The largely self-selected participants of these workshops—mostly white liberals—wrote me countless letters afterward, telling me they'd been transformed, their lives forever changed! My ego swelled. I remember thinking "I'm pretty good at this: this is my calling!" I began to work with larger organizations with less dependably "progressive" participants, no longer preaching just to the converted, but to the heathen—many or most of whom were definitely not diversity enthusiasts.

Then I received the fateful offer I couldn't refuse: to facilitate a diversity training session in my mother's home state of South Carolina. So at the end of that awful first day, part of the reason for my distress—besides the hurt of being attacked and my wounded pride at seeing my self-image as Racial Healer crumble—was that this wasn't just another training: it was taking place in a region fraught with history for my family, my people, my country.

It had all come to ashes. The second day was a painful and humiliating extension of the first. About a third of the group didn't return—without reason, excuse, apology, or notification. Those who did return clearly did so out of obligation and without conviction. Physically fatigued and emotionally devastated, I pushed forward, robotlike, spewing meaningless words, designed primarily to get me to the next break. The final day, the few remaining participants and I limped through the rest of the training. It was nothing more than a cursory gesture for all of us; we stayed because we felt we had to.

The two-hour flight back to New York seemed like an eternity. "I can't do this anymore!" I thought, "It isn't worth the costs to my soul, spirit, or sense of self." I'd put my training and passion to some other use: I'd work with people who'd value me and appreciate what I could offer.

Only registered users can write comments!

Read comments

3.26 Copyright (C) 2008 Compojoom.com / Copyright (C) 2007 Alain Georgette / Copyright (C) 2006 Frantisek Hliva. All rights reserved."