Steadiness and Accountability

In the wake of another killing carried out with vicious impulse and unrestrained indifference to consequence, I can choose the opposites - steadiness and accountability.

The story of Tyre Nichols’ murder is filled with details that echo countless other killings of young black and brown people. Literally countless – uncountable. For hundreds of years murders like these passed without notice outside the communities in which they occurred. Outside the piercing grief of family and friends.  

In response to each killing, the chorus rises again, a predictable call and response: Why does this happen? What will we do?  Pundits and thinkers and activists will respond with analysis and solutions. Some who sit in places of power can and should take structural, cultural, and political action that could prevent another killing. Some of them will act, some won’t. In response, others will organize and agitate, pressuring the powerful.

But what of the vast majority who sit before the tangled mess that drives this madness, having no idea which end of which string to pull? Just sitting helpless invites despair. We can’t have that; sustained despair is the enemy of liberating change.

And hope is the enemy of despair, and there’s hope in the knowledge that systems change when their parts are changed. And human systems are made of people, behaving among one another. And I can always choose how I behave. I can align my actions with the change I achingly wish to see. In the wake of another killing carried out with vicious impulse and unrestrained indifference to consequence, I can choose the opposites - steadiness and accountability.

When I think of steadiness, I think of the parents and grandparents I’ve watched respond to a ramping-up child. Gentle, firm voices saying hey now, get hold of yourself. I remember a particular relative at a crowded family gathering, stopping mid-conversation, turning to look toward a ruckus beginning, then saying her child’s full name, a quiet laser across the room. Attention secured, she met her child’s eyes, and with a subtle shake of her head, settled that child right down.

There was no threat in her look, nor in the other voices I remember, just a wise admonition: steady now. I borrow those voices, breathe deep, collect my thoughts, consider the impact of my behavior, decide what I’ll do with my voice and body next.

I borrow the voices of men in a circle at San Quentin prison, each who had taken a life. One by one we listened as they said: I did this. I took a life. I will tell you the impact that has had, the lives destroyed, the grief. I accept responsibility for that impact. I have taken steps to be sure I can say I commit to not doing that ever again.

But how do I bring those voices into what writer and educator Mia Mingus calls, “the small things between us?” How do I practice accountability in my day to day? Mingus offers what she calls, deep apology.

I’ve begun to practice deep apology as a way to be accountable for smaller harms, like when I’m late for a meeting, or forget to respond to an email. And for bigger ones, like when I go sideways in anger, sarcastic instead of forthright. I walk through the steps that Mingus suggests: I say I’m sorry. I say what I did that warrants apology. I name the impact of what I did. I show that I understand that impact. Then I commit to not doing it again. [1]

Practicing steadiness and accountability, in small ways, day to day, may seem like a pin drop compared to the roar that Tyre Nichols’ killing deserves. But imagine if even one of those men that day had been practiced at getting hold of himself. Imagine if even one of those men were practiced enough at deep apology to see past the moment, to the horrible consequence, and commit to do no more harm.

There are many things I can do in the short wake of Tyre  Nichols’ killing, and the long, long wake of so many others.  I can lead the work of the ILI, lean hard into learning what works, and get busy making that happen. I can write these small essays and invite others to think along. I can vote, join marches, write letters, urge friends, colleagues, and family to consider change.

Everyone has a list like that. It’s not for me to judge their length or what’s included in those lists. Except this: barring cognitive limitations, everyone can choose to behave in alignment with the change they ache to see. That fact defies inaction, so it defies despair. 

So, I reach into the tangled mess and pull on the string of my own behavior. I choose to practice the change I seek. I choose to defy despair.

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Excerpted from the 2/10/23 issue of Intersections, the ILI Newsletter. To read the full issue and or to subscribe, click here.

[1] Mingus’ essay offers a much more thorough walk through the practice of deep apology, in the context of a larger discussion of accountability. I dearly hope you’ll read it. The link is below.

The Four Parts of Accountability & How To Give A Genuine Apology. Mia Mingus. Leaving Evidence. December 18, 2019.