I donated blood for the first time yesterday. I
was nervous when the tech inserted the needle into my vein, but as I realized
the process was painless, I began to smile. This
is easy, I thought. Why are people so
afraid of giving blood? It does so much good at such little cost. The tech
handed me a gift card and a blood drop pin as he patched up my arm and
reiterated that mantra so common that it’s nearly lost its impact: “Thank you
for donating! You’re a lifesaver.”
That’s when I threw up.
I nearly passed out three times and had to be
sent home early from work. When I almost passed out the first time, the tech
told me, “Your body just lost a pint of blood very quickly. It thinks you’re
bleeding out.”
Why did I willingly let people remove so much
blood from my body that my body thought I was dying? The same reason every
other person donates blood: I wanted to be a “lifesaver.” I wanted to “do the
right thing” and “be a good person.” I thought I would only sacrifice one
second of pain as the needle entered my vein. I had no idea I would
have to sacrifice my well-being for the rest of the day.
Another reason I wanted
to donate, lurking in the back of my mind, was because of the Orlando shooting. I wanted to do something more
than retweet think piece after think piece. Now, in the light of the senseless
murders of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile, I find myself once again
reaching for some sort of action. How can I help? How can I give a part of
myself? How can I sacrifice so much that it hurts?
As a white person, I have the privilege of
choosing when to engage with police brutality, racism, and most other systems
of oppression. I get to choose when to have my heart broken for my brothers and
sisters of color. I get to read the tweets and the posts and educate myself,
but at the end of the day, I get to close my laptop. I get to live a life free
of those horrors. I get to breathe easy the next time I get pulled over.
What I can do almost without any effort is speak
out, and yet I’ve been shamefully quiet lately. I know I am not alone. I see my
white friends and family happily engaging with politics when it’s
convenient—when they can get gift cards and pins and a handful of likes and be
called a “lifesaver” or a “good person”—but then they go quiet on the issues
that matter most. I’ve heard many political sermons, but I doubt I’ll hear
Alton or Philando mentioned on Sunday.
It’s not enough to be an activist only when it’s
convenient. It’s not enough to bleed when we can be praised for it. We have to
listen to those who are suffering the most and lift their voices. We have to
take a stand. At the end of the day, the most I’ll sacrifice is someone’s
opinion of me. The most I’ll risk is someone’s anger. These consequences are
the quick prick of a needle compared to the pain of bleeding out
that the black community experiences every time they have to reiterate that
their lives matter because yet another precious life has been reduced to a
hashtag.
Give blood. Speak out. Support those who are
really suffering. Lift their voices before interjecting with your own opinions. Promise to put actions behind your prayers. Above all, engage
with the world even when your privilege doesn't require you to. Sacrifice
freely and generously to support those whose suffering has too often been
ongoing and all-consuming.
"If you are neutral in situations of
injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor."—Desmond Tutu
