Refuse to Abandon

Resist the erosion of empathy

I’ve been reading a lot. Maybe this is my late Fall, early Winter stance; like a bear in hibernation, I read instead of sleep (or both, frankly). I’ve been making my way through the books of the new Nobel Prize winner in literature, author Han Kang. Her novel about the Gwangju uprising, Human Acts, is simply stunning. As is her novel, The Vegetarian, though—for me—in a completely different way. The images from both books will stay with you for a very long time, I can promise you that.

One of the books I am actively reading at the moment is about activism and organizing, and in it, I just read a chapter called “Refusing to Abandon.”

The phrase has stuck with me. According to the internet, “Refusing to abandon means not giving up or withdrawing from something, especially in the face of danger.”

The book is Let This Radicalize You by Kelly Hayes and Mariame Kaba. In the chapter, “Refusing to Abandon,” Hayes discusses examples of refusing to abandon, particularly among women practicing collective care in the prison system. As Hayes writes, “That shared sense of having been discarded creates a solidarity among some imprisoned people that’s about ‘refusing to throw each other way.’ We refused to abandon.” Surely we can refuse to abandon.

She invokes Ruth Wilson Gilmore theory of “organized abandonment.” Gilmore is a scholar who uses the term to describe the intentional disinvestment in communities which, in turn, creates opportunities for extraction, revenue generation, and carceral enforcement to fill the cracks of a compromised social infrastructure. We will see more evidence of organized abandonment writ large in a second Trump presidency very soon. Surely we can resist organized abandonment.

Hayes writes that people in prison often refuse to abandon one another, even when there are negative consequences—as there often are in prison for visible acts of care or bond of solidarity. Mutual aid can land people in solitary confinement—and yet people do it. Solidarity can have punitive consequences, and yet people practice it in the worst of circumstances. Surely we can practice acts of care and solidarity.

Hayes tells about the cultivation of joy as a form of sustenance and a means of rebellion in prison, using the example of imprisoned women singing until they got in trouble, and then continuing to sing. “When the women were issued a disciplinary ticket about singing, they would make up a song about the ticket… This rebellion of song created space for joy in a brutally oppressive environment.” Surely we can sing.

The imprisoned women would commission works of art from other prisoners that would likely be destroyed and they made up holidays to create more cause for celebration. “It’s a constant celebration of just us,” Hayes quotes one of the imprisoned women as saying. Surely we can celebrate each other instead of damn each other.

We find ourselves in the place of needing to cultivate hope and joy as a matter of survival under extremely oppressive conditions. Hayes suggests we must “throw our energy into building active relationships with other people whom we refuse to abandon and who refuse to abandon us … To resist the erosion of empathy, we must invite people to participate in acts of care, defense, aid, and rescue.” Surely we can engage in acts of care.

I made a very public mistake recently, and received widespread support and understanding from everyone—except one person who chose vehement abandonment. Obviously, that was their right, but it was a reminder of what I never want to do—judge instead of approach with curiosity and care. If someone is hurting, why hurt them more? Surely we can choose curiosity and an acknowledgment of shared humanity.

And yet I judge all the time, I have to admit, when I think of Trump voters. I’m trying to approach them with curiosity and love, instead. It is hard. Surely I can find some points of connection, understanding, and shared joy.

When nothing is at stake, it is hard. When everything feels at stake, it is harder still. But perhaps that’s when refusing to abandon really means something, like the women in the prison. Surely we can do hard things.

What does refusing to abandon look like?

It might look like an honest conversation about differences, conducted largely in questions and truthful assessments of impact. For sure, it involves an acknowledgement of the difference between intent and impact that exists for all of us at times in life.

It looks like not abandoning people we love who are in crisis, no matter what. Surely we can stop abandoning people in crisis.

It means not letting one bad decision terminate our care for others, no matter what. Surely we can extend grace.

It involves seeing a bad decision as a call for help, not an opportunity for damnation. Surely we can walk in another’s shoes and empathize.

Even in this unknown environment in which we are living, we can live in opposition to abandonment, while creating healthy boundaries for ourselves so we don’t abandon ourselves, either. Surely we can live in opposition to abandonment.

Hayes reminds us, “Being present for people will always mean being there for the mess created by human conflict and trauma.” Life is messy. Surely we can be there for the mess, too. And acknowledge our own messes.

Am I present for other people? Or am I walking toward them in judgment, instead? Let me not abandon them, or myself.

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