Back in May, the state of Alabama filed suit against the US Government over the upcoming census in 2020. Now, it’s not too unusual for a state to file suit against the federal government over something, and this year, it’s not unusual for a state to file suit about the upcoming census. To date, 18 states and 10 cities have sued over a question that the Trump administration plans to add to the census: whether or not someone is a citizen. The census is a counting of all people in the country, citizen or not, and is required by our Constitution. It was first done in 1790 and has been accomplished every 10 years since then. The census stopped asking about citizenship in 1950 and has not asked this question since.
The census is important not only for knowing who and how many people are in the US, it is used to determine how may representatives in Congress each state has, which determines the number of votes each state gets in the Electoral College. Census numbers also determine a state’s portion of federal funding for housing, education, transportation, and many other elements of our infrastructure and social safety net. The census numbers are important for representation, power and money.
The eighteen states, including Oregon, and 10 cities suing the government about the census argue that asking about citizenship is against the Constitution. The Constitution requires that all persons be counted and that apportionment, or how many congressional representatives a state gets, is based on the number of “persons.” They claim that asking about citizenship will suppress participation in the census and give a skewed count of who is in the country. Their rallying cry is #everyonecounts.
Alabama is not one of the 18 states in that law suit, but rather has filed suit on a different aspect of the census. Alabama is supporting addition of the question about citizenship and is arguing that non-citizens should not be counted for purposes of determining how many representatives to Congress each state gets. The Attorney General of Alabama argues that “persons” specified in the Constitution would not have been understood to include non-citizens in the 18th and 19th centuries, and that counting non-citizens, unfairly allows states with larger immigrant populations, like California, to benefit. Estimates are that Alabama will lose a seat in Congress based on the next census, going from 8 to 7.
Who gets counted and how much they count for is not a new argument. In fact, it was one of the most contentious issues that the framers of the Constitution had to address when they gathered for the Constitutional Convention in the hot July of 1787. Knowing that congressional seats would be apportioned based on census numbers, the Southern states of Georgia, North and South Carolina, and Virginia—the slave owning states—wanted to make sure that they maximized their number of seats in Congress, so wanted enslaved people to be counted. For context, at this time there were more than 500,000 people of African descent in the colonies, and they accounted for as much as 40% of the population of some Southern states.
Given that no state proposed that enslaved people be allowed to vote, the Northern states didn’t want them to be counted at all, which also would maximize the power of the North.
This argument was settled by what historians call “The Three-Fifths Compromise.” The agreement was that 3 of every 5 enslaved would be counted, giving slave-owning states more seats than if they had not been counted at all and less than if enslaved people and free people had been counted equally. This Three-Fifths Compromise gave the slaveholder states 1/3 more seats in Congress and 1/3 more votes in the Electoral College and allowed the slaveholder states to dominate the new government until 1861–the Civil War.
These are examples of how democratic practices, like voting and the census, have been and can be used to institutionalize racism. In these examples lies our history of counting or not counting black and brown bodies in order to maintain white power and privilege.
Our US Constitution begins with a phrase easily recognized: We the people. These arguments about the census, past and present, are about one fundamental question: Who is “we the people?” Who are “we?”
In our country’s founding documents, the framers inscribed a vision of a government different from any that they had ever known. From the Declaration of Independence:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
From the Constitution:
We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.
The white men of means who wrote these documents set a moral standard of equality, freedom, justice, the common good, and happiness in life itself. Many of these writers, some of whom were Unitarians, also kept slaves. In their lofty vision for “we the people”, they did not include people kidnapped in Africa and brought to the colonies against their will. They did not include the native people from whom they had stolen land. They did not include women. They did not include those without means. And that exclusion also extended to the right to vote. There was a huge discrepancy between the democracy that the founders envisioned and the reality that they lived.
Parker Palmer calls this discrepancy between reality and vision “the tragic gap.” In his book, Healing the Heart of Democracy, Palmer explores the origins, intent and foundation of democracy, calling us to return to a vision of what is possible if we hold tension in difference, bridge the divide, and create community.
Palmer’s tragic gap is tragic not only because it is sad and heartbreaking, although it is certainly those. The gap is tragic in the literary sense, the Shakespearean sense. It is tragic because the gap between reality and aspiration is an eternal and inescapable part of our human condition. No matter the progress we may make toward our dreams, there is always more to be done, we never achieve perfection; there is always a gap.
Being in the gap is difficult; there is disappointment and grief, heart-break and disillusionment. There is tension between what is and what could be. It is extremely difficult to live in that tension, especially for the long haul. Parker says that to relieve the tension, we are usually pulled into one of two directions. Some of us see the reality of what is and fall into corrosive cynicism, an attitude that is mistrust and pessimistic. I notice this in myself on days when I think, “Our politics are so divisive, why even bother?”
Others of us are pulled in the direction of the dream and fall into irrelevant or damaging idealism. We confuse the aspiration with the reality, claiming that we have closed the gap, we have reached the dream; we close the gap by making it disappear. I have been especially aware of this tendency in myself as a result of the 2016 election. Like many straight, white progressives, I thought we’d made significant progress fighting racism, sexism, homophobia. Things were better, right? We, and by “we” I mean white liberals, wanted to close the gap between what was and what could be. We ignored or minimized the voices in communities of color that told us that all was not well; we resisted awareness about how big and tragic the gap actually was. I had the privilege to protect myself: to ignore the gap because I didn’t want my heart broken by reality, unaware of those who live in the gap because of the injustice that forces them there. In this time, there are daily reminders of how large that gap is and how much our hearts are broken.
Although cynicism and idealism are different, they do the same thing—they pull us out of the tragic gap; they remove us from the difference between reality and what can be. They seem to relieve the tension we feel, and they may even seem to repair our broken hearts. This is a false relief, one that supports separation, does not allow for growth or change, and causes injustice to continue.
Parker invites us to acknowledge this gap between reality and aspiration; to live in it honestly and with an open heart, even if our hearts are broken. A broken heart can be shattered, or it can be broken open, ready to explore all that is within us in order to face reality and re-envision our dreams. With our broken hearts, we can acknowledge the differences between us, differences in so many things, including perhaps our dreams. In the gap, we can take risks and practice failure, we can know imperfection and compassion, find and give blessing and grace. In the gap we can envision a world where differences are valued, appreciated and welcomed; where assimilation is not expected or seen as desirable; where we imagine an infinite web that joins us, differences and all.
In this time, we, and by “we” I mean those of us who are Unitarian Universalists, are being called to acknowledge a tragic gap in our denomination. We hold up our seven principles as aspirations to who we can be, to what is possible. We want to see the inherent worth and dignity in every person. We aspire to live with justice, equity and compassion. We seek to accept each other and encourage spiritual growth. We aspire to a free and responsible search for truth and meaning. We want to use democratic principles and have peace, liberty and justice for all. And, yet, the reality is different from our principles. Those of us who are white have been pulled into awareness these past few years as UU people of color speak up—again—telling their experience of the gap between what we say we value and how we live. This, too, is part of our history. We are just like the founding fathers who were Unitarian, holding an ideal and not living it. In this time, we are being held accountable for the tragic gap, and called to work toward bridging it.
This past week, I had the honor to be in conversation with a young person of color who has been a Unitarian Universalist for several years. With tears in their eyes, this person told me of their deep sadness as they experience the difference between the values that we wear on our sleeves and what we do. They said that they do not feel welcome under what we declare is a big tent and may not have found their spiritual home here. They shared with me their broken heart, perhaps shattered. I sat with them in the gap, witnessing their heartbreak, and noticing mine. When I asked when they do with their broken heart, they said, “Keep going. That’s all you can do.”
Parker Palmer says this:
“Of all the tensions we must hold in personal and political life, perhaps the most fundamental and challenging is standing and acting with hope in the “tragic gap.” On one side of the gap, we see the hard realities of the world, realities that can crush our spirits and defeat our hopes. On the other side of the gap, we see real-world possibilities, life as we know it could be because we have seen it that way.”
When our hearts are broken, how do we just keep going? How do we stay in the gap and hold hope?
For me, I begin with mindfulness, a non-judgemental, conscious awareness of what is happening now. Mindfulness brings me into awareness of what is, to enjoy what is beautiful and to face what is painful. To live with the tension in the gap, I need to make sure to notice the wholeness of what is, not being pulled into cynicism or idealism, not being pulled into the past or the future, but being with the fullness of what is here, now.
When I am mindful, I notice that I am not alone in the tragic gap. It is there that I find community, and in community I find hope. In that community, I experience that we are different, and I find others who share a vision of a world where difference is cultivated and valued. When I tend to despair, I am mindful of the interdependent web of all existence and remember that we, and by “we” I mean the broadest “we” imaginable that includes all beings, we are in this together.
This month, we have been exploring the theme of democracy. Rev. Lena reminded us of our Unitarian and Universalist history and commitment to use the democratic process in our congregations. She invited us to be spiritual warriors for what is possible.
Rev. Katherine spoke to us of lamentation and despair about what is. She invited us to acknowledge our lamentation and use its energy to contribute to the work of justice in the many ways that we are able.
In each of these messages, I hear a call to community. I did not hear a call to perfection or safety. I did not hear a promise of comfort or certainty. I did not hear a call to ignore our differences or pretend that we can easily come to value them in each other.
I hear a story about awareness of what is and a dream for what is possible. I hear a story about the tragic gap between what is and what can be, and a vision for the eternal work toward closing that gap together. I hear a story that reminds us that in the midst of destruction and the cold of winter, small green shoots survive, and when we do our part to gently water those small green shoots, it is possible to grow a forest in which we all have life, liberty and can pursue happiness. We. All.
May this indeed be so.
Topics: Democracy