Who Decides Who Gets to Be Discarded?

A Meditation on Judgment, Restoration, and the Ethics of Voice

A question that haunts me is:

Who decides who gets to be discarded?

I wrestle with this question constantly.

In my mind, I’m often with Harriet Tubman.

shooting, steady, uncompromising

fiercely committed to the mission and not looking back.

But that is in mind.

In body, in spirit, in practice—I am somewhere else.

Because the truth is: I judge. I evaluate.

But I also believe in transformation.

And I am learning that judgment without care is not justice—it is abandonment.

When I consider figures like Senator Cory Booker,particularly in moments when his politics don’t align with the radical visions I hold,

it’s easy—so easy—to lean into critique.

To pull up the receipts, to call out the compromises,to name what feels performative.

And yet—I think of community. I think of inconvenience.

I think of what Galatians offers us:

“Dear brothers and sisters, if another believer is overcome by some sin,you who are godly should gently and humbly help that personback onto the right path.And be careful not to fall into the same temptation yourself.”(Galatians 6:1, NLT)

This isn’t about pretending anyone is above critique.

It is about resisting the impulse to discard.

Because even those we disagree with may still be guided by ancestral wind in moments we do not fully understand.

As a scholar who works with Black feminist epistemology,I’ve been taught that we must hold both:

Truth and tenderness. Critique and compassion.

We are not called to perfectionism,we are called to possibility.

To believe in liberation as a collective journey,not a purity contest.

Even Christianity aside, this is spiritual work.

When Cory Booker filibustered for 25 hours in 2025 to defend basic human rights, food, water—I paused.

I thought of the 1957 filibuster by Strom Thurmond—24 hours and 18 minutes to uphold white supremacy and block civil rights.

I thought about that reversal.

The symbolism.

The spiritual charge.

No, Booker is not perfect.

Not above reproach.

But maybe that doesn’t matter here.

Because when someone speaks for that long

on behalf of the poor, the hungry, the forgotten—

they are tapping into a lineage.

A lineage of truth-tellers, prophets,freedom fighters, healers, and saints.

That action—however flawed or partial—is part of a sacred tradition.

And maybe I’m sensitive to this because I do work in the epistemological uses of the voice.

Maybe because I listen to how the body tells the truth.

Because I know what it costs to speak for that long:no breaks, no food, no sitting, no silence.

Just standing. Talking. Bearing witness.

It is physically exhausting.

Spiritually demanding.

Politically charged.

“Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses,let us lay aside every weight...”(Hebrews 12:1)

Those who speak in high places, under high pressure.

No they do not stand alone.

Our ancestors are there, hovering, whispering,holding them up when the body begins to fail.

They speak through us.

They grant clarity when fog threatens to settle in.

They remind us when to pause,when to push,how to speak with purpose.

And in this season—this Aries season—I feel that ancestral fire.

The kind that clears space for new growth to begin.

“God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are,so that no one may boast before him.”(1 Corinthians 1:28–29)

There is wisdom in the places we least expect.

There is truth in the trembling voice.

There is power in persistence, even when it doesn’t look revolutionary.

So no, we don’t have to protect or pedestal anyone.

But we also don’t have to discard.

We can call in without cancelling.

We can guide without shaming.

We can honor the voice,and still ask it to grow.

Because justice requires discernment.

And love, when it is true,will always make room for return.