The Courage to Call In

The most interesting conversations are rarely the loudest ones. They happen in the space between certainty and curiosity, between conviction and humility. During her appearance at the Bookmarks Festival in Winston-Salem, Loretta Ross offered precisely that kind of conversation: thoughtful, challenging, at times humorous, and deeply human. Ms. Ross has spent much of her life navigating some of America's most difficult terrain as a human rights activist, educator, author, and MacArthur Fellow. She has organized against white supremacy, helped shape the reproductive justice movement, advocated for survivors of violence, and taught generations of students how to think critically about power, history, and social change.

Yet on this morning, she wasn't talking primarily about policy or politics. She was talking about people. People who make mistakes, wound one another, and somehow learn to live together despite profound differences. At a moment when public discourse often feels trapped in cycles of polarization, outrage, and public condemnation, Ms. Ross offered a different possibility through stories drawn from movement organizing, teaching, and personal reflection. She described a practice she calls "calling in" - a framework rooted in accountability, empathy, and the belief that transformation is possible. More than a communication strategy, calling in emerged as a philosophy of civic life and asks a deceptively simple question: What if our goal is not merely to expose wrongdoing, but to create conditions where people can grow beyond it? 

Learning from the Hard Places

Some of Ms. Ross's most powerful insights were forged in difficult spaces. Early in the conversation, she reflected on lessons that emerged from anti-Klan organizing in the aftermath of the 1979 Greensboro massacre, when members of the Ku Klux Klan and American Nazi Party killed anti-Klan demonstrators. Working alongside civil rights leader Rev. C.T. Vivian, Ms. Ross encountered an idea that challenged her instincts. "If you ask people to give up hate," Vivian told her, "you need to be there for them when they do."

At first, she resisted the notion. Why should people targeted by hatred concern themselves with those who spread it? But years later, Ms. Ross found herself working with individuals leaving white supremacist organizations. She listened to former Klansmen and neo-Nazis, hearing stories shaped by fear, isolation, economic anxiety, and grievance. She began to recognize something uncomfortable but important. The people she encountered were not abstractions, they were human beings. "I couldn't hate them anymore," she told the audience. That realization did not excuse harmful beliefs or erase accountability, but rather, it complicated the easy narrative of heroes and villains. 

One former Klanswoman seeking help wrote Ms. Ross a letter and misspelled "Klan" as "clane." The detail stayed with her and reminded her that many of the people she encountered were neither masterminds nor caricatures. Often, they were deeply wounded people searching for explanations in destructive places. "Their pain is real," Ms. Ross said. "But their solutions are not." 

That distinction sits at the heart of her work. Understanding someone's humanity does not require accepting their worldview. Yet meaningful change becomes difficult when people are reduced to their worst choices. 

A Culture Addicted to Punishment

Ms. Ross's observations feel particularly resonant in an era shaped by social media, where public accountability and public humiliation often appear indistinguishable. She does not oppose accountability. In fact, accountability remains central to her philosophy. What concerns her is the assumption that shame is always the best path to change. Contemporary culture excels at identifying mistakes. It is less effective at helping people move beyond them. A careless remark, a misunderstanding, or an outdated opinion can quickly become a defining characteristic. Public conversations increasingly operate through sorting mechanisms of ally or enemy, informed or ignorant, acceptable or unacceptable. The result is a climate where many people grow fearful of making mistakes at all. 

Ms. Ross noted that younger generations face forms of scrutiny unlike any previous generation. "The digital generation is far more vulnerable," she said. Every comment can be archived. Every error can be memorialized. Every lapse in judgment can become permanent. At the same time, Ms. Ross refuses simplistic critiques of younger people. As a professor, she sees students who are deeply committed to inclusion, diversity, and social awareness. In many ways, she believes they are more sophisticated in navigating difference than previous generations. 

She shared a story about accidentally misgendering a student shortly after everyone had introduced themselves with their pronouns. Expecting criticism, Ms. Ross froze. Instead, the student smiled and responded, "That's all right, Professor. I misgender myself sometimes." 

The audience laughed. But Ms. Ross saw something profound in that moment. The student corrected the mistake while preserving dignity. Accountability remained, but grace created space for learning. For Ms. Ross, that is calling in. Not avoiding correction but making correction possible. 

The Practice of Self-Forgiveness 

One of the most compelling aspects of Ms. Ross's presentation was her willingness to examine her own mistakes. Again and again, she returned to moments when she had fallen short of her own principles. One story from her teenage years stood out. 

Attending a predominantly white high school in Texas during the late 1960s, Ms. Ross experienced discrimination firsthand. Frustrated by exclusion, she helped establish a drill team and designed the selection process to favor Black and Mexican American students.

At the time, it felt justified. Years later, she recognized the contradiction. "I had turned around and discriminated against somebody else." 

The lesson wasn't that her frustrations had been invalid. It was that pain can sometimes distort judgment. People who have experienced exclusion can accidentally reproduce it.

"You don't have to hurt somebody to prove that you've been hurt," she said. The statement captures one of the defining tensions of contemporary culture. Public conversations often assume that suffering grants moral authority or justifies retaliation. Ms. Ross proposes a different model, one rooted in reflection rather than revenge. That approach begins with self-forgiveness. "Calling in requires self-forgiveness," she said. People who live under the weight of shame often become quick to shame others. Those who cannot tolerate imperfection in themselves frequently struggle to tolerate it in anyone else. Before we can extend grace outward, Ms. Ross argues, we must learn how to extend it inward. 

Beyond Outrage 

Another recurring theme throughout the discussion was the distinction between outrage and anger. Ms. Ross believes outrage is essential. Injustice should provoke a response. Human suffering should matter. "I am always outraged at injustice," she said. But anger, she explained, operates differently. 

For years, anger fueled much of her activism. As a survivor and advocate, she understood its appeal where it provided energy, clarity, and purpose. Eventually, however, she realized that anger was becoming less useful than she imagined. It narrowed her perspective, it exhausted her, and it often harmed her more than the circumstances she sought to change. The realization did not lead to passivity. Instead, it encouraged a more intentional approach to conflict. One of the most practical lessons Ms. Ross offered was also the simplest. "The first step of calling in is to put yourself on pause."  

Pause before reacting. Pause before assuming. Pause before delivering judgment. 

In a culture increasingly organized around immediacy, the act of pausing becomes a form of discipline. It creates room for curiosity, context, and reflection. 

Integrity Over Reputation 

As the conversation drew toward its conclusion, Ms. Ross offered an idea that felt especially relevant in an age defined by visibility and performance. Stop worrying so much about reputation. Focus on integrity instead. "Your reputation is based on what other people think they know about you," she said. "But your integrity is what you know about yourself." The distinction reflects two very different ways of living. 

One depends on perception. The other depends on character. Reputation shifts with public opinion, but integrity remains rooted in personal values. It lives in private decisions, everyday choices, and actions that occur when no audience is watching. For Ms. Ross, integrity forms the foundation of calling in. We cannot ask others to grow if we are unwilling to examine ourselves. We cannot invite accountability if we are driven primarily by appearances. In so many words, the work begins within. 

That may be the most enduring lesson from Ms. Ross's appearance at Bookmarks Festival. Calling in is not simply a tactic for activists or educators. It is a practice for artists trying to create honestly, teachers trying to guide young people, community leaders navigating disagreement, and ordinary citizens attempting to remain human in a fractured age. It does not eliminate conflict. It does not excuse harm. It does not promise easy reconciliation. 

What it offers is something more difficult and perhaps more necessary: the belief that people are capable of becoming more than their worst moments. 

In a culture increasingly defined by judgment, Ms. Ross is making a case for growth. In a public square dominated by outrage, she advocates for reflection. And in a society struggling to bridge deep divides, she reminds us that transformation rarely begins with humiliation, but it begins with relationship, curiosity, and the courage to call one another in.♦

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