I will never forget the year 2017, when the Trump Administration enacted a travel ban that restricted entry into the U.S. from predominantly Muslim countries. I remember feeling so angry at what felt like blatant hatred and discrimination. As a child, I had the blessing of growing up in a very diverse neighborhood. Therefore, I was very comfortable with friends and classmates of all different cultures, ethnicities, classes, religions, sexual identities, and abilities.
It pained me deeply to see the kinds of cruelty my Muslim and Sikh classmates endured after 9/11, simply because of what they looked like, what they wore, and what they believed. I knew that deeply unjust things happened in the “war against terrorism,” and the travel ban felt like a continuation of those injuries. When the news of the travel ban first broke, I remember immediately hopping into a car with several other students to protest at the Philadelphia International Airport. When we arrived, there were already massive crowds gathered, marching up and down the streets. It was almost impossible to walk through. Folks of all different ages and cultures were chanting and holding signs that said things like, “Immigrants and refugees welcome here” and “Love, not hate, makes America great.” Many of those around me cried. I was able to recognize that what was underneath all the anger and outrage was grief over the violence of Islamophobia and xenophobia.
When Trayvon Martin was killed, the #BlackLivesMatter movement gained momentum, and people flooded the streets with their shared heartbreak over police brutality and racial terrorism. This became a continuation of long-held American grief, expressed in different ways by all kinds of marginalized communities since the nation’s inception. In the 1960s, the Civil Rights Movement brought people together in massive marches that drew attention to Jim Crow segregation. Later, in 1969, at the Stonewall Inn in New York City, Black and Brown trans women and drag queens threw bricks at police who had been harassing them, contributing to the birth of the modern queer movement we know and recognize today. At the heart of all these movements was deep heartbreak. They are potent reminders that rage is often underlying grief, and sometimes honoring it looks like speaking up and/or putting yourself at risk.
Oftentimes, our deep lament and grief can take the form of righteous anger and rage. These are signals that something is deeply wrong or unjust. Sometimes, those wrongs are much bigger than us and our loved ones—they are systemic injustices, such as white supremacy, patriarchy, homophobia, transphobia, or ableism. But when we are grieving, we often feel powerless. Sometimes, we heal our grief by connecting to real actions that are within our control and allow us to feel like we can change what is happening.
In the new year, think of some ways you could engage in concrete actions connected to the things that break your heart. Here are some possibilities:
- Engaging in civil disobedience
- Speaking with government representatives
- Educating the public
- Donating to nonprofits or supporting mutual aid efforts
- Checking on or bringing resources to a vulnerable neighbor
Rev. Brooke Scott is a queer faith leader who is passionate about inclusive, justice-oriented ministry. She is also a licensed social worker (LSW) and part-time therapist. Along with mental health, she has experience in case and crisis management.
She has a Master of Social Work (MSW) from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, a Master of Divinity (M.Div) from Duke University, and a Bachelor of Social Work from Eastern University. Pastor Brooke currently lives in Philadelphia with her partner. While not in church or in therapy sessions, she is an avid reader and a big fan of music, podcasts, and musical theater.
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