Each month, a member of the board will share a reflection on the Soul Matters monthly theme. The theme for February is Justice and Equity. This month’s post is offered by Fred Hulting. 

At a recent Board of Trustees meeting, Karen Zais and Kate Flom from the Racial Justice Team talked about the process of becoming an anti-racist congregation. One of the key points they made was that pursuing justice and equity and anti-racism will require personal reflection and change for each of us in the congregation.

I have found it difficult to make time for this personal reflection. And when I do, it is not easy. Also, it isn’t always obvious what changes I need to make. I appreciate that this community continues to challenge me on this and provide support and guidance.

Sometimes there are moments when I can’t turn away from this reflection. Recently I went to the Minneapolis Institute of Art to see the exhibit “In Our Hands: Native Photography, 1890 to Now”.  I really enjoyed this display of high-quality photographic arts and the compelling presentations of native history and culture from across North America.

The exhibit touches on many themes, from family relationships to the genocide of native peoples. The featured photograph is a commentary on the stereotypical representations of Native Americans in media, and their presentation without any realistic cultural context. 

Standing in front of this large artwork, my mind recalled another photo. A color photo that wraps around the front and back cover of the 1979 yearbook of Fallbrook Union High School (FUHS) in northern San Diego County. It is professionally done, taken from behind a person standing on a valley overlook, dressed in a native costume with full feathered headdress, arms raised to the sky. The figure is in silhouette, with the shadow cast by the sun rising over a distant ridge. It is the kind of photo that the exhibit (justly) criticizes.

And the person in the photo is me. On a clear, cool, winter morning, I stood on land originally inhabited by the Luiseño tribe and misappropriated their dress and culture to create an image intended to capture the “spirit” of our high school.

Remembering it has forced me to process the circumstances that led to its creation and reflect on what that means for my anti-racist journey. I was co-editor of the yearbook that year and the photo was one of my projects. The photo seemed reasonable; the school nickname was the “Warriors,” and our school symbol was the classic image of a face in profile wearing the feathered war bonnet [and it remains so, even now]. My memory of creating the photo does not include any angst over what we were doing, and I do not remember our advisor – someone I really admired – raising any concerns about it. We never challenged the school’s symbols, and we never consulted the native students at the high school or considered the impact on them. It is easy for my current self to see how problematic this all was. It is more difficult to look at my younger self and realize how oblivious I was to all these issues.

Beyond this reflection, how might I change or act? I welcome your suggestions. A few small steps will include learning more about the Indigenous peoples of San Diego County and investigating efforts to get the school to change its iconography. I will revisit the background to our own UUCM Land Acknowledgement and learn about the Dakota people who lived here. And I will do my best to continue to seek out moments of reflection and change to further my anti-racist journey.

— Fred Hulting

UUCM Board of Trustees

Each month, a member of the board will share a reflection on the Soul Matters monthly theme. The theme for January is Liberating Love. This month’s post is offered by Emily Rosengren. 

When I was 27 years old, I was presented with the opportunity to correspond with my biological mother. I was two weeks old when I was adopted by my parents, who always modeled profound appreciation for the unknown woman who gave birth to me. The “opportunity” came to me in the form of a letter from the adoption agency, and the first people I shared it with were my parents. My biological mother’s wish to establish contact filled me with uncertainty. Who was this person? Was she safe? What might she want from me? What if the circumstances of my birth were fraught with pain and unrelenting heartache–what would I do with that knowledge? Above all, was I ready to take this chance? The whole thing felt like reality television, not my actual life.

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