Dudley's Room

In the Harry Potter series, we are introduced to Harry while he is still living in the cupboard under the stairs. Dudley, Harry’s cousin and the child of the two adults who have taken Harry in, has two rooms: one for him and one for his stuff. Very quickly, we readers come to dislike Dudley, and indeed, the entire Dursley family, for the way in which they ostracize Harry, but the injustice of the rooms is particularly striking. We picture Harry in his broom closet and ache for his cramped loneliness and isolation. When, under the threatening eye of Dumbledore, the Dursleys finally give Harry the smaller room and Dudley has to move out, Dudley whines and moans and complains, invoking the fact that the house belongs to his parents and the Harry has no right to cause Dudley to sacrifice so much. We see it, don’t we? We see the injustice and we are definitely on Harry’s side. In the story, we’re meant to identify with Harry and to feel the brunt of the injustice on our own skin. What is much harder for us to identify with is the truth behind that story, which, for white people in America, is this: we are Dudley.That’s right. Not the cool wizard. Not the oppressed and beaten down weaker, smaller, but infinitely smarter cousin. We are the bullying, bombastic, angry, petulant, whiny Dudley with our stuff in the extra room. And it is time to move out.

It has been interesting to observe the conversations around tables during this week of upheaval in Charlotte. People do not know what to say, what to do—they are not comfortable with what this uproar means and many do not know to whom they should be listening. I am not writing this piece to provide each person with a specific answer to that question. I believe, very strongly, that each of us has both a responsibility and a role in answering the very excellent question, “When will there be justice for African-Americans in Charlotte?” I also do not wish to argue here whether or not that question is justified. If you are reading this, and do not, by now, understand that injustice has been rampant in this city, and continues even as I write this, then you will not believe me now.

I have come to believe, though, that many people who see that there is injustice and wish that it were not happening, also do not know what it is that they can do about it. Many white people feel that they are trapped in the system, as well, and are saying to themselves, “What can I do about systemic racism? I didn’t ask for it, I don’t want it—how can I change an entire system?” It is this dilemma to which I would like to propose some thoughts. By talking about Harry Potter.

When Harry’s aunt and uncle force him to live in a cupboard, what can Harry do about it? He can act out, which gets him in trouble; he can complain, which does him no good because the Dursleys do not care whether or not he is happy; he can use his power—magic--but in doing so, he risks jeopardizing the world that actually accepts him and most often finds that it is not worth the risk. The Dursleys own the house—they are adults and he is a child. Dudley is bigger and regarded by those in power (the adults) as more valuable than Harry by a very large margin. There is never a moment—not in all seven of the books—in which Harry convinces or cajoles or threatens or guilts the Dursleys into offering him justice in their house. They do not care about him.

Ah, but who would they have listened to? Who did have power in that household to be heard? Hopefully, you’ve guessed it by now. It’s Dudley. Dumb, dumpy Dudley. If, one time, Dudley had said, “No, it’s ok—he can come too.” If Dudley had said, “I don’t really need two rooms—Harry can have one.” If Dudley had gone with Harry to the playground or shared his toys or asked him questions and listened to the answer or, even once, taken Harry’s side on anything against his parents, things would immediately have changed for Harry, wouldn’t they? In the last book, Dudley begins leaving offerings of tea for Harry out of a hard-earned respect and there is a sense that things have changed the tiniest bit. If Dudley respects Harry, the parents have to put on the table that they should, at least, not throw abuse at him.

If this metaphor is too obscure or you have not read the Harry Potter books, let me write it out plainly, because I think it is important: if we want justice to be shared out equally in our society, white America will have to demand it. Not only that, we will have to give up our extra room. Oh, no—you’ve done it now! Wealth redistribution! Communism! Socialized medicine! Look—I’m a minister. I feel like that makes it very clear where I have put my faith. I do not speak for any form of government. I do not put my faith in any politician, ever, to offer me hope of a better life (generally, I try to vote for the people least likely to do damage and most likely to listen when others point out the damage those same politicians are doing). I do not advocate for communism or socialism or any other -ism. I do think that Jesus made pretty clear what he thought of people who take more than their fair share. And, white Americans, we have more than our fair share. This is not something that is subject to debate—it is observable fact. We have our stuff in the second room and if we do not want to be STILL fighting these same battles twenty years from now we need to be ready to move out.

How would that look? It might look like considering where we live and moving to another neighborhood. It might look like considering where our children go to school and ways we could make all the public schools into show-pieces of equal opportunity. It might look like advocating for a higher minimum wage, advocating for convicted felons to get their right to vote returned to them, advocating to end long prison terms and the “war on drugs.” It might mean having many conversations about the way we judge each other and make “war” on each other in this society—at what point did we all become ok with the idea of pointing handguns at each other all the time? I’ll tell you something it will definitely mean: it will mean changing our own status quo. There are only two choices for white Americans right now and I did not create them, I just noticed them:

1)We can have our status quo disrupted by violence, disrupted by hate speech, disrupted by protest (peaceful and other), disrupted by media-enhanced fears and an increasingly anxious existence;

OR

2)We can disrupt our own status quo with proactive measures to bring equality to our society. We can spread our wealth around (some of us have refrigerators that cost the same as what some people make at Wal-Mart in a year). We can speak up for people’s rights, we can speak out against injustice, we can work against gentrification and other causes of homelessness, and we can make clear that we do not want our businesses, our politicians or our religious leaders using hate speech to pit us against each other.

Those are the choices. I guarantee you that “Stay exactly as we were two weeks ago” is not an option on the table. I have many friends in the protest movement and I promise you (and happily so) that this movement will not go away. This past week, I’ve heard time and time again from members of the white community here, “This is not my Charlotte.” It is a way of saying, “Someone is in my house misbehaving and I do not approve.” It is a way of saying, “These are not my people, not my children, not my problem.” I do not wish to judge this statement, merely to say that it is inaccurate. This is your Charlotte. This has been your Charlotte all along, and you chose not to see it. Or if you did see, you chose not to act to change it. We all made that choice.

These are our children, these are our people, our fellow Charlotteans out there having to scream because no one listens when they try to talk quietly. We, my fellow whiteys, are Dudley. And it is way past time for us to move out of the extra room and start raising our voice for someone else besides ourselves. As long as I have been here (30 years) Charlotte has been rather petulant about wanting to be a “world-class city.” In the 80’s, we were desperate to have everyone call us “Charlotte” without the NC, like “Atlanta;” in the 90’s we were desperate for pro-sports teams; in the 2000’s we’ve been desperate for winning pro-sports teams. But here’s the truth of it: we will stay a petulant little nowheresville as long as we continue to treat a large portion of our population as second class citizens. And they are now telling us they are not willing to sit quietly and accept that status. We are having our asses Rosa Parked. And we can respond with swat teams and dogs and water hoses and tear gas and the National Guard and longer prison terms and more homelessness and make them more and more desperate if we choose to. Or we can grow up. And apologize. And put some tea outside their door while we move our stuff out and begin to ask the question, “What can I do to make this right?” 

What I Saw

First, let me tell you what I didn't see. Despite many rumors to the contrary, I did not see any thugs in uptown Charlotte on Wednesday, September 21st. I joined the Charlotte Clergy Coalition for Justice at Little Rock AME Zion, where we were asked to be a calming presence in the crowd during the planned demonstration for the night. We each wore a yellow arm band and we walked together to Marshall Park. There were hundreds of people there, many making their own impassioned speeches inside the crowd. Their signs said, "Not One More" and "Black Lives Matter."

While walking through the park (we were instructed to disperse in the crowd), a check dropped out of my pocket. A lovely woman came up to me with her son and asked, "What is your name?" I answered, wondering why she would want that information from me in the middle of this crowd, and she handed me the check with my name on it. Her son, about 10 years old, has a podcast and asked to interview me. He asked excellent questions: why was I here? what did I think should be done about police shootings? I don't have his permission to publish his site, but I was honored to be part of his project.

From Marshall Park, the group walked to Little Rock AME Zion--about five blocks. The crowd took over one side of the street. The chants were, "No justice, no peace!" and "Hands up! Don't Shoot!" (Click on quotes to hear recordings). At Little Rock, the anger of the crowd began to rise. Young people started to say, "We don't need to be at a church, we need to be at the police station!" So they turned there and walked to the police station. On the way, I met a young man whose father is a 20 year veteran on the police force. He smiled and said, "That was him that just went by." His father had patted his shoulder. I had a brief interview with him, which you can listen to here.

At the police station, many people were making speeches. By that time, only one other clergy person and I could find each other. The crowd began to talk about heading up Trade St. to the EpiCenter. As we walked with them up the street, my fellow clergyman and I talked about the change in tenor that the crowd had made. Anger had been bubbling since the march started, but it had reached a boiling point at the police station. Neither of us thought going up to the EpiCenter was going to end well, but the crowd had its own momentum and neither of us were leaders inside that crowd. We also talked about how we had worn the wrong shoes for such a long march.

 It did not take long for things to turn at the EpiCenter. The people in the crowd were already at a boiling point. And while the policemen on bicycles had not seemed to bother anyone, the appearance of police, in a long phalanx in full riot gear, inflamed everyone. I'd like to note at this point that there were many children in the crowd. I cannot tell you for sure what would have happened had the police not shown up in riot gear, obviously. I can say that many people brought young children and teenagers to what they had thought would be a peaceful protest. After those riot teams showed up, the anger that had been boiling poured out. The people who had at first gone up into the EpiCenter came back down and began confronting the police face to face.

The leaders in the Clergy Coalition asked us to form a barrier between the people in the protest and the people policing the protest, and so we joined hands with other clergy and did so. As I stood there, a woman came up next to me and said, "Who are y'all?" I told her that we were clergy and that we were trying to be a peaceful presence and help everyone get home safely. She said, "We just want to ask for our rights." She was tearful--a small woman standing right in front of police in body armor, with batons and other weapons ready. The police gave a signal and began to move up the street. My colleague said, "Put your hands on my shoulders!" So I did and we walked up Trade St. with our line of clergy between the protesters and the police. When the police turned into the Omni Hotel parking lot, we were part of a large crowd crammed together at the entrance. A young woman turned to me and very pointedly said, "White Silence Equals Violence!" I understood her anger. I said, "I'm here," which was all I could think of to say.

I can't remember if the sound of a gun being fired came first or if the tear gas came first. People turned. Someone said, "Don't run! Don't run!" It became a situation where fear took over and most people did their best to get away from that spot. Tear gas hits you in the back of your throat. It is oily and sticks to your clothes and your hair. I was not close enough for it to get in my eyes, but everyone in that vicinity began coughing and covering faces.

I did not stay much longer, primarily because I did not see a role in which I could be helpful. No one in the crowd knew me or would welcome my words of comfort since I was a stranger, and a white stranger at that. As more police moved in and as more protesters stood their ground, the situation became chaotic. A few others from the clergy group were ready to leave and a few decided to stay. When I got back to my car, I did drive back up Trade to see if anyone was walking down the street or looking for a ride, but I did not see anyone and I returned to my house, about half a mile away.

For me, the need to write this event up and share it is a response to reading many opinions about this event that included the word "thug" or condemned the looting and violence of the event. It is not my intention to justify looting or violence. I would say that it is very easy to prioritize property over people, especially if we have not been on the receiving end of injustice. This is my attempt to elevate the people who had a few reasonable demands and asked to be heard.