The Word “Us” Speaks Volumes
ILI Director Lucinda Garthwaite
I’m thinking this week about the word “us.”
The word has jumped out for me in U.S. historian Heather Cox Richardson’s daily newsletter, “Letters from an American.” Whenever she talks about pandemic deaths in the United States, she refers to us as in, “More than 30 million of us have been infected since the pandemic began. And 549,892 of us have died.”[1] (italics mine)
There is power in her choice of that word, especially as some consider lives lost or at risk as acceptable trade-offs for economic stability, or for individual freedoms to not mask or socially distance. The data is clear that most who have died of Covid-19, and those most at risk, are already vulnerable in U.S. social structures: older people, BIPOC people, people with disabilities, people without homes or otherwise financially insecure.
In that context, the choice to say “us” could be described as an activist decision, refusing to characterize those who have died, those who have lost loved ones, and those at greater risk, as “them.” That refusal confronts marginalization, insisting that Richardson’s readers consider themselves impacted by lives lost, even if the losses were not close in. Arguably, choosing “us” also invites the reader to some responsibility for that impact.
I agreed with Richardson’s use of “us.” I even felt myself approving of it, because I approved of what I saw as the meaning of that choice. If I’m honest, my approval was quietly self-righteous, and here’s some irony: with that righteous approval, I separated myself from those who I imagined didn’t agree with me. Without even thinking about it, I conjured a “them.”
That realization was humbling, and I tried a little thought experiment. I imagined saying, “Hundreds of us stormed the capital on January 6th”, or “Millions of us voted for [the one I didn’t vote for.]”
I could easily object and argue that neither statement is true, because I didn’t storm the capitol and I voted the way I voted. Yet here I am writing this piece, very much alive, and I didn’t object to Richardson’s assertion that well over half a million of us have died of Covid.
Why is that?
Certainly some who stormed the capitol are among those more vulnerable to Covid-19, and the odds are that some of their loved ones are among the dead. The same must be true for people who voted differently than I, some of whom, no doubt, later died of the virus themselves. So they are among the us of whom Richardson writes.
What would happen if I believed the sentences in my thought experiment, if I seriously embraced as “us” those whose experiences, beliefs, behaviors and perspectives vary wildly from mine, even people who would do violence to those with whom they don’t agree, including, perhaps, me? How would that change my day-to-day, or my actions in the conscious service of social justice, equity and nonviolence?
The word “us” in a simple sentence speaks volumes about choices to extend care or to withhold it. Choosing to extend or withhold care is arguably a political decision. I mean political here not in the electoral or government sense. I mean understanding where power and influence lies in general, and choosing to use or confront power in the service of change. There is power in my choice of words, even tiny ones like “us.”
I don’t think choosing to consider myself part of an “us” necessarily implies alignment with differences that amount to violence and injustice. I think it implies that I care, that the essential well-being of each one of “us” matters to me. That simple level of care can lead to understanding, compassion, the possibility of relationship. History offers plenty to suggest that understanding, compassion and relationship - on balance with a stalwart insistence on justice and nonviolence, is indeed a powerful recipe for change.
So I think I’ll continue my experiment, substituting “us” when I’m inclined to say “them.” I don’t know where that will lead me, but I believe the experiment is well worth the effort.
[1] “Letters from an American.” March 29, 2021