The Cost of ResilienceBy now, you have probably seen the photo taken by photographer Cheney Orr of the young woman sitting on the D.C. Metro train, surrounded by white supremacists on July 4th. Many have said it should be the photo of the year, comparing it to images from the Jim Crow era. Her face appears expressionless, her eyes fixed straight ahead, looking stoic in the face of modern-day Klansmen. I see something different in her face. I see the slight furrow in her brow. I see keen awareness. I imagine a tightness throughout her body, a rapid heartbeat just beneath the surface, and shallow breathing. Her pupils are likely dilated, trying to take in as much as possible while she appears aloof. Her whole body is on alert. I thank God that she was on that train with a photographer present. Only the Lord knows what could have happened if she had been completely alone. I see this because this easily could have been me on that Metro car. I ride the Metro frequently, never knowing who will get on or off the train where I am seated. As a Black woman in America in 2026, I understand this reality all too well. We are expected to be strong, stoic, and resilient while facing rhetorical, psychological, spiritual, and physical violence. Resilience has a cost. You might ask, what is the cost of resilience? In a sermon preached by Philadelphia clergywoman Leslie D. Callahan, she speaks to the toll that resilience takes: the toll on the body and the soul when you face perpetual assaults of racism. When are Black women allowed to feel safe enough to be feminine, soft, and vulnerable? When are we seen as human and not simply as a symbol of a movement or a moment? What does it do to Black women to always be seen as strong and tough, to be expected to carry elections, movements, families, and communities? Young girls treated as grown women, women cast as taskmasters, older women still carrying family and community into old age. From chattel slavery onward, Black women’s bodies have been experimented upon to advance gynecological practice, often through great pain and suffering. This is what I see when I look at this picture. I see her humanity trying to hold on… one. more. time. She is not a superhero. She is human. So where is the hope in this moment, you might ask. I am hopeful that this woman lived to see another day. I am grateful that she is being seen, even though many have looked past her humanity. I am hopeful that the photographer stopped and documented this moment. Perhaps this picture will compel others to act, to interrupt this chapter in history where our very existence is on the line, where the federal government is content to let white supremacists walk freely in plain sight during the nation’s 250th anniversary. I am hopeful because God sent Jesus to persist in the face of injustice and oppression all those years ago. I am grateful that Jesus understands what it feels like to be alone in a crowd with his life on the line. We have a savior who knows that being on the right side of justice matters more than silver and gold. I am grateful for people who follow this same Jesus, who believe that the moral arc of the universe bends toward justice and that, in the end, love wins. Our job now is to see those whom society has dehumanized, those who have been pushed aside, and to care enough to stop and intervene when possible. Our job as people of faith is to do more than pray for change; it is to be the change in our communities and in our world. That change includes showing up to vote in the midterm elections and protecting the votes of Black and Brown people whose voices are so often targeted and silenced. It means refusing to let intimidation, disinformation, or fatigue keep us from the polls, and instead committing ourselves to the slow, steady work of safeguarding democracy, one ballot, one neighbor, one ride to the polling place at a time. If you feel called to deeper engagement, I invite you to use the “Take Action” section above to sign up as a poll chaplain in your community. Poll chaplains offer a faithful, calming presence at the polls, accompany voters who may feel unsafe, and help ensure that Black and Brown voters can cast their ballots with dignity and without interference. Your presence could be the difference between someone giving up in fear and someone stepping forward in hope to make their voice heard. ––Rev. Moya Harris, Senior Director of Programs
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