By Lindsay Fernandes
I was a college kid at a football game. Auburn v. Ole Miss, at Ole Miss, and I was seated in their student section. I was there because a friend of mine had cousins attending the school, and they got us tickets. I did not know these cousins, and I was slightly uncomfortable because I’m an Auburn fan and I felt surrounded by drunken good ole boys.
It was the time of Carnell “Cadillac” Williams, Auburn’s nearly unstoppable running back. He is, relevant to this story, African American.
I don’t remember the play, but clearly Cadillac was making his steady way down the field, because a student directly behind me stood and shouted in my ear, “Come on boys, knock that n***** down!”
I whirled around and said as calmly as I possibly could, “Excuse me, but I don’t approve of that word and I would appreciate you never using it in my presence again.”
Drunk boy glared, and my friend’s cousin, who was a virtual stranger to me then and a total stranger to me now, said quietly, “Lindsay, sit down, do you want to get me beat up?”
I looked at him like the worthless coward he was, and stood up to face my opponent eye to eye. He immediately began evading eye contact and sat down, and, I couldn’t help but notice, didn’t use that word again. But the game was ruined for me, and that is literally the only memory of it I have.
But here’s the thing. I was warned. I was given an explanation why I should back down and be quiet. Nevertheless, I persisted.
My daughter came home from school the other day, and the teacher who helped her into the car was bursting to tell me what a wonderful friend she had been at school, and how she had stood up for a little boy whose feelings had been hurt. I asked her about it, and she told me a story of a child who took a ball from a little boy and made him cry. My five year old daughter went and found that boy the exact same ball, and then played ball with him until he stopped crying.
Because I’ve taught her, as I was taught, that standing up for others is just what you do. As a Christian, as a human, as a mother, as a friend, a neighbor, a sister, that’s just what you do.
What would history be without those who persisted in the name of goodness or equality? Those who persisted in the battle for our right to be a sovereign nation? Those who persisted in the fight to free slaves? Those who persistently fought for civil rights? Those who persisted in marching for a woman’s right to vote? Those who persistently fought Adolf Hitler?
Where would we be if we all just shrugged our shoulders and averted our eyes and said, “well, that’s just the way things are…”?
To all the women and men who stand up for the marginalized every day: PERSIST.
To all the boys and girls in schools who see a bully and stand up just because they know it’s right: PERSIST.
To all the moms and dads who teach their kids that standing up for others is just what you do: PERSIST.
To anyone who is told to be quiet, that it’s not worth speaking up because others are more powerful: PERSIST.
To the Muslims who are exhausted from defending the peace of their religion: PERSIST.
To the Christians who are disheartened by seeing their religion misused to hurt the marginalized: PERSIST.
To our government officials who are currently outnumbered and outvoiced but are speaking out anyway: PERSIST.
To those who know what’s right but they’re too afraid to say it out loud: PERSIST.
Our voices together are more powerful than any bully, and our goodness cannot be defeated. They’ve told us why we need to be quiet, they’ve given us an explanation, and nevertheless we persist. For goodness, and equality, and rights of all people, we persist. Because, as history shows us, our very persistence can change the world.