Article by Abigail Garner

I was in seventh grade the first time I officially took a risk for something I believed in. I walked out of class to join a protest in solidarity with the “punks.” The principal had sent home a letter to parents saying that certain “distractions” would no longer be acceptable at school. The list of forbidden distractions included mohawks, spiked collars, face piercings, make-up a la Boy George, and ripped jeans.

Even though my wardrobe never got edgier than pin-stripped jeans and monogrammed sweaters, I was outraged by the injustice of the policy. I had never skipped school before, but I wasn’t about to sit in algebra class while a third of the student body bravely faced the administration and media crews.

Protests are tough enough for grown-ups to orchestrate, so it was no surprise that 300 teenagers had not thought far beyond a start time and coming up with the coolest chant ever: “We don’t need no dress code!” (It made for a catchy sound bite on the evening news, and no doubt made English teachers everywhere proud.) For the first ten minutes, I was thrilled to be a part of this event. It felt like something had shifted; we, the seemingly powerless students, were creating our own counter-power.

Unfortunately, some students were involved just for the adrenaline rush. That fact, along with shortsighted planning resulted in chaos, vandalism, suspensions, and a few arrests. That day was a disaster, but in the long run, it was declared a student victory. After a couple weeks of public debate in the editorial pages in our city’s newspaper, our school rescinded the dress code.

Okay, so walking out of math class to defend my classmate’s right to have a pierced nose isn’t exactly social justice. Regardless, the personal insight I gained from that day is the root of why I have been so strongly aligned with social justice throughout my life. When I recognize a situation that seems unfair, I can’t disassociate myself just because it doesn’t directly affect me. The justification for targeting one group over another is arbitrary since it is based only on the prejudices held by the institution or individual in power.

That’s what really pushes my buttons: power. More specifically, the abuse of power by those who have it against those who do not.

I’ve discovered that not everyone has this drive to take action when they know something is unfair. If it doesn’t concern them, then why bother? People who don’t understand my convictions dismiss me by labeling me “too sensitive.” This sensitivity comes from questioning authority at a very young age as I witnessed the senselessness of a certain kind of hate years before I knew there was a name for it: “homophobia.”

I can never dismiss injustice with “that’s just the way it is” or “that’s how it’s always been,” because that is the rhetoric that is used to erase and invalidate my family every day. When I hear those tired words that those in power typically use, I know I can’t be silent.

For years, I let other people convince me that my sensitivity to struggles that weren’t “my” issues was a weakness. I just had to toughen up, get over it and stop internalizing other people’s problems. I’ve since learned to appreciate my sense of interconnectedness. I’ve also learned to accept my so-called weakness as an asset by renaming it: accountability.

Originally published in Just For Us.

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