After George Floyd was suffocated to death by a police officer, who crushed his neck by kneeling him, on a Minneapolis street corner in May 2020, people wrote to me asking if getting up was really the right answer. . After the Capitol was stormed, after House Republicans continued to support the false and seditious charge that the election result had been rigged, people were asking similar questions. The provocations have no end. We have seen more than a million Americans die in a pandemic that has highlighted all the inequities in our culture. We have seen Russian troops massacre civilians in Ukraine. The Taliban have banned girls from going to school in Afghanistan. In America, our own leaders have criminalized abortion while communities are constantly plagued by gun violence and hate crimes. Transgender rights, gay rights, voting rights, women's rights… they're all under attack. Every time there is another injustice, another brutality, another incident of poor leadership, another case of corruption, or another violation of rights, I receive letters and emails that somehow ask the same question:
≪Are we still supposed to rise?≫.
≪Okay, and now too?≫.
My answer is yes. It's still yes. We must keep trying to rise. We must cling again and again to that idea. Acting with integrity is important. It will always be. It is a tool.
At the same time, I want to be clear: getting high is something you do, it's not just a feeling. It is not about being complacent and waiting for change to happen or standing by while others struggle. It is not about accepting oppressive conditions or letting cruelty and power run wild. The idea of rising should not lead us to ask ourselves whether we should feel compelled to fight for more fairness, honesty and justice in this world, but rather to ask ourselves how we are going to fight, how we are going to try to solve the problems that we encounter and how we are going to resist long enough for our actions to pay off and not burn out along the way. Some consider that clinging to that idea is something unfair and useless, a mere application of the politics of respectability, whereby we choose to comply with the rules instead of defying them in order to survive. ≪Why do we have to try to be reasonable all the time?≫ people ask.
I understand that some think that reason leaves no room for anger. I understand that it is perceived that rising means, in some way, separating yourself from the madding crowd so that you are not bothered by everything that would otherwise make you angry and provoke you.
But it's not about that at all.
When I first said those words onstage at the 2016 National Convention in Philadelphia, I didn't feel cut off from the rest of the world or indifferent. In fact, she was quite upset. At that moment, the bile that the Republican representatives were spouting was a constant provocation. After almost eight years, I was tired of seeing my husband's work ruined and denigrated as a person, they even dared to question his citizenship. —We return to the usual: ≪I don't think you have a right to what you have≫—. And she was furious that the main instigator of those fanatic attacks was now campaigning for president.
But what could he do about it? With my suffering and my rage, nothing, at least until I managed to mold them, polish them. But I had to do something with that suffering and that rage, it was up to me to decide where to take them, what kind of fate to give them. It all depended on whether or not I would be able to rise above those very base feelings to build something that was harder for others to ignore, that conveyed a clear message, a call to action, and that led to an outcome I was willing to pursue. to make an effort
That's what ≪rising≫ means to me: taking an abstract, and usually negative, feeling and working to turn it into some kind of plan that can be implemented, to overcome those very basic feelings and move towards a larger solution.
I want to make it clear that this is a process and it is not always quick. It may require time and patience. It's okay to sit back and reflect for a while, to feel the unease caused by injustice or fear or grief, or to express your pain. It's okay to give yourself the space you need to recover or heal. For me, getting up often means pausing before reacting. It is a form of self-control, a line that separates our best and worst impulses. Rising is about resisting the temptation to indulge in mindless rage and scathing contempt; Instead, figure out how to respond clearly to whatever meaningless and corrosive things are around you. That's what happens when you start from a reaction and manage to transform it into a response.
Because here is the key, emotions are not plans. They do not solve problems or correct injustices. You can feel them - you will feel them, inevitably - but be very careful, do not get carried away by them. Anger can be like a dirty windshield. The pain, like a broken steering wheel. The disappointment will be limited to traveling, sulking and not helping at all, in the back seat. If you don't do something constructive with your emotions, they will lead you straight into the abyss.
And my power has always depended on my ability to stay out of that abyss.
(…)
We live in a time when reacting has become almost too easy, too comfortable. Anger spreads easily, along with grief, disappointment, and panic. Information and misinformation seem to flow at the same rate. Our thumbs create problems for us, becoming vectors that easily transmit our anger. We can type a few angry words and launch them like rockets into the digital stratosphere, never knowing precisely where or how or against whom those words will impact. And yes, our anger is often justified, as well as our despair, but the question we must ask ourselves is what we are doing with it. Can we redirect it to do something that is not mere noise, something that is more lasting? Today, complacency often wears the mask of comfort: we can 'like' or hit the forward button and then applaud ourselves for being active, or calling ourselves activists, after making a three-second effort. We've become experts at making noise and congratulating ourselves on it, but sometimes we forget to do the work. Investing three seconds, you may be giving a certain image, but you are not causing any change.
Are we reacting or are we responding? It's worth thinking about. It's a question I ask myself before posting anything on social media or making any comments in public. Am I being impulsive? Am I just trying to make myself feel better? Have I linked my feelings to something concrete in order to do something or am I simply carried away by them? Am I willing to do the real work that goes into bringing about change?
For me, writing can be an incredibly useful tool when it comes to elevating myself. It is a medium that allows me to navigate my emotions and mold them into a useful shape. During Barack's campaign and throughout my years in the White House, I was fortunate to work with some extremely talented speechwriters who would sit with me and let me verbally dump my brain.
in theirs; while I exposed my most visceral feelings, they took notes and helped me give meaning and form to my thoughts.
Saying things out loud to someone who listens to you and whom you trust has always encouraged me to try out my ideas in the bright light of day. It allows me to let off steam, let go of my anger and concerns, and begin to reason more broadly. I am able to see what is productive and what is not, to find a set of higher truths. I've learned that my initial thoughts are rarely that valuable; they are just the starting point
from which we advance. After seeing all that captured in a few pages, I keep refining it, revising it and rethinking it to find the way towards something that has a real purpose. Writing has become one of the most powerful tools in my life.
(…)
What I said that night may have helped the phrase ≪The lower they fall, the higher we rise≫ has been incorporated into the spirit of an era, but in the end the rest of the message did not sink in. For every one who answered the call, too many of us forgot to make that effort. In 2016, more than ninety million voters stayed home on Election Day. And that was how we headed straight for the abyss. During
four years, we suffered the consequences of those results. We are still suffering from them.
How do we steer under a storm that shows no signs of abating? How do we find stability when we keep feeling turbulence and the ground seems to constantly move under our feet? I think it begins, at least in part, when
we are able to find purpose and purpose within this state of constant change, when we remember that no matter how small the power one has, it is very important. Your vote is important. Helping a neighbor is important. Investing your time and energy in a cause you believe in is important. Speaking up when you see a person or a group of people being denigrated or dehumanized is important. Showing that you're happy for another person, whether it's your child, a co-worker, or even someone you pass on the street, is important. Your small acts become an instrument that makes you visible, that provides you with stability and a sense of connection with others. Yes, they can help you remember that you are important too.
The problems around us multiply. We have to trust others again, partially recover our lost faith, since all that has been taken from us in recent years. But nothing is achieved by magic. Very little will change if we lock ourselves away
in our homogeneous little groups, if we are in contact only with people who share our points of view, talking more than listening.
A few days before he gave that speech in Philadelphia, the online magazine Slate ran an article with this headline: ≪Is 2016 the Worst Year Ever?≫ It referenced a host of things, from Trump's apparent popularity to police shootings, the Zika virus and Brexit, as possible evidence that this was the case. But the most interesting thing about this is that we had not reached 2017, the year that became, as they commented on the news, when reporting
on the results of a global survey of emotional health carried out by Gallup, in ≪the worst year in the world in at least a decade≫.
Which was followed, of course, by a new year and then another, each one marked by new crises and new catastrophes. Time magazine declared 2020 ≪the worst year in history≫, although many argue that 2021 was not much better. The point is that uncertainty is a constant; we will continue to fight, facing fear, searching for some sense of being in control. Nor are we ever going to be completely clear about what is happening
in the historical moment that we have had to live. Are things going for better or worse? For whom? And how do we measure this? What could be a good day for you could be a horrible day for your neighbor. One nation might prosper while another suffers. The joy and the pain
they usually live very close; they intermingle. Most of us live somewhere in between, following the most innate human impulse, which is to cling to hope. ≪Don't give up≫, we tell each other. ≪Keep trying≫.
This is also important.
