Calling Someone Out Is Not The Same As Calling Someone A Name


In a recent political speech, the presumed Republican presidential candidate referred to some people as “vermin.” When mainstream media compared this to speeches given in the Weimar Republic by another infamous candidate seeking to lead his country, the presidential candidate’s team called the comparison disgusting and a deliberate attack intended to obfuscate issues.

I’ve struggled with how to write this, because my calling out our local theatre director over the summer for racism and misogyny resulted in me being called an attacker, and I don’t want to write an “it happened to me” blog. I want to write a “words matter and we’re in trouble so move through your life with prayerful integrity” blog.

Over the summer I was a volunteer on an arts committee for our town’s local theatre. When it became evident that there were issues with equity in pay and in choices of acts—and also that voices of artists from diverse communities were missing from the planning group—I asked questions. This culminated in a phone call with the theatre’s director, where I called out certain decisions and several preceding actions since his arrival as white supremacy.

All hell broke lose. The director asked me to a meeting with a board member, told me I was disgusting. It is a common strategy to say someone else attacked you when you feel defensive.

The board member told me I had no right to attack the director. Both said I should be ashamed. When you cannot justify your actions, when you do not want to engage on why what you’re doing is good (or even good enough), you attack.

In talking afterward with the regional newspaper about the events at the theatre, a heavy sigh preceded the reporter putting into words what we both knew: the same thing is happening everywhere. What used to hide behind coded language and secret handshakes is now a campaign platform. The only unusual aspect of the local theatre story was that the director actually got fired, a unique twist to a standard plot.

Dear reader, let me challenge you with another twist on a now-standard saying, “if you see something, say something.” What’s happening right now in the “God is on OUR side” culture wars requires knowing the difference between calling someone names, and calling someone out.

When I ended the meeting with the board member, he was still defending the director, who was still insulting me. Something strange happened: the director’s last words as I left were, “Good luck to you.”

From nowhere, my mouth opened and out came, “I won’t need luck; I have integrity.”

I’m not going to wish you luck as you parse through the attitudes and actions of this coming year’s political climate. We’re not jerks, elites, woke-ists, or any of the other names we get called for refusing to let dehumanizing words and actions go by. We do very much need to avoid being self-righteous assholes, and I’m praying for wisdom, discernment, and integrity on how God plans for me to walk these days. Moral high ground is both heady and slippery.

Walk softly, never mind the big stick. If you see something, say something.

The Apples Overwhelming my Eyes

Wendy is on her way to Louisville…loaded with goodness, of both books and apples

I’m part of a gleaning society. We move food that would otherwise rot in the field, getting it into people’s kitchens. We prioritize food banks and cafes that serve suspended meals or otherwise have token systems for those who can’t pay with money.

A week ago, the coordinator for the gleaners let us know they had apples. Great, everybody loves apples, right? Our coordinator and her husband picked them up.

Six half-ton boxes of apples. Three went straight to some food banks and suspended cafes. The call went out for community members to come get some fruit.

I took ten grocery bags of apples, with the intent of giving as many as possible away, and then canning up a bag or two for gifting. I run the buy nothing list in my county. The list proved disinterested, so I made sure to have some in my car when attending civic meetings. 12 dozen apple gifts later, people were starting to edge away from me at these events. “Don’t go near her, she’s handing out apples. Don’t leave your car unlocked. Apples are the new zucchini.”

And of course the apples landed in a busy week. We’re working on a federal grant – well we would be if our federal identity page for our non-profit worked properly. Six hours passed with help desks and support services, coring apples while on hold or waiting for instruction on what grew to be a more complex problem by the hour. There was something very meta about mashing apples when hearing there was nothing we could do but wipe our profile and start over.

Anger has to go someplace. Mine gave the 21 bottles of cider a nice spicy flavor.

200 cidered apples and one new federal identity page later, I checked the fridge. Apples in the meat drawer. Apples in the cheese drawer. Apples in the veggie drawer. Apples in the butter panel, in the egg holder, stuck behind the coil leading to the freezer. APPLES EVERYWHERE!

I made apple butter. I made apple pumpkin butter, thereby eliminating the problem of what to do with the pumpkin going over on my porch. (Our chickens are mutants. They won’t eat pumpkin.)

150 apples to go. In desperation, I googled “unusual apple recipes for canning.” Then I reset my filter to adult controls and googled it again.

Steamed apple bread pudding (yes you can can bread; you just have to know what you’re doing). Apple salsa. Spiced apple rings. Apple slaw. Each took fewer apples than one might have hoped. There were still a few dozen apples in my refrigerator as I packed a bag to be one of the authors featured at the Louisville Book Festival Nov. 11.

I put the bags in my car; the other authors will love me, I’m sure.