My goal in interviewing women who voted for Trump is to better understand the “other side” and, in so doing, perhaps diminish that which makes “sides.”

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t like the idea of an “us” vs. “them.” If there’s one thing I learned throughout my experience worshiping with thousands of people, it’s that every religion teaches of our essential connectedness, the whole of creation derived from a single source of origin that many call God. It may be human impulse to sow division but the divine, as I understand it, always points to unity.

This project is my attempt to apply the lessons of faith in the secular setting of politics.

The hardest part of this approach, I find, is that it forces me to take responsibility when I’d much rather not. If “us” vs. “them” becomes “we,” then no one is outside the circle. We are in it together, each accountable in our way for all outcomes.

In other words, in this faith-infused version of reality, I can’t foist the blame for anything, much less the Trump-is-president thing, on others. I had to find a way to own it.

I had a couple of girlfriends over for lunch the Friday after the election. We had planned it before the election when my friends and I were certain Hillary Clinton would be the next president, just as the pollsters and pundits were announcing in the news. Now it became a somber affair. I had called it “tea and sympathy” to be funny and then it really was.

One friend in particular was taking the election results hard. She was in disbelief that what she considered hate-filled ideology had triumphed. I had never seen her in such a gloomy frame of mind. She’s an illustrator who draws whimsical scenes, bursting with sweetness and joy. You’ve probably seen her work on greeting cards or tissue boxes. Here she was at my table projecting the opposite of what she creates on paper.

I wasn’t doing much better. Before the lunch, I had spoken by phone with Allison, the subject of my last blog post, who previously voted for Obama. During that conversation my own dark clouds had formed, and now over lunch they rolled in closer.

My friends and I ate with no ready laughs. Attempts to steer the conversation to other topics besides the election were fruitless. The words of comfort we offered seemed feeble. “It’ll be okay,” one of us would say. But no one was convinced, the speaker least of all.

After the lunch, I had a date to call Julie. She was friendly and forthcoming, upbeat compared to my friends. She was born in 1975 and lives in St. Louis. She has a bachelor’s degree in communications, and works as an account manager for a large firm. She’s a strong woman—literally, an athlete—who is all for equal rights.

The number one reason she voted for Trump: he’s not a politician.

Here was another relatively young, socially liberal, educated white woman who supported Donald Trump.

Maybe I was hoping Julie would say something to reassure me that what we had done—basically hiring a character from television, and not a particularly benevolent one at that, to run our country—would not result in disaster. Who better to defend Trump against my doubts than a woman, much like myself, who had voted for him? Who better to soothe my worries than a person who was optimistic about our president-elect?

But Julie didn’t try to justify her choice against my questioning. She acknowledged that voting for Trump was a risk. She said, “He could very well mess things up.”

I thanked her, my frustration tempered in the moment by an appreciation for her honesty.

But I hung up feeling grim. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to another female Trump supporter, or that I was interested in understanding the other side. My efforts felt like a betrayal to my own heartbroken friends. Maybe in this case, “us” vs. “them” was the only option. If the trade-off was hopelessness coursing through me like poison, I would have to live with that.

It was around the time I spoke with Allison that the rollercoaster of my post-election emotions took a sudden dive. In the 48 hours after the election, I had felt confused and frightened and powerless. Then I began this project of interviewing women who voted for Trump and I started to feel optimistic. I might somehow wrap my brain around this after all. Or, if not, at least I was being productive. I was making lemonade from lemons. Just like Beyoncé.

I hate blaming Allison because I liked her very much. In fact, that was the problem.

The first three women I interviewed were so different from me. They were all politically conservative and had been their entire lives. Of course they voted for Trump. This was not such a departure.

Allison was different. She has always been a democrat. She voted for Obama.

Allison lives in Washington, D.C. with her husband, who is both an engineer and an immigrant from India. She’s lived a lot of other places—Michigan, Arizona, and India. She was born in 1980. Before becoming a full-time mom, she worked for 10 years in higher education. That may help explain her three masters’ degrees. (Three!)

She grew up with a single mom. They were on welfare. She is a survivor of sexual assault. She describes herself as “97 percent pro-choice” (holding 3 percent back because she wishes women who opt for abortions received emotional support). She believes in equal rights, including marriage equality. It is not her concern which bathroom a transgender person uses.

When she voted for Obama in 2008, she wanted the “change” his campaign promised. She hoped it was more than a slogan. She was tired of domestic policies like the social assistance programs on which she grew up that breed low expectations of people and keep them stuck in a cycle of poverty. She was sick of foreign policies that fuel the industry she believes war has become.

President Obama may have intended to transform many aspects of our government but given the nature of the political system he was capable of only so much. Perhaps his health care reforms are emblematic of what he was up against. He did what he could to make sure more Americans could become insured, but his failure to address the very nature of the system has meant that the cost of the insurance is still out of reach for many of those who need it. Allison is disappointed that President Obama did not fundamentally alter a system in need of radical revisions.

Talking to Allison, I was forced to confront my own feelings about “the way things are.” If I’m being honest, I’m not all that satisfied with many aspects of our domestic and foreign policies, or the degree of “change” that has occurred over the past eight years. Maybe it’s unfair to expect such substantial alterations in such a short time, but I can’t think of any significant differences besides marriage equality and a less gloomy economy (and the fact that we had our first black president, which alone is huge). I think Obama is a fantastic human being, but I’m not sure even he is satisfied with the degree of change his presidency was able to usher in.

Allison says she’s the first to admit that Trump is not a particularly likeable guy. She thinks he was “pandering to the base” throughout his campaign. She hopes much of what he suggested, such as a ban on Muslims, was “just talk.”

To Allison, the vote for president was between two things: keeping things as-is or hurling a stick of dynamite into the status quo.

It’s horrible what washes over me when I finish my conversation with Allison. For one brief and terrifying moment everything in the looking glass makes perfect sense. But it’s like the bright flash from a nuclear explosion, offering a single moment of clarity, before a dim and bleak aftermath. I’m left gazing at an ugly path of destruction.

“He loves America,” Dina says when I ask her to tell me the number one reason she voted for Trump.

We are talking by phone on Thursday evening, two days after the election. I had been put in contact with her by a mutual friend, a yoga instructor whose classes I often take. Dina is a massage therapist who was born in 1958.

“What do you mean?” I ask because that response seems both obvious and vague. Didn’t all the potential candidates love this country? Does one run for president and not love America?

Dina is a quirky combination of characteristics. Given her profession and the inclinations of our mutual friend, whose teaching is infused with an all-encompassing spirituality, I would have thought Dina would land somewhere left on the political spectrum. Instead, she’s a far-right Christian who hits every stereotypical evangelical nail on the head: opposes same sex marriage, thinks homosexuality is unnatural, and considers abortion murder. Before completing her license for massage, she was a cashier at a grocery store for 13 years. She became a Christian at age 25 at about the time her first marriage disintegrated.

“I just think everything he’ll do as president will be to our benefit,” she says, trying to clarify her statement about Trump loving America. “Like he’ll sign trade agreements only if they favor us or he’ll secure borders to make sure the people who live here are safe. He loves this country.”

As she explained, I found myself having to reorient my point of view.

I have such a different idea of what it means to “love America.” To me, it exists in the realm of ideas: equality, freedom, acceptance of a vast spectrum of being and expressing. My thoughts on the matter have been shaped by the Statue of Liberty and the famous poem that goes:

 “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:

I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

Dina went on: “Trump’s life would have been so much better had he not run for president. I truly think he did it because he cares about this country. I think his top priority will be us.”

Dina’s love demands a concrete manifestation. The huddled masses are here, many of whom are not so far from wretched that they are eager to welcome more. She wants safekeeping; she wants the security of knowing a roof will always be over her head and the heads of her children. The star-spangled sky is great as long as that’s not all that’s overhead every night when you fall asleep.

I again got that sense of being at the looking glass, peeking into another version of reality. I could see how, from Dina’s perspective, the dramatic changes in our society over the last 20 or so years—the internet, globalization, the extension of civil liberties to more people—has eroded a sense of wellbeing. Changes that I might consider progress, she finds threatening. I don’t know exactly why this is, only that my ability to see it differently, and the fact that I’ve so easily shrugged off any other way of viewing it, is one of a number of qualities that marks me as privileged.

It’s sobering to realize the ways in which your vision is narrow when for so long you’ve congratulated yourself on how broad your scope. As if a mind can only open in one direction.

It’s possible that our approach to the topic was so different that “President of the United States” didn’t even have the same job description to us.

Dina is concerned with reinforcing our physical borders, identifying enemies, and focusing on national security. Her priorities include strengthening our country’s physicality in a world that’s becoming ever-more “virtual.” She wants our national identity to be reinforced in the face of globalization. She wants an “us” vs. “them.” I guess you could say that I’m more blasé on this matter. I like the idea of “us” being the entire world. I hope someday there is no “them.”

To me, a big part of what a president does is to represent the U.S. on a global scale, leading the charge when countries address matters that affect the entire planet like climate change or humanitarian issues like populations displaced by war and natural disaster.

I can see how my perspective can only exist in the context of a sense of security and, in that way, is a luxury. I also see how depending on what is meant by “loving America,” my version may not win first prize. And, really, who’s to say Dina’s isn’t a more accurate description for a job that’s title is also “Commander in Chief.”

So I’m sitting at the looking glass, but I’m starting to recognize a few words amongst the gibberish from the other side.

Whereas Carol is not bothered by what I consider Trump’s questionable outbursts and comments, the same cannot be said for her best friend Janet. Janet, born in 1952, is one year older than Carol. They met in Catholic grade school. Though neither has maintained a steady relationship with Catholicism, their friendship is still going strong.

Janet has been married to the same man for more than 40 years. Her husband is often on the road for his job selling agricultural supplies throughout the region. She has two grown children. Her son is a police officer. Her daughter is married to a Mexican-American. She is a grandmother to several tiny tots.

Though she actually may be steelier at the core than Carol, her exterior is much softer. Janet gives out far more hugs than business cards. Janet has held a range of jobs from clothing store manager to tax preparer. Now she oversees the day-to-day operations at the marijuana shop where she is the salt to Carol’s pepper.

Janet, perhaps more than most of the women I’ve spoken with, finds Trump disgusting. Unfortunately, she finds Clinton more disgusting. Trump may be guilty of various forms of sexual misconduct, but Clinton is guilty of downplaying similar behavior perpetrated by her husband. In the aftermath of Bill’s sex scandals, Hillary did not come across as being particularly supportive of his victims. If Hillary had denounced her husband’s actions, perhaps even separated from him or divorced him, it might have been easier to believe she took those issues seriously. Instead, it appeared that women’s concerns only mattered if they didn’t get in the way of her political ambitions.

Janet points out that for every bad thing about Trump, Clinton pretty much goes toe-to-toe. Both have insulted or dismissed groups of people, both have gotten rich and powerful using questionable means, and both have ties to elite groups (deep-pocketed interest groups vs. billionaire cronies) that likely will affect their agendas.

Both give off a similar sense that “normal people” rules don’t apply to them. Private server? Not paying taxes? Perhaps neither is illegal exactly, but they don’t seem particularly ethical either.

To Janet, here is the number one difference between the candidates: Clinton has done all of these things while in various positions of public service. For this reason alone, Joyce says she holds Clinton to a higher standard.

Janet finds Clinton untrustworthy at least in part because she is so much more adept than Trump at concealing her true motives and feelings. Trump may mock a disabled person from a worldwide stage, but if he can’t keep a lid on something as obviously wrong as that, there’s probably not much he keeps hidden.

I’ve heard and read the opinion from some people who didn’t support Trump that a vote for him was an affirmation of every aspect of his character—the implication being that you, too, support a registry for Muslims or that you give a metaphorical thumbs up to everything he’s said about women or black people or Mexicans. This seems reasonable until I turn the tables.

I see clearly the ways in which Hillary was a less-than-ideal candidate. She voted for war. She’s gotten rich on the dime of special interests groups—and who knows how many “backroom deals” she’s negotiated. Looking back, I don’t think she handled her husband’s various sex scandals as well as she could have. Undeniably, an element of her political persona is less than authentic. I’ve chalked this up to the compromises she’s had to make to be taken seriously in the political arena. But maybe I’ve been too dismissive of her flaws.

When I voted for Clinton did it mean I supported every comment or decision she’s ever made? I certainly hope not.

But if I’m willing to let myself off the hook for Hillary’s bad qualities, why am I so inclined to hold Trump supporters accountable for his every misogynistic or xenophobic impulse?

Janet doesn’t think Trump’s bad qualities are more evil than Hillary’s. Janet thinks the worst of his are hyperbole and bluster whereas Clinton’s have actually hurt and killed people. Yes, I say, but do you know how many people he is likely to harm and endanger now that he’s in office?

Then I realize how insane this conversation is. We are judging presidential candidates by who’s done or will do the least amount of damage, by who is likely to ruin the fewest lives, by who we think has lied and cheated less.

This makes the evangelical Christian support for Trump all the more mysterious to me…

The thing is, I really like and respect Carol. She’s one of the few women I’ve interviewed for this project who I knew before the election. If I scroll to the word “scrappy” in my mental dictionary, there’s an image of Carol, all 100 pounds of her, deep tan and blond-tipped pixie hair. She IS genuine—and often hilarious. Like Trump, she will blurt her truth regardless of who might be within earshot—though her outbursts tend to reveal a charmingly goofy character. I know she appreciates me and doesn’t care who I voted for. She would love me even if Hillary had won.

In the aftermath of the election, what am I to do about my friendship with Carol? How am I to feel about the millions of women like her who supported Trump? Was their ballot also cast against the sisterhood we hold dear?

Carol grew up in a middle class household, which was likely more secure than my own bohemian childhood. She had parents who were married and a house full of siblings. My parents were broken up by the time I was six; my half-brother didn’t arrive until I was 16. But instability can have its perks. Carol has not lived in a bunch of cities or travelled like I have. She did not feel compelled to earn advanced degrees in some desperate attempt to prove her worth.

Nor did Carol’s upbringing automatically translate into a cushy life. For a while worked at a bank. Then for over 20 years she ran her framing shop as sole proprietor and worker. Most of that time, she didn’t have the safety net of a dual income household.

Watching her get her new venture (the marijuana retail shop) up and running has given me a sense of the struggle of business ownership. I’m accustomed to being an employee; I can see that in the business world, that’s a bit like being a child. I don’t put the food on the table or the roof overhead. Someone else worries about revenue and how all the little mouths will get fed. I just eat off my plate.

If it weren’t for Carol’s scrappy nature, I don’t think she could have done it. Of the few new pot shops in town, hers is the only owned by a woman and not backed by a pre-existing corporation. I’ve witnessed her go toe to toe with officials at all levels of government. Just when she thinks she’s complied with every rule and regulation, new ones pop up as well as slight variations to old ones. We hear so much talk about the importance of small businesses to our economy, but from an owner’s perspective I can see how the relationship with government doesn’t exactly feel supportive. Small businesses have the normal fight of appealing to customers and generating income, but they also struggle with the entities tasked with their oversight. It’s a battle on all fronts. I’m sure this challenge is magnified due to the nature of Mary’s new business.

Carol might be right in assuming that under Clinton this situation would likely have stayed the same. I can understand why she thinks Trump might be more sympathetic. As a businessman, his has faced a similar struggle on a grander scale. Whatever the case, for me to pass judgment on Carol’s opinions regarding the matter seems inappropriate and disrespectful. Having never shouldered the responsibility of a small business myself, I don’t think I’ve earned that right.

But I had to know one thing. Carol is not conservative when it comes to social issues. She freely admits that had she been unable to have an abortion when she was younger, her life could have turned out very differently. She is glad to have had that choice.

“How will you feel if Roe v. Wade is overturned, which could make abortion illegal?” I asked.

“I don’t think that will happen,” she said. She is under the impression that existing civil liberties either can’t or won’t be turned back. “But if it does, I’ll be angry.”

Regardless, Carol had no hesitation voting for Trump. Several months before the election she enthusiastically declared her support for him. I laughed because I thought that was a funny one.

The joke was on me.

Janet, Carol’s best friend, cast her vote for Trump with far more angst. “He’s an egotistical bastard,” she told me in no uncertain terms. “But she’s an egotistical bitch. The big difference is she’s been in office all these years, which changes everything in my mind.”

I wasn’t all in for Hillary from the get go. But in the months leading up to the election, I made up my mind and once I did that my passion ignited. A spark was lit that had sat dormant in me for years. I am a feminist! I had all but forgotten.

I was raised on Marlo Thomas’ Free to be You and Me record and book set, its gender-smashing message woven into the fabric of my identity. As a little girl, I fantasized about independence. When I played house, I wasn’t married with kids. I was a working woman  who had bought the place myself. As an undergraduate, I studied Women’s Studies at UC Berkeley, earning a minor from that newly formed academic department (along with a Political Science major).

In my daydreams, I wasn’t rich or beautiful or sexy; I was taken seriously. I commanded respect. I went on to earn two Master’s Degrees, the second at night while I worked full time.

I moved to Washington, D.C. and began building a career. My first boss made promotion decisions based on who played in his pick-up games of basketball, to which no female employees were ever invited. I got bitter. Then I got a better job.

Aside from issues, I didn’t like how Trump treated Hillary, how he kept blurting “Wrong!” while she was talking. I found him creepy, disrespectful. The 10-point scale he applies to women based on looks? That crap he said about Heidi Klum no longer being “a 10” now that she’s over 40? Wrong!

I thought women would be the backbone of Hillary supporters. But in the aftermath of the presidential election, it is clear that the one group that could have propelled Hillary Clinton to victory is the one to which she belongs and the one that seems to have failed her most spectacularly: white women. The majority of white women did not vote for Hillary Clinton (43 percent to 53 percent). Our younger counterparts are not to blame. Clinton won women 18 to 29 years old 63 percent to 31 percent.

The problem appears to have been with white women, like myself and Heidi Klum, who are dancing around middle age. I sat in a stupor all day Wednesday. It was like I’d had a stroke and the world no longer made sense. My first thought when my synapses began to fire again was: traitors! How could these women turn their backs on the progress of the women’s movement? We had inherited greater equality and rights from the work of Hillary’s generation. Now what of our legacy?

I knew I had to talk to these women—for my own sanity if nothing else. I want to understand and accept points of view other than my own. A None’s Story is based on this bridge-building approach. In it, I worship with people of numerous faiths, including fundamentalists. Many of the people I encountered could not have been more different from me and, yet, I managed to maintain an open mind. I had emerged with respect for their beliefs.

Somehow, this felt like an even greater challenge.

I put a call on Facebook for anyone with ties to a white woman who voted for Trump. Immediately, contact information began to flood in. I quickly had three interviews set up for Thursday, three more on Friday, and several since. These have been in-depth conversations, lasting anywhere from one to almost three hours. My focus has been women born in the 50s, 60s, and—like me—70s.

Carol was born in 1953. She has been a small business owner for 30 years. Most of that time, she had a little shop where she built custom art frames. She struggled to make ends meet but three years ago her prospects began to look rosier when she opened a retail marijuana store in Washington State. She is divorced and chose not to have children. She says she’s not crazy about the word “feminist” but admits that her life and choices are in line with those ideals.

In Trump’s impulsiveness, Carol sees her own. He says things that are stupid sometimes and she does the same. Her mouth has gotten her in trouble all her life. She says her vote had nothing to do with gender, though she does admit that whatever mystery lurks in a man is less mysterious than what you might find in a woman.

Carol and I approached the conversation from such different angles. Where I saw in Clinton a powerful and hardworking woman, she saw a member of the “old boys club” who had gotten rich greasing palms and patting backs. Where I saw a dangerously deranged billionaire; she saw a vulnerable underdog. Bogus businessman; a guy who reinvented and rebuilt his empire again and again. Tax dodger; money smarts.

I was at the looking glass. Beyond was a world where the translation for statements I knew to be true sounded like gibberish.

Could I listen until it made sense?

Here’s the question I’ve been pondering lately: How do lessons from faith traditions play out in secular society? What are the things we have done or can do to embody the best of what faith has to offer outside places of worship?

Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the Native American philosophy of “seventh generation,” which encourages all of us to think in a broad context when making important decisions, examining the history surrounding a decision and what affect it will have in the future. It’s similar to karma, and the multi-generational view of time presented in the Bible. This concept is written into the Constitution of the Iroquois Nations, which states that leaders must weigh the seventh generation in “your efforts at law making, in all your official acts.”

Though no such mandate exists in the U.S. Constitution, I think many of our policymakers sense the wisdom of considering the long horizon when creating new laws and guidelines, particularly when it comes to decisions about the environment and overall health of the planet. While I find this encouraging, I believe our leaders should apply it to far more decisions, especially those that determine the quality of schools in our country. Doing so would be consistent with the teachings of every religion I journeyed through, and perhaps every faith on the planet.

The only other policy in the U.S. that I can think of with this kind of “seventh generation” outlook is “Affirmative Action,” which is the right for employers and universities to consider characteristics such as race and gender in their hiring and admissions to increase the representation of historically disadvantaged groups. So surprised was I in realizing how unique Affirmative Action is—it is rooted in taking accountability and making amends, which is unusual among American laws—that I felt compelled to learn how it came about.

It actually didn’t start with such lofty ambitions. It was a term coined from an executive order signed by President John Kennedy in 1961, which included a provision that government contractors “take affirmative action to ensure that applicants are employed, and employees are treated during employment, without regard to their race, creed, color, or national origin.” In 1965, President Lyndon Johnson added to this. He signed an executive order that required government employers to take “affirmative action” to “hire without regard to race, religion and national origin.” He used the word “hire” and included “religion.” “Gender” was added to the list of characteristics in 1967.

These were anti-discrimination measures but they weren’t sure-fire diversity increasers. Employers could justify homogenous workforces as long as they based their hiring choices on qualifications alone—and it’s been shown that people are generally more inclined to see applicants that look most like themselves as best suited for a job. (It’s also difficult to prove instances of discrimination because they are usually not overt).

It wasn’t until 1989 that Affirmative Action as we know it today became official. That year, the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, a special branch of the United Nations that was created in the 1960s and in which the U.S. is a member, ratified that affirmative action programs may be required of countries to rectify systematic discrimination. The decision stated that such programs “shall in no case entail as a consequence the maintenance of unequal or separate rights for different racial groups after the objectives for which they were taken have been achieved.”

The implication here was that instead of trying stay “blind” to characteristics such as race or gender, hiring committees and other gatekeepers should pay special attention to them. This flipped previous notions of affirmative action on their head: exercise unequal rights but in favor of underrepresented groups. The goal—to increase diversity—was the same but the approach was more active.

Some employers and universities were already using this version of Affirmative Action before 1989. When I began college at University of California Berkeley in 1989, it was a well-known fact that students who came from disadvantaged groups received special consideration during the admittance process. The results of these practices created a beautiful sight to behold: a student body with ample representation by race, religion, gender—as well as a spectrum of physical “disabilities.” Years later, when I worked for the federal government, I was again in an environment that had benefited from Affirmative Action policies.

Opponents of Affirmative Action say it is “reverse racism” and therefore unconstitutional. The practice has been the target of many lawsuits, usually filed by white students denied admission to a university, and often backed by The Project on Fair Representation, a nonprofit organization that provides legal defense for white people who feel discriminated against. Since the first of these cases—filed against the University of California system in 1978—the courts have maintained the right for state universities to design their own admission processes that take into account race as one factor to build racial diversity on campus. In 2003, the Supreme Court preserved this decision, but with Justice Sandra Day O’Connor saying she believed such policies would no longer be necessary in 25 years. This summer—about half way to that goal—the Supreme Court upheld the right for universities to use Affirmative Action, though it was a narrow 4-3 decision.

Walking on the Berkeley campus today is a different experience than when I was a student. The University of California stopped using Affirmative Action in 1996, not long after I graduated, opting instead to take into account other factors, such as income, to promote diversity. Unfortunately, this tactic has been accompanied by a dramatic decrease in racial diversity on campus. In 1997, the year it was enacted, admissions of Black, Latino, and Native American students plummeted by more than 50 percent. In 2012, 54 percent of California’s high school graduates were Black, Latino and Native American but they comprised just 16 percent of UC Berkeley’s freshmen class.

Affirmative Action is a complicated issue and it’s no wonder our society continues to grapple with it. Technically, it is unconstitutional; but when the constitution was crafted, slavery existed. Perhaps no modern policy gets closer to the philosophy of “seventh generation”—or better embodies a concept so fundamental to most religions. Yet, some individuals, who may have done nothing wrong personally, will feel unfairly treated because of Affirmative Action policies. That’s why the Native American saying goes “we must consider the impact on the seventh generation…even if it requires having skin as thick as the bark of a pine.”

Can you think of examples of things taking place in a secular setting that you think represent the essence of faith teachings?

In response to my last blog post on accountability, a friend sent a link to information about the Native American philosophy of “seventh generation.” This is the concept that any decision made by an individual or collective should take into account its affect on more than just those who are presently living. As I dug around for more information, I encountered slight variations in how these generations were counted: seven into the future; yours plus three into the future and three into the past; seven into the future and seven into the past.

Whatever the specifics, the notion is consistent: we are asked to contemplate the results of our actions beyond our own lifespans. It is similar to the Jewish practice of standing in the shoes of generations both past and present, as well as the Buddhist concept of collective karma. “In every deliberation, we must consider the impact on the seventh generation…even if it requires having skin as thick as the bark of a pine.” This is a common saying, often attributed to the “The Constitution of the Iroquois Nations: The Great Binding Law.”

The Constitution of the Iroquois Nations says:

“In all of your deliberations in the Confederate Council, in your efforts at law making, in all your official acts, self-interest shall be cast into oblivion. Cast not over your shoulder behind you the warnings of the nephews and nieces should they chide you for any error or wrong you may do, but return to the way of the Great Law which is just and right.”

As I read this, I wondered about the use of “nephews and nieces” instead of something more general like “children” or “youth.” I think the familial connection is key: it implies a close relation but perhaps without the emotional baggage one might have with his or her actual offspring. Maybe we are meant to consider all young people as our nephews and nieces. It applies to everyone, even those without their own children.

I found the wording significant in part because I have recently returned from a trip to the St. Paul/Minneapolis area, where I stayed with my sister-in-law and her family. My visit occurred a week or so following the death of Philando Castile, a 32-year-old black man, who was pulled over for a minor traffic infraction in a suburb of St. Paul. After being asked for his license and registration, Castile told the officer he was a licensed owner of a gun and that his gun was in the car. Then, as he put his hands in the air, the officer shot him multiple times. The shooting was witnessed by Castile’s girlfriend and her young daughter, both of whom were in the car.

In response to this shooting, and others like it all over the country, my 17-year-old nephew and many of his friends began participating in a peaceful protest, more akin to a vigil, outside the Minnesota governor’s mansion as part of the “Black Lives Matter” movement.  When I arrived, he was still spending hours there every day as if it were one of his part time jobs.

My nephew, Simon, is white and clearly recognizes his privilege both racially and socio-economically. He speaks eloquently to this issue and without a hint of defensiveness. He embraces “Black Lives Matter” with such passion and clarity that spending time with him made me examine my own commitment to the cause.

When I first began seeing reference to Black Lives Matter in the news and on social media, I noticed the backlash about the wording. I read complaints by people who felt threatened, as if the statement implied that ONLY black lives matter. (I had to smile because these comments seem to reinforce the conclusion I came to as I made my journey through religion: each of us—no matter the degree of privilege we are born into—is inclined to think we are not good enough, that we’ll never do or be enough. This “original sin” is so deeply ingrained that when someone comes along with a radical statement of belonging, people tend to feel threatened by it. It’s the same thing that happened with the Jewish idea of being “chosen.” Instead of embracing this powerful notion of deserving one’s life—which, as I understand it, is meant for everyone—people feel more comfortable believing it excludes them. This better reinforces the natural sense of unworthiness.)

I understand this existential insecurity—I struggle with it myself—but that wasn’t the problem I was having. I believed the statement was too obvious, too basic. I thought, “well, of course black lives matter.”

When I brought this up to Simon, he made me see that the truth of this simple statement isn’t necessarily apparent. For people who have a history of being enslaved and marginalized (like the Jews), claiming worthiness is a radical act. When I looked at it through Simon’s eyes, I saw the statement for what it is: a beautiful and important declaration of belonging, one that invites healing for all sorts of errors and wrongdoings.

One of the most important lessons I learned during my journey into religion is the wisdom of taking responsibility—and not just for my own decisions, but on a larger scale.

I’m thinking of teachings in Buddhism that would have us consider the consequences of our actions, how what we think and do affects the world around us, often referred to as “karma.” I feel inclined to also insert ideas from Judaism, how it encourages each of us to lay claim to a much broader identity, to see ourselves as the continuation of previous generations, just as future generations will be an extension of us. But I can’t stop there. I want to add a dash of Islam, specifically the notion that we all belong to a single society despite distinctions of race or gender or class or age. Islam would have us put our differences aside and be beholden to one another.

All of this leads me to stretch my concept of karma, to apply it to generations other than my own, to regions other than where I am, to people who are not me. The actions for which I am accountable transcend time and place. I encountered hints of this more far-reaching karma during my explorations of Buddhism. I heard mention of “personal karma” and “collective karma,” though how the latter played out was vague.

I understand it now as motivation to examine consequences extending well beyond those that result from my own actions. In a sense, this is an even greater challenge than considering personal karma because it means taking responsibility for anything that has created negative outcomes. It doesn’t matter if the actions were not my own; I am not exempt from sharing the blame.

It’s hard enough for most people to take responsibility for the consequences of their own actions, and almost unthinkable to ask anyone to be accountable for anything they didn’t do personally.

We are inclined to skirt responsibility. Maybe it occurred before we were born, like American slavery. Yet, the results from that horrible history continue to ripple out: anger at the injustices of the past and the current inequalities they have bred. If I am to truly take to heart the teachings from religion, I will do more than acknowledge the pain. I will collapse time to feel being both the slave and the slave master. I will experience the suffering of being dehumanized as well as try to understand the entitlement that allows a person to rob others of basic human rights. I will recognize how, in my current incarnation, I receive privileges left over from the favoritism woven into the fabric of this country. I also have to remain willing to recognize modern-day acts of racism, even if it’s my own subliminal thinking that I must pull to the fore and examine. If I go through life blind to these realities, I perpetuate inequality.

Okay, maybe that’s an easy one. As a white person living in the U.S., of course I should acknowledge the awful crimes of slavery and racism. Maybe it’s even a no-brainer that I would claim responsibility.

I want to take this exercise in accountability even further. How about his: I am not exempt from perpetrating sexism. Even as a woman who considers herself a feminist (Women Studies minor in college) I am not free from gender bias. I may be on the receiving end of it, but in small ways that I might not recognize immediately, it can influence my thinking. If I don’t own this, I can’t stay vigilant of the times this backwards ideology creeps in, which leaves me in the awkward position of firm entrenchment in a way of thinking I find loathsome.

So often, the examples we see in the media are of high profile people ducking responsibility for anything and everything, which is why, when someone in the public arena demonstrates accountability, my heart swells with gratitude.

One example is President Obama’s recent trip to Japan, specifically to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial. As the first American president to visit there since we dropped nuclear bombs on cities Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 (killing well over 100,000 civilians), Obama was criticized by many who believed his presence there would be seen as an apology. As a result, Obama never uttered the word “sorry” but I agree to an extent: his visit was a public demonstration of accountability for military tactics so extreme that they seem to me to have risen to crimes against humanity. When I saw the video footage of Obama embracing a weeping old man who had survived his city’s obliteration as a young boy, I couldn’t help but cry.

Many people viewed Obama’s actions as exhibiting weakness—but I saw them as a sign of strength. When you own the wrongs and biases, you are no longer powerless. You are part of the solution.

Dear readers,

Here is the link to the talk and reading I gave at Books & Books in Coral Gables, Florida.

http://events.booksandbooks.com/videos/embed/corinna-nicolaou-a-nones-story-searching-for-meaning-inside-christianity-judaism-buddhism-and-islam

Thank you!