A Moment of Silence

I unfollowed a lot of people this week. Scrolling through Facebook after the Orlando shooting, I was disappointed that my reaction was anger at people I knew. I didn’t want to talk about gun control or politicians the day after this tragedy. I wanted to talk about human lives. Mothers who had to bury their children. I was so saddened and noticed the unhealthy anger I was developing towards other people was not a good use of my energy or time. It was neither helping the problem or easing anyone’s grief.

Thanks to Lisbeth Darsh, an online friend and writer I follow, I stumbled upon Krista Tippet’s book, Becoming Wise: An Inquiry into the Mystery and Art of Living. It turns out it came along just when I needed it. “We’ve all been trained to be advocates for what we care about. This has its place and its value in civil society, but it can get in the way of the axial move of deciding to care about each other” (Tippet 29). In this situation the angry shouts and taunts of the “advocates” were drowning out the wailing cries of human beings mourning their loss. Why didn’t everyone feel a sense of desperation for love and caring for each other in this moment? I felt like I was the only one who needed to see it and hear it. I didn’t have any words or reactions to post. There was too much to feel and process.

In America, many features of national public life are also better suited to adolescence than to adulthood. We don’t do things adults learn to do, like calm ourselves, and become less narcissistic. Much of politics and media sends us in the opposite, infantilizing direction. We reduce great questions of meaning and morality to “issues” and simplify them to two sides, allowing pundits and partisans to frame them in irreconcilable extremes. But most of us don’t see the world this way, and it’s not the way the world actually works. (Tippet 12-13)

Tippet’s explanation gave words to my struggle. I wanted to give her a standing ovation and exclaim, “Yes! That’s it!” This week I felt like I was in a world of screaming teenagers, full of impulses and reactions. Many of the responses on social media were so instantaneous and irrational. Darsh posted, “After you type it, check yourself.” She is acknowledging what so many of us are thinking. Please think before you share. These posts cannot be unheard. They are read by real humans experiencing real pain. This is not a reality show.

Can we move beyond discussing these “great questions of meaning and morality” through internet memes and insulting rhetoric? Can we step away from issues and see real people and real pain? Social media has created a space where many can play “couch coach” to the lives of others. They can watch tragedy unfold on the news and instantly chime in with solutions and judgments.  Perhaps it is a coping mechanism or the human drive to take action to fix a broken world. But this divisive and harmful rhetoric becomes noise, deafening noise that fills the space, which at times is starved for silence. We appear to understand the need for silence. We incorporate a moment of silence into ceremonies or rituals in recognition of death and tragedy. Silence is a form of respect and offers us a moment to pause and think, not react or shout, just to think and let it all settle in for a bit.

Where is this moment of silence in social media? I found that I had to take the day away from social media after the Orlando shootings. I had no idea how to formulate a response so quickly. How did people even know what they were thinking?  I needed silence. I saw a close friend from the LGBTQ community that day, and I just hugged her. I had no words or clear thoughts yet, but I think where people are hurting, a hug can speak volumes.

I am not pretending that my response was the right one. Many people were angry about silence and said silence from certain groups was deafening. But I am not referring to the deliberate silence of neglect or denial but rather the pause to check yourself that Darsh mentions. I am referring to taking the time to care about each other, not just the issues. Part of understanding each other is appreciating our vulnerability and the fact that most of us do not have the exact answer for all this world’s brokenness. But I can grieve and hug my friends in the LGBTQ community and offer support in any way possible.

I am hopeful that we can “grow up” as a nation in the way we handle tragedy. As a teenager my feelings were raw, and I was always so adamant and certain in my beliefs. With age and maturity came the realization that I don’t have most things figured out, but I need to listen and learn more. I can pause, check myself, and allow myself to feel and process before reacting. Collectively, we can monitor our reactions and move beyond impulse to care about each other.

I can disagree with your opinion, it turns out, but I can’t disagree with your experience. And once I have a sense of your experience, you and I are in relationship, acknowledging the complexity in each other’s position, listening less guardedly. The difference in our opinions will probably remain in tact, but it no longer defines what is possible between us. (Tippet 22)