My White Story
Originally Written: January 15, 2020
I remember when one of the families in my high school adopted a black teenager. I remember, because he was the first black student in my grade. I was horrified because I recognized he was black*. I thought it meant I was racist.
Almost ten years later I would belong to one of the most ethnically diverse churches I have ever been too. I shake my head, because even as I write that, I am aware that it was still a majority white church. However, it was a new experience for me. I watched as they did not ignore cultural differences, but instead celebrate them. A Thai family invited us over to their house for a traditional meal, and a group of Hispanics hosted us a feast. Cultures (and especially food) were celebrated. I realized that my goal had always been color blindness. In my mind, that was what was expected of me. That’s what was wanted of me.
A stirring in my heart had started. I didn’t know how, but I wanted to learn how to walk in cultural sensitivity. I silently stood back and observed. Articles, movies and books started educating me. I was gaining more understanding than I had, but it was all through the lenses of the author. Not only that, but it wasn’t personal. It wasn’t my friends.
Then, on August 12, 2017 a white man drove his car into a group of protestors. These protestors were actually protesting a large annual Neo-Nazi conference that happens in Charlottesville, Virginia each year. One woman was killed, and several others injured. It was all over the news, radio, and social media. I, like many of others, shared my heart on social media:
I know there have been many posts going around, but I would rather be redundant than silent.
The last 24 hours spontaneous tears have been rolling down my face. I am grieving the hate that we saw in Virginia this weekend. This hate is not contained to Charlottesville but happens all over our nation every day. In moments like these I want to scrub my white skin off, desperate to further myself from white supremacists. Yet this is not the answer.
My comfort comes from knowing that heaven is the white supremacist’s worst nightmare. “I looked and behold, a great multitude of all nations, tribes and peoples before the Lamb (Revelation 7:9.)”
Father make it on earth as it is in heaven.
Of course, I am left with the practical questions. What does this look like for me?
Martin Luther King Jr. wisely declared, “Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” I will love relentlessly. I will go out of my way to make sure the people I encounter know love.
I want to ask questions.
I want to gain understanding.
I want to trade color blindness in for celebrating diversity.
This is my current corner of the world to change. Church, it is time for you to look around and wake up your corner of the world. Let’s partner with our Father and bring heaven to earth.
Later that day I was at the laundry mat. An elderly black man was doing his laundry next to me. Normally I would have stuck to my own clothes, my own business. However, I had just promised to my little corner of the world that I would show those I encounter love. So, I started a simple conversation with the man, and paid for his dryer.
Determined to continue my intentionality, I asked one of my friends to lunch. I simply told her what was on my heart and asked to hear her heart. She told me her own stories. My conversations continued with several other friends. I started to understand that the ignorance of my childhood was not only common, but part of the problem. I started to see the cost of my silence.
Let me clear, it is not enough to only celebrate where our country has come from. We must be actively pursuing loving conversation with those who we are in relationships with. It is crucial for us to be seeking understanding and searching our own hearts for prejudice. That is only going to happen when we ask the hard questions.
I don’t do this perfectly. A couple of months ago I was sitting with a friend, and she said something that in my mind I classified as black…and I said so. I was humbled, with all my good intentions I still found a piece of my heart that was classifying and stereotyping people.
February is Black History Month. No matter our ethnicity I challenge us to prepare to do something differently. Read a historically accurate book or research a civil rights hero you have never heard of. Go to a church where you are a minority or ask a friend to tell their story. Ask how you are perceived. You are a powerful human with your own corner of the world. It’s a corner of the world that is waiting on the Light that you have to bring.
*In this blog I have intentionally chosen to say “Black” instead of “African American.” I understand that different sub-cultures prefer different titles. I have found that this is the preferred term because it is more inclusive. Let me give you two examples. I have friends who are Jamaican but often are called African Americans. This is not true, while their skin tone might be similar it is not their heritage. I also have friends who immigrated from Africa that are now Americans. They are African Americans in the way that someone from Canada might classify themselves as Canadian Americans.