Among other things, I am currently the director of music at a Unitarian Universalist church. This past weekend our congregation explored the 5 year anniversary of the shooting of Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO in 2014. As part of the service, our pastor suggested that we teach the congregation a couple of songs from the Resistance Revival Chorus. I loved the idea, but as I researched, listened, and contemplated, I began to feel some conflict in myself.
My problem wasn’t with the music or the message or the origin. I have great respect for anyone who finds ways to build community and awareness of social injustice through music. My problem was actually with myself. I am a white cisgender man. Much of the music of the RRC is very specific about who is and has been oppressed by whom. I don’t have a problem with this, because I don’t think it’s really a secret to anyone who takes a serious look that white cisgender men have a history of being on the “-or” side of oppression rather than the “-ed” side.
I also don’t balk (like I used to) when people talk about privilege. Accepting that I am privileged doesn’t take anything away from me. I’ve worked hard and done good things. But it does accept that I am in a system where other people have not had advantages that I have had. This is only an attack on me if I feel like I need to measure my own worth against the worth of other people, which I try very hard not to. However, a system that bestows privilege, in giving unequal access to advantage, does mean that my accomplishments have been at the automatic expense of others, and that needs to bother me, upset me, enrage me, because I believe the we are stronger together than we are alone, and by weakening some people to promote others, we are harming all of humanity. And worse than that, we are devaluing those who are being harmed and relegating them to an automatic decrease in quality of life. Nobody should have to endure that.
This idea of advantage actually leads to my dilemma in leading this music. How can I stand up in front of a group of people and lead this music that is not mine? Is there any worse message I can send than “yes, this is good, but you need me, the white cisgender man, to stand up and show you how to do it right?” Ouch and yuck. Not OK. But does my position of privilege mean that I’m not allowed to help and use my talents and training to promote causes of social justice?
To explore these ideas, I sat down with a few friends (Krista Grensavitch from the Women’s and Gender Studies program at UW-Milwaukee, Joe Walzer the project director for the Encyclopedia of Milwaukee from History/Ethnic Studies at UW-Milwaukee, and conductor/saxophonist Rosemary Walzer who is active as both a teacher and performer in the Milwaukee area… you guessed it… did I mention I’m in Milwaukee?) to help me sort some of this out… and boy did they help!
I walked away from the conversation realizing that my role in presenting music from oppressed people outside my experience is to use any advantage I may have to help make space for the message of those who struggle to have their voice heard. Instead of standing up to teach or lead the song, I can empower someone else to take a leadership role. Instead of trying to tell people what the songs mean, I can invite dialogue and active listening in the choir so people have a space to be heard in relating their own struggles. This allows people to practice vulnerability, support, acceptance, empathy, and so much more that is so often lacking in our society. It allows people to be people rather than just singers. It invites and invests in the value that each person has, allowing the things that make each of us unique to be a strength to be embraced rather than a weakness to be divisively exploited.
During our conversation, Krista spoke of sharing and decentralizing power. This struck a deep cord with me and my philosophy for choir. In what began as an internal conflict, I found affirmation that the choral experience has the power to create community that strives to accept and empower all people. My role as the director is to facilitate this process. When we are all accepted as people first, we find ourselves in a community where each of us is looking out for everyone else in the room. In a choir of 24, I’d much rather have 23 people watching my back while I watch out for everyone else than have to feel like we’re all in competition against each other.
Other useful advice from this group: Be honest and clear about how you see yourself and your relationship to the music you’re presenting. If you’re uncomfortable, say so. Be open to ideas from others about how to work through that discomfort, or maybe even how to embrace the need to live in that discomfort. Be open to a process that involves failure. The point of performing such music is not to be perfect. In fact, sometimes what we perceive as “imperfections” in the musical performance are representative of exactly the humanity we want to draw attention to. Allow the music to be the vehicle through which the singers can tell their stories, their pain, their triumphs. And definitely don’t ever stop asking, exploring, challenging, and being uncomfortable. As soon as we think we know, that’s when we inadvertently trample all over something that needs to be valued. Being able to stop caring about issues like this without feeling a direct impact on your life is a position of privilege… don’t give in!
Have thoughts on presenting music from outside your own experience? Please comment below!
Paul H. Thompson 