Sacrifice

There is a certain necessary ingredient that stirs social change, that causes a movement to transform lives, mindsets, and even laws. But it’s so subtle – almost secretive – that we often miss it when fighting against injustice. We consider the result, but not what really stirred it in the first place. Sharon Tubbs

This ingredient, for instance, thrived in the story about integrating Fort Wayne Community Schools. It was the late 1960s, and African Americans boycotted the public system, sending their children instead to makeshift “freedom schools.” Success would not come easily, or quickly. Nothing worthwhile does. Advocates sacrificed paychecks. Community leaders, pastors, parents, and white and Black officials donated hours, days, and years to meetings and public forums. State officials investigated and reviewed progress. Some people opposed the effort, not thinking integration was worth it. But those who believed persisted. They gave themselves to the fight. By the 1980s, I rode buses across the Maumee River train tracks from my home on the Southeast side to integrated schools on the North side.

Do you see it?

How about this: Decades after school integration, protests rang out again in the summer of 2020 on the courthouse lawn downtown. The police killing of a Black man more than five hundred miles away in Minneapolis, Minn., ignited a show of dissent here. George Floyd’s death emerged as a symbol of systemic racism, of America’s “knee on the neck” of African Americans throughout our country’s history, including in Fort Wayne.

Long after the protests died, leaders joined in meeting rooms, by phone or Zoom. They talked about diversity, equity, and inclusion in government and private businesses. They discussed negative interactions between law enforcement and People of Color. Many still meet, pondering ways to combat racism. They give of their time, effort, their money for something much greater than themselves.
See it now?

Sacrifice. It is arguably the most crucial element of social change. A community may have the money, the moral ideology, the religious schema, and the network of helpful nonprofits and foundations—as in many ways we do in Fort Wayne. Yet, when players on different sides of the issue lack the zest of sacrifice, communities remain flat, stagnant, and, for some groups, just plain bitter.

More than a donation
The importance of true sacrifice dawned on me some time ago during a heated exchange with another leader. By day, she helped find ways to serve those in need. So, I was surprised when she initiated a debate about the pitfalls of federal health care reform, newly-minted at the time. Some in the middle class paid higher insurance premiums, she said. Some had to switch doctors, others faced high deductibles.

I agreed that the legislation should be improved. Still, it must not be dismantled, I said. What about the poor people she’d been fighting for, the ones who now had a path to be insured? What about those with pre-existing conditions who could now get the treatment they needed?

To be clear, I believed she really enjoyed helping people—she just didn’t want to sacrifice for them. She didn’t want their liberation to affect her personal life. Speaking up for a poor man’s needs in a meeting or on a panel was fine. But adjusting one’s own health insurance so unknown people could have it, too – that was a bridge too far.

Herein lies the essence of sacrifice, which should not be confused with giving or donating, by the way. Sacrifice begins with empathy, rather than basic sympathy. People who sacrifice seek to relate to others by understanding their situations. They move past the statistics and see stories, imagining what led to the homeless man’s perch in the park. They put themselves in his shoes, realizing a turn of life events might very well have put them there. Givers, however, toss extra change into his cup and feel good about themselves, checking off the requirements of their moral or religious mandates. Giving is a good thing, but it stops at convenience – at what is easily spared. Giving becomes sacrifice only when it also becomes inconvenient or uncomfortable.

The difference explains how someone who argues for health care access at work can oppose the very reform that brings it to pass. It reveals how white parents who know the social benefits of integration might still protest when the plan requires their kids to switch schools, too. It’s why people who say they believe in racial equality tire of ongoing discussions and social media posts that point out the disparities among us. These conversations make them uncomfortable, step on their toes, challenge their perceptions, and threaten the privilege they enjoy.

I, too, wish we could stop this ongoing dialogue about social oppression and racism. I wish we could stop giving of our time, effort, money, and political will so everyone can have equitable opportunities to thrive. But injustice persists. We must keep talking because the voice of equity for all remains just a whisper against the roar of privilege for some.

The invisible heirloom
The fixes for injustice are complex and far-reaching. Laws must be enacted or repealed, programs created, and dialogues convened across races. The scope seems overwhelming. Consider that People of Color are disproportionately imprisoned and have lower incomes, higher unemployment rates, and shorter life expectancies. We have a greater chance of having to battle diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease. Implicit bias leads to inferior medical treatment for African Americans. We are hardest hit by disasters like the COVID-19 pandemic. African Americans and Latinos were more likely to be hospitalized and to die from the virus than our white brothers and sisters.

These results linger from slavery, Jim Crow, and ongoing structural racism in America. Obviously, more opportunities do exist for advancement today because of the protests and marches our ancestors organized. Still, the effects didn’t fall away with the signing of a bill or a vote in Congress.

Racism baked itself into the making of America, politically, economically, and socially. Slavery, of course, was an economic boon for the South. But even after emancipation and the Civil Rights Act, segregation and the social hierarchy that came with it endured. Housing segregation, for example, did not evolve solely from “de facto,” or private practices, such as white flight, redlining by banks, and prejudiced real estate agents. In The Color of Law, author Richard Rothstein contends that segregation has been so sweeping and long-lasting in America because it was “de jure,” or rather established by law and public policy. He goes on to detail how our government created and maintained segregation through laws at local, state, and federal levels.[1]

“By failing to recognize that we now live with the severe enduring effects of de jure segregation, we avoid confronting our constitutional obligation to reverse it,” Rothstein says. “If I am right that we continue to have de jure segregation, then desegregation is not just a desirable policy; it is a constitutional as well as a moral obligation that we are required to fulfill. ‘Let bygones be bygones’ is not a legitimate approach if we wish to call ourselves a constitutional democracy.”[2]

In other words, Rothstein reasons that our government carved the pathway to the segregation dividing us today. As an American people, then, we can’t simply distance ourselves from this truth because most of us weren’t alive when the seeds were planted. Righting these and other wrongs requires us all to move toward a mindset of equity, which isn’t possible without sacrifice. What exactly is equity? This contrast between equity and equality by the Annie E. Casey Foundation explains it well:

“Equity involves trying to understand and give people what they need to enjoy full, healthy lives. Equality, in contrast, aims to ensure that everyone gets the same things in order to enjoy full, healthy lives. Like equity, equality aims to promote fairness and justice, but it can only work if everyone starts from the same place and needs the same things.”[3]

Sacrifice is essential to equity, because equity calls for society to make up for the sins of its past. People of Color in America who have experienced discrimination and oppression for generations work harder to get to the same place as white Americans. Equity calls for the white majority to acknowledge this, to realize they inherited privilege like an invisible family heirloom—a treasured bequest that they now must sacrifice for the good of us all.

Sacrifice from all, for all
At my childhood home on Fort Wayne’s Southeast side, we were surrounded by other African American families who migrated from the southern states during the Great Black Migration, from about 1915 to 1970. The Southeast was where Black families from Alabama, Mississippi, and Arkansas settled, as white neighbors fled to the suburbs.

Since I was a child, local leaders have talked about revitalizing the Southeast, boosting employment opportunities and offering necessary resources for people who live there. But these talks often seem to fall in the shadows of economically expedient projects in other sectors. We’ve seen Parkview Field and the Riverfront refashioned. Today, another southeast strategy inches forward with input from City Councilmembers, architects, and residents. Meanwhile, city official now talk about collaborations that will soon bring a new grocery store to the Southeast. The people want I tall – improved infrastructure, resources, and aesthetics. They want grocery stores with fresh produce, sit-down restaurants, and banking institutions, all of which are scarce here compared to other parts of Fort Wayne. Considering the city’s support for other areas, the question is not can we revitalize the Southeast, but will we? How much is Fort Wayne willing to sacrifice to make things right?
Sacrifice for social change must come from all sides of the issue. Remember, people who fought for civil rights suffered jail time and beatings. Some made the ultimate sacrifice, dying during freedom rides, lunch counter sit-ins, and stands for righteousness. They were Black Baptists, but also white Catholics and Quakers. They were African Americans, yes, but also white landowners, politicians, and entertainers. Frank Sinatra, for one, refused to stay at hotels that didn’t allow Black guests. His anti-racist stance helped integrate Las Vegas. I can see him risking gigs, his own financial gain, for inclusion’s sake.

During the 2020 racial justice protests, I stood on the Allen County Courthouse lawn a few days after George Floyd died. A panoply of cultures surrounded me, African Americans, Latinos, Asians, and white Americans, too—as many whites as there were Blacks. I did not see the mayhem alluded to in the days prior. None of us had to be here. We’d gathered here for peaceful protest, to support one another, and to hear speakers add their experience to the tome of racial injustice.

The unity intrigued me most. I hadn’t imagined so many white protesters. The young ones walked fast, energized with mission, their voices bellowed. Others were graying, their demeanor calm, taking it all in while, I suppose, reminiscing of similar scenes long ago. A man and woman in a flowy hippie-style dress stood with young children at their hips. They clustered together and listened to the speakers, as if on a homeschool field trip in real-life education. Signs throughout the crowd preached to the choir and called out the opposition:

“Stop disguising racism as nationalism.”

“I refuse to silently go back to the 1950s!”

“All lives don’t matter until Black lives matter.”

“White Silence is Violence.”

Some people passed out free food. Volunteers promoted voter registration. And I felt the hope of a community where everyone could be included and valued, where true equity might evolve, someday. My optimism did not result from the rhythmic chants, the speeches, or even the demands posed to government leaders. My hope came because I saw people of all skin colors gathered together, willing to offer a personal sacrifice on the altar of change.

This essay is part of a citizen-led book project in Fort Wayne called FORTHCOMING: Considering the Future State of Our City. To learn more and read additional essays, visit the Foreword and Preface.

Sharon Tubbs is the community liaison for the St. Joseph Community Health Foundation. She is a former journalist who interned for the News-Sentinel, before moving away to work for The Philadelphia Inquirer and the Tampa Bay Times. Today, Sharon writes faith-based books and freelance articles in her native Fort Wayne.

Read more articles by Sharon Tubbs.