response to external
conditions. When we feel threatened, when our lives seem out of
control, when our own livelihoods are at risk, it’s tempting to
blame some category of people as causing all these troubles. Hatred
is then directed toward this group that has been so identified.
Once it starts, hatred is hard to stop. Appeals to reason, common
sense, compassion, to our shared interests fall short when stacked
up against the passion generated by hatred. Then it might take
something simpler, more direct, more innocent to interrupt the
spiral of hatred. Something simple and direct and innocent as the
perception of a child that cuts through the nastiness we grown-ups
perpetrate. Like what we see in these drawings (the Hiroshima
Drawings) that surround us this morning, creating a kind of
Hate-Free Zone.
A week ago Friday the participants in A.D.O.R.E. here at Davies—that
is, A Dialogue On Race and Ethnicity—considered Harper Lee’s classic
book, To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s a story of life in the Jim Crow
South during the 1930’s as seen through the eyes of an 8-year-old
girl who goes by the name, Scout. Scout’s father, Atticus Finch (who
anyone who has seen the movie will forever picture as Gregory Peck)
is an attorney in a small Alabama town. Atticus Finch guides himself
by a truth of his life that becomes a theme of the book. He tells
his children, “You never really understand a person until you
consider things from his point of view—until you climb inside of his
skin and walk around in it.” Atticus is the conscience of the
community, and he gets assigned to defend a black man accused of
raping a white woman.
There’s a memorable scene in which a mob confronts Atticus who is
alone, after dark, seated outside the small town’s vulnerable jail
where the only prisoner is the man accused of rape. This mob has
lynching on its mind, and it seems things will get ugly until
something surprising happens. Scout and her older brother Jem and
their friend Dill are also out that night, in violation of the
rules, when they come upon this scene developing without realizing
what’s going on. Scout runs to her father expecting him to be
surprised and pleased to greet her. But then she senses the tension
all around.
She scans the faces of those in the group that has formed a
semicircle around her father and then recognizes someone she knows.
Her father has always taught that it’s polite to greet people you
know so she says (and here I quote the book),
“Hey, Mr. Cunningham.”
The man did not hear me, it seemed…
“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Cunningham? I’m Jean Louise Finch. You
brought us some hickory nuts one time, remember?” I began to sense
the futility one feels when unacknowledged by a chance acquaintance.
“I go to school with Walter,” I began again. “He’s your boy, ain’t
he? Ain’t he, sir?”
Mr. Cunningham was moved to a faint nod. He did know me, after all.
“He’s in my grade,” I said, “and he does right well. He’s a good
boy,” I added, “a real nice boy. We brought him home for dinner one
time. Maybe he told you about me. I beat him up one time but he was
real nice about it. Tell him hey for me, won’t you?” …
I began to feel sweat gathering at the edges of my hair; I could
stand anything but a bunch of people looking at me. They were quite
still.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Atticus said nothing. I looked around and up at Mr. Cunningham,
whose face was equally impassive. Then he did a peculiar thing. He
squatted down and took me by both shoulders.
“I’ll tell him you said hey, little lady.” He said.
Then he straightened up and waved a big paw. “Let’s clear out,” he
called. “Let’s get going, boys.”
In ones and twos the men shuffled back to their ramshackle cars.
Doors slammed, engines coughed, and they were gone.
That is, a simple innocent appeal to humanity is what countered
hatred.
● ● ●
I must admit that when I first saw our “Hate-Free Zone” sign, I
wondered at its appropriateness. Hatred is an ugly word. Wouldn’t
that sign be more likely to repel people than encourage them to join
with us? And it also seems like maybe there’s a subtle arrogance in
the message of that sign, an assertion of moral superiority over
those who drive by on Temple Hill Road. I wondered if it might
appear to be saying, “We don’t hate in here, but you guys out there
on the other side of our sign: you do.”
But we live in a time in which hatred is escalating. People are
demonized for who they are and what they believe. Those on different
sides trade insults, rather than making the effort to listen and
understand. Those who do seek common ground are attacked from both
sides. Maybe you saw the piece in last week’s Washington Post by the
Republican senator from Maine, who told of her efforts to find ways
to work together with those with different points of view—and how
she was attacked from both right and left for her efforts. These
days there’s altogether too much shouting going on.
And so I’ve come to think that our Hate-Free Zone is a message we
ought to stand by. Against hatred. Against the effort to divide us
into antagonistic groups. Against demeaning and dismissing people
because of their religion or lack thereof, because of ethnic
background, because of sexual orientation, because of race, because
of nationality, because they are perceived as somehow different than
we are.
That sign out there is a statement against hatred. It’s also a
statement of intention to provide a safe place, a community in which
we try to find ways of making connections with each other, of
bridging those gaps that others exploit for their own gain. A place
where we can be who we are without fear.
I’ll close by returning to the book, To Kill a Mockingbird. Scout’s
brother, Jem, is older than she is. He’s growing up, trying to
understand the world. He tells his sister that he’s decided that
people can be classified into four groups. He says, “You know
something, Scout? I’ve got it all figured out, now. I’ve thought
about it a lot lately and I’ve got it figured out. There’s four
kinds of folks in the world.” And then he goes on to explain his
system of classification.
Scout listens to his learned discourse, but then she draws a
different conclusion. She says, “I think there’s just one kind of
folks. Folks.”
Right there, it seems to me, is the answer to hatred. Recognizing
that simple truth as stated by a child, and as conveyed in the
Hiroshima Drawings: that, really, throughout this whole world,
there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.
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