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“In Alaska, we belong to each other.” “We can take good care of each other.” These are the lines in one of my favorite spoken word poems by NaMee. This poem was written in response to the proposed, devastating budget cuts in the early days of Governor Dunleavy’s administration. But the reason for the poem is less important than the response, and the response is so powerful that it is still as true today as the day it was created. The poem not only reminds us about what we collectively love about this place, it reminds us about what it means to live here, to raise our families here, to make a living here. It reminds us that part of that choice is a responsibility to see the people around us and care for them and care about them.
There are days more recently, as Congress deliberates on a whole new level of devastation for people in Alaska and across the country, when I let this poem be the loudest thing in my head – hoping that it will drown out the other things I hear. There have been days recently where it feels more like a prayer or a set of hopes that we can share again across the country and with each other. There are days when I wish everyone who made decisions for us and about us would have to start their days by listening to these words to remind them that we live with the result of their decisions.
Importantly, the last lines of the poem invite us all to “have courage.”
And while I say this, it is still true that many, too many in my opinion, are simply not paying attention at all – on either side. Maybe this is a survival strategy. Maybe this is just how it goes. Maybe paying attention is a privilege. And if that is true, then is it possible for that privilege to come with more courage? Courage, after all, is rooted in the deep belief that hope through action is possible. Hope can feed our courage to speak up and stand up. Hope can help us do as Senator Murkowski urged at the Leadership Summit – ask for what we want by standing up and using our voices.
I see it, and I know you can see it, too. Just this past week, I saw so many versions of courage that looked big and bold. In congressional hearings where attempts were made to portray nonprofit work as something to disdain, as if caring for people, animals, and our planet were a crime, and somehow political and partisan. I saw people raising their hands and asking questions of their fellow Rotarians about the impacts of budget choices and the potential devastation of Medicaid and SNAP cuts. I saw a room full of nonprofit CEOs turning to each other to share their next steps for navigating extreme uncertainty and offering a friendly ear to the person sitting next to them. I saw hundreds of people step up quickly to meet the needs of animal care and rescue. And I saw a team pause in the midst of their work to deeply listen and learn about someone’s family experience – unlike their own – that resulted from a healthcare system with too many gaps. These were all acts of courage because it turns out that sometimes having courage will just look like your regular day.
Courage can and likely will look like doing the work you were called to do, like making sure people are fed, housed, and safe. It will look like problem-solving within your community and attending to immediate needs. It will look like caring for an elder and reading to a child or letting them read to you. It will look like tending a garden or tending to your staff. It can also look like writing letters, making calls, sending emails, and signing petitions. It can look like marching in the street and protesting for the community you want. It can look so different, but it has to look like something right now.
Recently, someone thanked me for my courage, but honestly, I had not felt courageous in that moment. I was simply doing my work the way I know how to do it, the way that I have always been called to do it. I share this because what looks like courage to one person may appear differently to another, depending on your point of view. And because, in that instance, what looked courageous was how public-facing my words had become and how much attention they received. It turns out that person was right. It just took me a minute to see the exposure I had created and to be aware that for some, I was now a target. I, too, am still learning about courage.
Whatever your version of courage is, know you are not alone. Your voice matters. Your work matters. And in this mixed-up world, it turns out that the very work you were called to do is now courageous. Keep at it. Take care of each other. Have courage.
Standing with you,
Laurie
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