By: Riley Johnson
Justice Literacy Narrative
I was raised in a world where every question seemed to have a scriptural answer, and challenging those answers was seen as a lack of faith. My understanding of justice was deeply intertwined with the religious and political values that shaped my household–a framework where tradition dictated morality and conservatism defined fairness. Yet, as I began to reconcile my own identity with the world around me, I realized that justice could not be confined to the narrow boundaries of those beliefs I had been born into. Similar to that of Martin Luther King Jr., what I once viewed as an absolute truth began to feel like a rigid structure designed to maintain order rather than foster understanding. This realization marked the beginning of my journey toward developing my own sense of justice–one shaped by equality compared to inherited doctrine.
Growing up in a deeply Christian and politically conservative household, I was taught that justice was obedience to religious teachings and traditional values. From a young age, my life revolved around the church. Every Sunday was strictly reserved for worship, a non-negotiable routine that framed my childhood. My involvement however, extended beyond the congregation– I volunteered frequently at church events and eventually began working in the nursery, finding solace in the quieter moments away from the main sanctuary. These experiences instilled in me a sense of duty and belonging, reinforcing the idea that justice as I had known it to be, was rooted in obedience to religious faith and service to the community. At the time, I viewed these roles as fulfilling not only my obligations to the church itself, but also to a higher moral standard that seemed to promise fairness and righteousness. The beliefs imbued in me were not merely personal convictions but systematic reinforcements of a worldview that left little room for any deviation. Questioning them felt like an act of defiance, even when done in silence. However, as I matured, cracks began to surface within this carefully constructed worldview. I started questioning the exclusion and so-called ‘rebellion’ of different sexualities, as well as the confusion I had felt about how other branches of Christianity interpreted different aspects of God, often in ways that seemed to contradict the teachings I had been raised to believe. The rigid doctrines that had once seemed like pillars of truth and trust began to feel suffocating. I silently observed how others around me would act and spoke about issues of identity and inclusion, all while confronting my own growing awareness of my sexuality. I kept these feelings to myself, unsure how to align them with the set framework I had abided by all my life.
My eventual decision to reject the church wasn’t an act of bitterness—it was a quiet acknowledgment that I could no longer pretend to find truth in something that excluded people like me. I vividly remember the first time I chose not to attend Sunday service without an excuse. It felt like I had done something wrong, even though all I did was stay home. The silence that followed from my family spoke volumes. There were no direct confrontations, only a growing distance that made it clear I was stepping outside the lines. This break from the church was not just spiritual—it marked the moment I started seeking justice on my own terms.
In the silence that followed, I found space to confront the questions I had long buried about my own identity. As I slowly navigated my identity as a member of the LGBTQ+ community and aligned with more progressive ideologies, I came to see justice as the freedom to live authentically and an ongoing fight for equity. Wrestling with this shift in my beliefs, I reached the realization that justice is not a fixed ideal, but something that evolves in response to the needs of those who are marginalized. My understanding of justice itself has now become a continuous journey, one that questions established structures and seeks greater inclusivity. This transformation mirrors Martin Luther King Jr.’s distinction between just and unjust systems, as I learned to challenge the rigid concepts and structures of my upbringing to not only shape my personal views, but also drive the way I advocate for justice today.
Stepping away from the religious and conservative framework of my upbringing gave me the freedom to explore new political ideologies without constraint. This exploration led towards more democratic and liberal values, particularly a deep belief in equality, as I have experienced firsthand what life looks like without it. However, this shift has created a tension within my family, often leaving me with the anxiety that no one fully understands or supports my perspectives. That anxiety became even more intense when I turned eighteen and cast my first vote. While I was excited to finally have a say in our democracy, I couldn’t ignore the fear that lingered in the back of my mind—fear of the political arguments it might spark at home. I can still feel the tightness in my chest after informing my dad who I voted for, only to be met with silence and a tense smile. Voting should’ve felt like empowerment, but instead, it felt like I had crossed another invisible line.
In recent months, my reflections on justice have been shaped not only by personal identity and belief, but by the political climate that continues to fracture the country. Watching events unfold–from anti-trans legislation sweeping through states, to book bans in schools targeting queer and BIPOC voices–has made me acutely aware of how justice is often distorted in the name of morality or tradition. These aren’t just policies; they’re calculated attempts to erase people such as myself. I read news articles where politicians call queerness a phase or claim that it is a danger to children, and it feels like deja vu–like echoes of the teachings I was once told were absolute truths. But justice, as I’ve come to understand it, isn’t about protecting tradition. It’s about protecting people. And if that makes others uncomfortable, then maybe discomfort is the first step towards progress. I’ve had to sit in that discomfort myself, learning and unlearning, admitting when I’m wrong, and being open to change. That process has helped me realize that justice must remain flexible. It must meet the moment.
One particular experience that challenged my evolving beliefs was witnessing the quiet fear some of my coworkers live with each day–the fear of deportation. I vividly remember one of them pausing mid-shift when a police car idled outside the building, just after the election when ICE had begun to start cracking down. These weren’t people doing anything wrong; they were showing up, working hard, and contributing like everyone else. But the looming fear of being torn away from their lives here, just because of where they were born, cast a constant shadow over their daily existence. Seeing that fear first hand made me question how a system that claims to value justice could allow such vulnerability to persist. Justice, I realized, cannot truly exist in a society where some people are forced to hide in the margins just to survive. That event reminded me that justice isn’t only about identity, but also about citizenship, labor, and humanity. It’s about how we treat the most vulnerable when nobody’s watching. My personal story may center on religion, my sexuality, and political evolution, but it also intersects with immigration, racism, and economic inequality. These struggles are not isolated, they inform one another, and understanding that web of injustice has been crucial to shaping my beliefs. I’ve learned that allyship isn’t just posting infographics or voting once every four years, it’s about active engagement, listening, and standing up when it counts. It’s choosing to speak when silence is more comfortable. And that’s what I try to do, especially now, as voices like mine and others are being stifled. This is where I return to the power of speech. We live in a country that, despite its flaws, allows us to voice dissent, and that freedom is more vital than ever. The ability to speak truth to power, to challenge the status quo, is perhaps the clearest expression of justice in action. When I talk to younger queer people, I feel a deep sense of responsibility. I want them to know it’s okay to ask hard questions. I want them to know justice doesn’t always start out loud, it can start in quiet refusal, in a vote cast with a trembling hand, in a story shared in a classroom discussion.
Justice, for me, has become a mosaic of lived experience, reflection, and action. It is something I carry with me, shape through every choice I make, and define through the people I fight for. I now realize that the justice I seek is not only personal, it’s collective. It’s about building bridges across differences, advocating for those whose voices are dismissed, and remaining vigilant in the face of injustice, no matter how common it becomes. As I continue to navigate a world that is often divided, I hold onto that evolving definition. I know it will continue to shift as I grow, but I also know it will remain rooted in one core belief: that every person deserves to live in truth, dignity, and safety. That, to me, is justice. And that is what I will keep fighting for.
Martin Luther King Jr.’s distinction between just and unjust laws; as articulated in Letter from Birmingham Jail, resonates deeply with my own journey of ongoing questioning and ultimately rejecting the rigid moral and political structures of my childhood. King argues that just laws uplift human dignity, while unjust laws suppress and marginalize them. Similarly, I came to realize that the exclusionary teachings I was raised with–whether regarding LGBTQ+ rights, religious conformity, or political ideology–did not serve justice but rather maintained systems of oppression and inequality. My decisions to step away from these set frameworks and embrace a more inclusive perspective mirrors King’s assertion that moral responsibility lies in challenging injustice rather than passively accepting it. Like MLK, I believe that justice is not merely about obeying established rules but about advocating for fairness and equity, even when it comes at a personal cost. His fight against racial injustice parallels my struggle to assert my own identity and beliefs within a conservative, religious household that did not acknowledge them. While my own experiences do not compare to the systematic oppression MLK fought against, the core principle remains the same: justice requires the courage to confront and dismantle exclusionary ideologies. My journey has reinforced my belief that justice is not static, but an evolving and continuous pursuit of fairness, authenticity, and inclusion.
Today, I define justice as the right to exist freely, speak boldly, and question power—especially when that power is used to exclude or oppress. I’ve come to understand that justice is deeply personal, and often misunderstood. It’s not a rigid rulebook, but a living, breathing dialogue that adapts as we grow. Even when it is distorted by political agendas or misused in public discourse, our ability to speak truth and challenge injustice gives the concept its strength. Our freedom of speech is not just a right, it’s a tool for redefining justice, one conversation at a time.
Looking back at this journey, from silence in the pews to voicing dissent at the ballot box, I see a full-circle evolution. Reflecting on it all now allows me to step back and view my own growth in clarity. It’s quite easy to feel lost in the noise of modern world politics, but this narrative helps me to refocus on what matters most: living with integrity, staying informed, and fighting for a world that recognizes everyone’s right to belong. My understanding of justice is still evolving—and I hope it always will be because justice, at its best, is a reflection of how deeply we’re willing to care.