Today I slugged it out with the last two and a half hours of bell hooks book Ain’t I A Woman on audio. The heat and humidity were oppressive, as was the overwhelming feeling of defensiveness every time I pressed play.

Then, on one of my breaks, I read this article from the Washington Post, “Germany faced its horrible past. Can we do the same?” by Michele L. Norris. The article described in great detail the way Germany has faced its painful history, with small reminders of it everywhere. One of the most powerful examples is the small plaques scattered around the country, called stumbling stones, inscribed with information about victims of the Holocaust.

The stories are researched by neighbors, schoolchildren, and church or civic groups. They raise the money and track down the victim’s relatives, and as protocol dictates, invite them to a modest installation ceremony. These small acts of atonement and grace led to a national willingness to confront an odious history.

Can you imagine a United States where one of your child’s school assignments would be to research the life of a Native American or enslaved person? Then, they would have the information they discovered inscribed on a plaque, and placed where others could learn from it? Imagine that process involving the descendants of the person featured on the plaque.

I quickly realized that the U.S. would have difficulty producing such plaques, as so many of the names of the people who died in the pursuit of U.S. progress have been lost to history. So instead, what about another type of plaque? One that tells the reader what Native group used to live on the land where they are standing? One that informs us of how redlining was used to keep Blacks from settling in a particular community, what year the practice ended, and what has been done to make things right? A plaque in front of a bank that reminds us of just how recently a woman would have needed to bring her husband along in order to be issued a credit card, or detailing the year the bank stopped using race to determine who they lent money to? A plaque outside of a police station describing the history of the slave patrol and how it evolved to become today’s law enforcement?

When I read antiracism books and start to feel defensive, I’m always asking myself, why do I feel this way? What is it about the reading that is causing me to feel an avalanche of helplessness and guilt? If my people perpetrated crimes against Black people and Native Americans (and maybe some of them did, I don’t know), what good does it do for me to self-flagellate over the wrongs in our country’s past?

The answer lies in the tense. It isn’t past. We are reminded nearly every day in the news that it isn’t past, and not only that, a good chunk of our politicians don’t even believe we should be forced to reckon with our past in any way that makes us feel bad, never mind that feelings are temporary.

The thing is, many of us already feel bad. We feel guilty for our privilege, and don’t know what to do about it. Even those who carry hate in their hearts feel bad. We aren’t made to live that way. But we’re stuck in a continuum where the past isn’t quite the past, and so we can’t move on.

In our transactional society, it’s hard to imagine a world where someone gains status, but no one else loses status. That is what bell hooks’ book is about. In our society, if there is power, there also has to be weakness. And no one wants to be weak.

So we continue to enforce this damaging social hierarchy of class and race rather than creating a world where everyone gets the same measure of worth and dignity assigned to them – a measure which is reflected in the opportunities presented to them over the course of their life. A measure represented by the care we take to make sure each human’s needs are met.

hooks describes a history of the U.S. where Black men and white women repeatedly kept Black women down and pushed their concerns to the side, because allowing them a voice meant that Black men and white women would lose their place in the social hierarchy. hooks supplies a lot of bitter ideas for Black men and white women to explain why they didn’t turn back and wait for Black women, their “queens” and “sisters,” in the race to the front of the line. Meanwhile, white men remained large and in charge at the top of the hierarchy, while the lower factions duked it out.

It made me think of the marriage boot camp the Chaplain and I attended several years ago. One of the skills we learned was the method of a win/win decision. You consider all the pros and cons of an issue, and brainstorm ideas together, until you come up with a solution that works for both of you. If your solution doesn’t work for both of you, you go back to the drawing board again and again until you come up with something that does.

How can both people win if they aren’t on the same team? That’s the thing: we ARE on the same team. All of humanity is on the same team. No one benefits from one group being marginalized or offered a smaller piece of the pie. We all suffer from that injustice, but those with the smallest piece of pie suffer the most viscerally.

I wonder what type of landscape we could create in the U.S. that would allow us to really reconcile the way our ancestors behaved to “make this country great.” I’m talking about all the “great” Americans who enslaved people, who ordered or participated in the killing and marginalization of Native groups. But I’m also referring to the “lesser” sins of ancestors who treated the newest batch of immigrants badly, those who remained silent in the face of injustice, those folks who were “a product of their time.”

If we can’t admit the way we started, it will be nearly impossible to move forward with a clear conscience into a future where everyone is offered a fair share of opportunity. Equality without the feeling that someone has had to sacrifice their own status to bring others on up the ladder. Maybe we can just take the ladder down and lay it on the floor. What is it we’re climbing toward, anyway? Probably not anything of eternal value.

I’m picturing a table in someone’s home. The family who live there are already halfway through dinner when a group of people arrive at the door. This family had already portioned out the food for the meal, leaving only enough for Dad to pack for lunch tomorrow. We won’t talk about where the food came from, who made the meal, or who paid for it (but if this is a metaphor for U.S. history, you can extrapolate).

The family had only made enough for those who are already at the table, and even the extra on the stove, has already been “called” for Dad’s work lunch. They look up at their guests, guilty expressions on their faces and their mouths full of food.

The person at the head of the table starts to stand up, gestures helplessly, swallows, and sits back down. Another person gets up from the table, walks to the door, and closes it quietly in the faces of the people on the doorstep. The family shrugs uncomfortably, then goes back to eating their meal.

Something is tugging at their consciences, but they ignore it. There are a thousand reasons why they shouldn’t have to share. This is their house. Their food. Those guests weren’t invited.

It’s all based on a scarcity mindset, where there isn’t enough for everyone to have everything they need. And “need” is a moving target. People who are already on the outside get left out again and again because those of us who are already in are unwilling or unable to find creative ways to share the wealth.

There is plenty for everyone. We don’t have to be stingy. What remains is for us to break out of our way of thinking there isn’t enough – dignity, resources – for us all to live a satisfactory existence.