“Girl, do you not know ANYTHING about black people?”

In the summer of my Junior year in high school, I attended a “Journalism and Mass Communication” summer camp at Chapel Hill, and my roommate was a black girl named Celia – she was really fun and we hit it off right away.  During our time together, I ended up asking her all sorts of dumb (but sincere) questions, like “ Why are you wearing panty hose?  You don’t need them – your skin is already dark.” (keep in mind, this was in the 80’s era of panty hose and shoulder pads)  Or, one night it was raining and she was adamant she didn’t want to get her hair wet, and I asked, “What’s the big deal about getting your hair wet?”  (keep in mind, I didn’t want mine wet either, but that was because I used an obscene amount of hairspray to keep my 80’s hair extra big)  She also had to teach me what the word “ashy” meant.

Finally, she asked me, “Girl, do you not know ANYTHING about black people?” 

Sadly, I didn’t.  I thought I did, but after just a few days of living with Celia, I realized I knew very little.  I was grateful for her patience, her good humor and her honesty – she helped me become just a tiny bit less ignorant during our stay together and for the few years that we stayed in touch after the camp.

I wish I had stayed close to Celia – it would have helped me to have someone in my life who could enlighten me without being exasperated or offended.

I grew up in a small town in North Carolina and spent my first 14 years immersed in the church world.  Even though my family traveled all over the country to different churches, it’s well known that church is one of the most segregated places, so until I went to high school, the only black person I ever spent much time with was a little girl named Virginia – our houses were within walking distance, so for a few years, we played together on occasion.  We built playhouses in the woods and played with dolls – we were just friends and never talked of race.

My parents told me stories of racial injustice and my mom can still recall the first time she really saw it.  When she was a little girl, doing familiar harsh work in the tobacco fields in the summer, there was a wonderful black family who had been helping them – a family whom she knew well because they were renting a home from her uncle.  At the end of each workday, her Grandma would make a big dinner for all the workers, and she noticed the black family was not eating and she asked her Mom about it.  Her Mom explained that they always ate second, which didn’t make any sense to my Mom, so she went over and invited the family to eat with them, but they declined and said it was okay and they would wait until the white folks finished.  My Mom remembers being so confused and angry, and she waited to eat dinner with the black family.

My Dad has a similar story of the first time he felt enraged when he discovered a family friend was being treated differently at a restaurant (had to wait outside for his food) because he was black.  But that was just the way it was.  They were kids, and didn’t know what to do with their anger.  They knew it wasn’t right, but they felt stuck.  Even if they wanted to act, they knew it would only make trouble for their black friends, so they learned to stuff down the feelings and accept the norms. But, to me, their examples go to show that racism is taught.  The first time they were confronted with someone being treated differently just because of the color of their skin, they instinctively knew it was not right, and it made them angry and confused.

Dad played in a rock and roll band from 1961-1969 and experienced more of the same – he played with many famous black artists like Marvin Gaye, Barbara Lewis, The Coasters, The Drifters, Curtis Mayfield, Otis Redding, etc.  But everywhere they played, black artists were not allowed to stay at the same hotels or eat at the same restaurants.

My parents moved to Birmingham, Alabama, (where I was born) to go to Samford University, 1971-1973, just after the upheaval and violence of the late 1960’s, so it was much different than rural North Carolina or the music industry experiences.  Dad had lots of odd jobs to help support them through school – he was a manager at an all-black swimming pool and he also worked at a church and in a program for juvenile delinquents, so he has lots of stories about what he saw and experienced there.  But even though they were in the midst of it, they still didn’t understand the gravity.  He and Mom became friends with a black couple whom Dad met through his work at the swimming pool, and my parents invited them over for dinner.  The couple called to say they had a flat tire and ended up coming to dinner very late, after dark.  My Dad said the flat tire shouldn’t have made them that late, and the couple admitted, they had deliberately waited until after dark, so that they wouldn’t cause any trouble for Mom and Dad.

Hearing stories like this, and growing up in the rural South, you would think that I would have been aware of lingering racial injustice.  But time and again I was surprised by racism and surprised by how little I could “see” until it was right there in front of me.

I was surprised by racism, even though:

• My precious Grandpa, sweetest man I ever knew, would say the “n” word so casually in conversation, you would think he was talking about the weather.
• I liked the Confederate flag and had no clue what it stood for – I just liked it because I had a celebrity crush on Bo Duke (John Schneider) from “The Dukes of Hazzard” and they had a red car with a confederate flag painted on top (it even had a name – the General Lee).
• No one ever told me I couldn’t date or marry a black man, but somehow I knew this was against the rules. Maybe because I didn’t know a single interracial couple when I was growing up.  Maybe because of the jokes or derogatory remarks that I heard in passing . . . I just “got it” that it was taboo.
• My Junior year of high school, the best cheerleader on our squad was cut during tryouts, even though she was exponentially better than the rest of us. She was also the only black girl.  By then, a few of us were suspicious that race played a role in the decision, so we confronted our cheerleading sponsor and some other adults who had scored the tryouts and no one would explain why she was cut.  I was angry but somehow felt like I didn’t have any power to change it.
• I dated a black guy in high school for a brief time and, because neither of us wanted to deal with the racist crap, we tried to keep it quiet. But whenever we were out, inevitably, someone would call my parents to make sure they knew of their daughter’s sinful ways.  My parents knew and were concerned about the response from the community, but, thankfully, they deflected the calls and let me make my own way.
• I asked my friend to go to the pool with me and he said he couldn’t go to the country club pool – that black people were not allowed. I laughed and told him he was crazy, that we weren’t living in the dark ages and he could go as my guest.  We were quickly asked to leave and told that no guests were allowed that day. I was LIVID and confronted the pool manager, telling him that I had brought many guests to the pool through the years and had never been told that guests were not allowed.  He was unapologetic.  My friend was humiliated and angry with me for not listening.  I was in shock and couldn’t believe he had been right.  Again, I felt helpless.

“Girl, do you not know ANYTHING about black people?”

I wish I didn’t need the benefit of hindsight to see things clearly.  I knew first hand of the racism that existed in my small town, but I felt helpless, and frankly, I often just accepted it as “the way it is.”  Much like I accepted, my whole life, that women couldn’t preach, until I went to church in a different denomination.  Much like I accepted Catholics were not “real” Christians until I found out that they are.  Much like I accepted that homosexuality is a choice, until I realized it’s not.

Turns out, we don’t have to accept things that are not right, but we do have to accept the cost (which is sometimes difficult – it means admitting we were wrong, and confronting the culture that misled us).  We must feel empowered to make a difference, and we have to be ready to stand in the storm, when we decide not to accept “the way it is.”

The storm is sometimes conflict or criticism, but often, the storm is worse – it’s isolation.  When you stick up for what is right, when you go against the norm, you risk losing your “tribe” and being alone (being “ghosted”).  It’s a risk that keeps people silent.

As a white person, I had the privilege of putting these stories in my rear view mirror.   But they would never go away.

When I was in college at Chapel Hill, I took a “Black/White Relations” sociology class.  I was one of maybe 10 other white people in a class of around 100 kids.  I wanted to learn, but I was also ignorant about the plight of black people, so anytime I opened my mouth to share a point, I incurred the wrath of the black students.  I, and the few other white people in the class, learned quickly that we had nothing to add and should stay silent (maybe I’ve learned nothing because here I go again).  I wish someone had told me that they were not mad at me personally (although I’m sure I sounded like a privileged white girl who had no clue, so I probably deserved some of their ire), but at what I represented.  I wish I’d had someone, like my friend, Celia, to enlighten me with friendship instead of anger.  But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I understand their anger, and I understand what I represented to them, and I wish I had it to do over again.

“Girl, do you not know ANYTHING about black people?”

After college, I started working with the youth at the rural church where I grew up, and within a few years, came upon the most shameful story in my experience of racism.

My Mom began taking a van to a trailer park and picking up kids for church.  Some of them were white, some black, some mixed – Mom didn’t care – she loved those kids.  And (it seemed) most the people at the church loved them too.  The kids had never sat through a church service, so Mom gave them things to do, and separated them by sitting each child with a family, so they would be better behaved.  Many people took them under wing, “adopted” them for back-to-school necessities and at Christmastime, etc. My Grandpa even found bikes at yard sales and fixed them up like new and gave them to each child.  I’ve never seen kids more excited about anything in my life.

But as the ministry thrived, some of the “pillars” of the church complained.  At first, they complained the kids were too noisy (but didn’t seem to mind when their own kids were noisy) or that they smelled. But eventually, the truth came out.  One kid in the youth group told me his grandma had stopped coming to church because she didn’t want to sit next to a black child.

When enough people started to complain, and the preacher would not intervene, my Mom feared the children would end up in the middle of something that wasn’t their fault.  She didn’t want them to be hurt, so she worked until she found another church with a van ministry who was willing to pick them up.  I don’t know what she told the kids, but I know her heart was broken.  She stood in front of the congregation at a Wednesday night service to tell them that she loved them, but was so disappointed in their response to the children, she had to leave.  She said that Jesus died for everyone, not just white people, and that we are all God’s children.  She said if we can’t love all people and minister to “the least of these,” then we can’t really call ourselves a church or Christians, and that all races of people would be welcomed into heaven, so we should start now.  I wish I had a transcript of what she said that night.  It takes a lot to make my Mom mad, and she hates conflict, but when she decides to take a stand, she is freaking amazing.

I wanted to leave with her, but I didn’t want to leave the youth group behind.  The Sunday after all the drama, one of my students (Amanda – who was usually quiet, but in this instance, was ready to speak up) said, “What are we going to do?  We have to do something!  We can’t let this happen!”  The other students agreed and looked to me – I could sense their disappointment. But again, I felt helpless.

The youth knew that what happened was not right.  They knew we should act.  And I didn’t.  I failed them.

I was 24 or 25 years old. I was not in charge.  I was not prepared to split the church.  But I should have been.  There are some things worth fighting for, and those kids should never have been the scapegoat for Christian racists (how’s that for an oxymoron?).  But there were too many people like me . . . unwilling to really make the sacrifice and suffer the consequences to stand up for what was right in that moment.  “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21)  We didn’t love those kids enough to overcome the evil that kept them labeled as “the other,” “the lesser,” “the outsider.”

I still feel shame all these years later.

If there was ever a time to throw a holy shit fit, that was the time.  Of course, my Mom tried, and it didn’t change anything.  But it did change me.  Her courage and love was imprinted on my heart and in my memory.

I’d like to think that things have changed – I mean, that was over 20 years ago.  Maybe I have the luxury of thinking things are better because I’m white, because we’ve had an incredible black president, because I know lots of interracial couples now, etc.  But the rise of hate crimes (based on a leader who has opened the floodgates) is disheartening, and with all the recent videos and incidents that have happened, it is clear that we still have a long way to go.

I haven’t lived in the south for almost 20 years now, and deluded myself into thinking that racism is “mostly” in the south.  But in a conversation at choir practice a few years ago (here in Massachusetts – there are not many black people, but it is a diverse state, and Boston has a reputation for being racist), I learned that the church, in our quiet suburban town, had a black organist for a few years, and almost every Sunday, he would get pulled over as he drove through town.  Finally, the rector had to go the police chief and ask him to please stop pulling over the organist every Sunday.

These stories – not just the violent images we see on TV – are the stories that make me realize that racism is alive and well.

“Girl, do you not know ANYTHING about black people?”

I’m still learning . . . hearing things I should have heard loud and clear, seeing things I should have seen right in front of my face.

I’m embarrassed that at 47, I’m still blind to injustice, and often complacent to just live my life and pretend these problems don’t exist.  Having children makes this sort of complacency harder because now, when I watch the news, I think, “What if that was my child?”  And I am suddenly convicted, knowing that I would be moving heaven and hell to protect them, and to make things better for them.

I don’t like to think of myself as racist, but reflecting back on my life, I know I have been part of systemic injustice because of my silence, or my willingness to accept “the way it is.”

“I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Council-er or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice . . .”  Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”

I’m trying to come to terms with my contribution to the problem.  I’ve been the white moderate in the quote by MLK above – something I loathe to admit.

I’m guilty of rationalizing my behavior (or lack thereof) because I’m not actively hurting anyone, but as a Christian, doing nothing can be sinful, if it means passively allowing evil to proliferate.  “To him who knows to do good and does not do it, to him it is sin.” (James 4:17)

“Girl, do you not know ANYTHING about black people?”

The world doesn’t need another suburban white woman pontificating about crap she knows nothing about.

But I do know I need to act (more than just giving money to social justice organizations; more than just watching movies, like “Just Mercy,” with the kids; more than just reading books and trying to educate myself).

I’m praying that God will show me the next right thing to do.

I’m praying that our kids will know that, when they see something that is not right, they can speak up, and that the adults in their life will help them take action.  Better yet, that they see the adults in their lives actively leading the way.

I’m praying that God will use my shame, of not acting or speaking up in the past, as fuel to motivate me to action now.

“Girl, do you not know ANYTHING about black people?”

No, but I know plenty about white people.  And I know I can do better.

 

 

(Side note: I want to clarify that all forms of scapegoating are dangerous – minorities have been the scapegoat for years – it seems we need someone to blame to make ourselves feel better.  So I will take a stand for racial justice, but I do not want to make the same mistake and use the police or a certain political party, or a certain segment of the country, or a certain religious denomination, etc., as a scapegoat.  Blanket generalizations are too easy and just deflect the deep problems to which we all contribute.  As I’ve heard many times in the Episcopal church . . . the answers are rarely found in either/or, but in both/and.)