Bridging the Divide

by Chris Orrey (5 Minute Read)

I haven’t felt like I have fully belonged with any one group for most of my life. I have always been a half-sister, a stepdaughter, a little girl who visits with family she rarely sees. I was one of two girls on a boys’ baseball team. I was the closeted lesbian B-average student in my group of high school friends who were not only straight, but got straight A’s and were heading to Stanford, UCLA and other prestigious colleges. I struggled my way through community college as a part-time student, working multiple jobs and dropping classes as my work schedules constantly changed.

When I began working for the police department, I learned for the first time that the blue brotherhood didn’t want women covering them on calls. When I became a police officer, I learned that I was supposed to have an “Us verses Them” mentality to be safe, always elevating ourselves about the people who we allegedly served. I didn’t fit in there, either. I was taught that I was part of a “thin blue line” separating the sheep (good, simple citizens) from the wolves (bad guys). I was taught to be suspicious of everyone. Over time, I even learned I couldn’t trust my own brothers and sisters in blue, as they would take a bullet for me on the street, but stab me in the back in the hallway.

As I evolved and came to look beyond the cover of any human being to the hearts and minds and personal stories of the written pages within, I felt even more divided. How do I get the brass to understand the plight of the troops? How do I get the troops to understand the challenges of the brass? How do I get my mom to forgive my dad? How do I get my Christian friends and family to understand that there are many paths to God? How do I get my cops to understand the struggles and history of the black community? How do I get the black community to understand that there are many really, really good cops?

Saturday I was one of millions around the world who marched in response to the election, appointments and policies of Donald Trump as U.S. President. As more and more people – Trump supporters for the inauguration and Trump detractors for the Women’s March – came into Washington, D.C., I felt fully part of the “Us verses Them.” I walked down the busy streets of D.C. eyeing people, deciding if they were an “Us” or a “Them.” I judged. I judged and I judged and I judged.

Until Friday night when I went to Shabbat services at Sixth and I, a historic synagogue in D.C. Rabbi Scott Perlo – young, handsome and progressive – took us beyond the surface of the “Us Verses Them.” While acknowledging the pain of the election, he took us deeper. He took us to the roots, I believe, of what spirituality and God is all about. He reminded me that underneath the differences we appear to have at the surface remains the connection of all humans. He reminded me that there is good – sweetness – in the darkest of days. His words took me back to my biggest takeaway from the Summit, a weeklong advanced personal growth seminar I attended in the fall. Every person’s actions are the only possible actions they can take, given their personal path and history. As Maya Angelou said, “When you know better, you do better.”

The day after the Women’s March, a police officer who once worked under my command posted on my social media page that I should be ashamed of myself for the sign I carried at the march, specifically referencing Black Lives Matter. He said I forgot where I came from and should rip up my sign. This represents the greatest divide I have experienced to date: police officers and the black community. I feel it. When I was a young police officer, I saw first hand the excessive force, brutality and racism of police officers against black people, especially black men. I feel it. I have seen and heard black people judge and denigrate the heart of a police officer based solely upon the uniform they wear. I have heard kids from the camp where I volunteer each year tell me, “I hate cops!” I have heard that from hundreds of people over my 30-year career.

I have been scorned by police officers when I speak up for people of color, and scorned by people of color when I speak up for police officers. How do I bridge this divide that at times makes the Grand Canyon feel like a crack in the sidewalk? The divide feels too deep. I can’t possibly make a difference. And with that last thought, I wake up. I remember who I am. I remember the quote that sits on my dresser at home:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? – From A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson

Who am I to think I can’t make a difference in this great divide? My playing small doesn’t serve humanity. Nor does my judging my brothers and sisters for their vote, their political views, or their fear. Based upon their own path and their own experiences, they see the world in the only way they can. When they know better, they will do better. Based upon my own path and experiences, I see the world in the only way I can. When I know better, I will do better.

Many, many years ago, I was supervising a very small Child Abuse Unit that was overwhelmed with 168 pending cases for just two detectives. I came upon this story in the first edition of Chicken Soup for the Soul. This is how I recall the story, and how I have told it countless times since.

An old man was walking along the beach. Far off in the distance, he saw a figure moving in a very graceful, up and down, manner. As the man got closer to the figure, he saw that it was a young boy, who appeared to be dancing. As the man got closer still, he saw that the boy was picking up starfish and throwing them back into the water. The tide had gone out, the sun was quickly rising, and there were thousands of starfish on the beach. The man asked the boy what he was doing. The boy replied, “I am saving these starfish. They will die if left here on the beach.”

The man’s heart went out to the boy. He said, “Son, there are thousands of starfish on this beach. You can’t save them all. You can’t possibly make a difference.” The boy looked at the man, picked up another starfish, and smiled. As he threw another starfish back into the sea, he said to the man, “I made a difference to that one.” – Adapted from The Star Thrower by Loren C. Eisely

 That is the answer. I can’t save all of the starfish. I can’t save our country. No one person can. But I can make a difference. I can listen. I can pray. I can write. I can donate. I can volunteer. I can love. I can put salve on wounds, love my “enemies,” seek common ground. I can smile at the man wearing the red hat with “Make America Great” with the same love as the woman wearing the pink pussy hat.

The night after the Women’s March, I took my travelling companion back to the neighborhood of the Sixth and I synagogue. Going into a restaurant, I saw a Muslim couple who were waiting for a table. The woman was fully covered in the modest dress of her religion. A starfish. I lightly touched the woman’s arm and said, “Excuse me, ma’am?” She turned to me, a white woman wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and a winter coat. I said, “I don’t know how things have been for you, but I want you to know that I love and support you.” Her face lit up and she hugged me. It was a starfish throwing moment in which I gained far more than I gave. I can only hope that the love she felt from this white non-Muslim woman will remind her that she is not alone if she encounters anti-Islam acts in the future.

I can make a difference. I can hope. I can dream. I can smile. I can forgive. I can seek to understand. I can love. Love is always the answer. And I can throw starfish back into the ocean. We all can.