What are we supposed to do when the injustice seems so big and even our best efforts are inevitably too small? When jerking the steering wheel of our own lives does nothing to change the course of the ocean liner we are all on together? When all the guilt I have dutifully stored up in my liberal, well-meaning, middle-aged white lady psyche is not, actually, helping anyone all that much? 

I despair, at times, that the only thing left is for it to come out sideways as I Karen* my way through a relatively cushy yoga, coffee shop and pre-school pick-up line life.

According to urbandictionary.com, “Karen” is: 

a pejorative term used in the United States and other English-speaking  countries for women perceived as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is appropriate or necessary. A common stereotype is that of a white woman who uses her privilege to demand her own way at the expense of others. 

Common interactions with a Karen* in the wild usually begin with, “Uhm, excuse me?” and end with “Can I speak to your manager?” In addition to “white woman,” other descriptors include “blonde,” “middle-aged” and “middle-class.” 

So, basically, “It’s me. Hi. I’m the problem.” 

But on a recent research trip to South Africa, I learned about a group of women who have re-oriented my imagination, energized me toward what is possible because, it turns out, hell hath no capacity to irritate like a Karen activated toward justice.  Let me introduce you to…  

South Africa’s O.G. Karens

On May 19, 1955, Ruth, Elizabeth, Tertia, Helen, Jean, and Jean met for tea in Johannesburg, South Africa. I imagine hats and white gloves doffed at the door, a silver tea service gleaming on the coffee table, chintz upholstery and doilies. Oh my gosh, the doilies! The women’s heels sink into plush carpet, vacuumed in fastidious furrows. With hairdos shellacked and undergarments pinching, these women began smashing tyranny in between dainty bites of cucumber sandwich. 

On May 19, 1955 The Women’s Defense of the Constitution League was born. The presenting issue that late fall day in 1955 was new Senate legislation to remove Black voters from the rolls. Their tea party disbursed, phone trees were activated and, soon, 2,000 Karens, each wearing a black sash (mourning the death of constitutional democracy) over their Sunday best, marched in opposition to the proposed  legislation.  

And that fixed racism. 

Well, no. The legislation passed anyway.  And once South African Blacks were disenfranchised, the rest of apartheid’s discriminatory system fell easily into place. Pass laws required non-white residents to carry identifying documents at all times. Non-white residents were moved to townships  (a sweet colloquialism for tracts of arid, undeveloped land). Carrying one suitcase per household, their houses and all their remaining possessions bulldozed flat behind them, ensuring there was no home to return to. 

But the Black Sashes (as they came to be known) kept showing up, using “their privilege to demand her own way justice at the expense of others the unjust.”  

A bill was debated regarding pass laws. They stood in the galley bearing witness and their eponymous black sashes. The pass law bill got put on hold so the legislators could–real quick–take up a law prohibiting observers in the galley. The Black Sashes showed up in the lobby. So legislators had to call a time out on racism for a hot minute to prohibit lobby protests. The Black Sashes showed up on the steps. And you know those with power perceived those uppity women  “as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is appropriate or necessary.”

According to theologian Denise Ackermann, “In its early days, women of the Black Sash used to ‘haunt’ the public lives of prominent figures in the apartheid government. With members standing silently outside Parliament, at airports, stations, and public meeting places, with eyes downcast and black sashes across their chests,” 

Government ministers were regularly lampooned in the press for the lengths they would go to avoid running into the ladies of the Black Sash. “Ministers took to concealing their movements, ducking through side doors, arriving at parties or weddings without warning, buying theatre tickets under false names, asking meeting organizers not to announce scheduled speeches. Nothing helped. The women were always waiting.”  

Without saying a word, they brought every ounce of that “Uhm, excuse me. . .can we talk to your manager?” energy with them. Ackermann declares, “Never large, it would for the next forty years work unremittingly for human rights in South Africa. By vigorously and publicly opposing the draconian apartheid laws, the Black Sash stood as a beacon of light through very oppressive times.”

In addition to their stands, the Black Sash opened aid offices, legal clinics, ran workshops, showed up in townships, placing their spirits in solidarity and their bodies in real danger.  During the ’60s and ’70s, their organization, along with the National Union of South African Students (NUSAS), were the only white organization that kept showing up, kept inserting themselves, demanding justice at the expense of the unjust. No more Mrs. Nice Lady, these women became a nuisance. A powerful annoyance. 

On the day he was released from prison on Robben Island, Nelson Mandela shouted out the Black Sash organization (along with NUSAS), calling them “the conscience of white South Africans.”

Denise Ackermann, who writes on the imaginative praxis that should be at the heart of the church’s pursuits of justice in the world today, commends the Black Sash. 

The story of the Black Sash tells of a concrete struggle for justice carried out by a group of women. . .Their record is one which calls the church to account, even today. . .it holds out hope and encouragement for all who wrestle with what it means to become actively involved in the practice of one’s faith. And, not least of all, it encourages us today. . .to use our imaginations in the pursuit of a better world.

When all the guilt I have dutifully stored up in my liberal, well-meaning, middle-aged white lady psyche is not, actually, helping anyone all that much? 

Let go of the guilt and have a little fun.

When jerking the steering wheel of our own lives does nothing to change the course of the ocean liner?

Go ahead. Even if it doesn’t course-correct for everything that is wrong with the world, veer out of your lane to sideswipe injustice every once in a while. 

What are we supposed to do when the injustice seems so big and even our best efforts are inevitably too small? 

Show up anyway because  hell hath no capacity to irritate like a Karen activated toward justice. 

*Every Karen I have ever known in real life has been a wonderful human being. I *am* sorry your name has become a meme but, maybe this blog can help you reclaim the goodness behind the trope?