Why am I doing this?

 One of the most profound, and perhaps saddest, realizations I’ve had growing up is the shift from the question “What did you do about it?” to “Why bother?”

I believe I have always been an advocate, even before I had the language for it. If I trace the origins of that identity, I find it scattered across the quiet but powerful influences that shaped me; my parents, my teachers, the Sabbath school stories that taught me what it means to be human. They taught me to speak up against bullies, which later became my love for advocacy and poetry; to stand against injustice, which grew into my passion for the law; to show up for people, which shaped me into a mentor and, despite my attempts at being “cool and mysterious,” to be someone my friends would call warm and bubbly. They also taught me to forgive, though that is a lesson I am still learning.

If I had to distill all of those lessons into one recurring idea, it would be this: I grew up being faced with one question, again and again, “What did you do about it?”

The “It” could be anything; a problem, a moment of injustice, someone in pain (or causing it), a mistake, an unfair decision. Whether it came from my mother, my pastor, or my teachers, the response to any complaint or report was never passive. The underlying assumption was always the same: if something is wrong, action is required.

That was never up for debate.

But somewhere along the way, that question softened, if not disappeared. In its place, I now hear: “Why bother?” or more directly "do you really think that will change anything?" Whether from well meaning friends to dismissive haters and sadly sometimes from myself this question has repeatedly hunted me.

Today, action is often weighed against guaranteed impact. The instinct to do something has been replaced by the hesitation of what difference will it make? The idea that “I am the person here” and feeling accountable for that has slowly given way to “I am just one person.” We used to act first and hope it mattered. Now, we wait to be convinced that it will before we e er act.

And that is exactly why I still try. Why I advocate. Why I bother.

Because I can.

Because even if I cannot change an entire system, I can absolutely bother it if not disrupt it. Because even if I cannot dismantle injustice, I can speak against it. Because I am a beneficiary of a world shaped by people who acted without guarantees.

Someone remarked recently, "It is crazy to realize with everything that is happening in the world we are actually living through history, so I keep asking myself who will you be when history calls?" 

Well when history calls, I want to be someone who moved.

When the next generation looks back at us, I don’t want there to be any doubt about the kind of world I hoped they would inherit, whether or not we fully succeeded in building it.

And most of all, when I stand before God, I want to say that I did right by the time, the light, the voice, the talents, the strength, the grace, and the forgiveness I was given.