This is not my world.
This is not my story.
It is all our worlds.
It is all our stories.
Until we understand that we are
complicit in the way we train ourselves, our children, our children’s children
we will not overcome the reality of racism, of poverty, of discrimination.
I have hope, however, in the children. Of children who grow up together, blending
their voices on neighborhood streets, schools, churches and the Y. When communities welcome the “other” into
their neighborhoods, bringing cookies and invitations to block parties; when
people listen to the life stories of those around them; when faith communities
embrace the diversity of cultures; we will begin to understand that we are all
people with similar stories of being family and friend. Our stories are different, depending upon
where we grew up, how we learned to trust…or not…the “other” in our midst. Our stories vary when others are refugees or
immigrants or victims. But we all have
stories. Here is just a piece of mine:
I grew up in a primarily white community. The percentage of people of other hues than
white in Minnesota at that time was very small. I was raised to be careful,
cautious and aware if I ever found myself near north Minneapolis. The crime rate there was higher, we were told
by media.
What is important in this part of my story is that these are
the memories I have of great uncles and their families and of grandparents from
the early memories of my childhood. It was no secret that my mom’s family left
their Chicago neighborhood because it was getting too “dark” in the early 1940’s.
I have memories of warnings, of extended family and their
bigoted words used to describe people different than their German, Scandinavian,
blue-eyed heritage. The slurs were
spewed out, often with disgust of the “other.”
Jews, Italians, African Americans…it didn’t matter what color, it
mattered what impact the influx of the “other” upon their comfortable community
was and how it affected their jobs, their home values, their
neighborhoods. If their lives were not
as they hoped, it was often the fault of the “other.”
Hearing these words to describe “others” as an
impressionable young child, I watched as faces scrunched up, bodies tightened
and volumes increased. The impact of the
words may have been stronger through the body language than the words
themselves. These were deep feelings, implying
a near hatred for the “other.” Other times,
words did not include the strong body language.
It was more of a way to describe or to joke. Often, alcohol was involved, so it was all
amplified, whether the feelings were true or not.
Thankfully, these were sporadic experiences. I did not live on the south side of
Chicago. I was not living in a place
where racial or cultural tensions were so pronounced. I did not live with people who talked like
that. But those memories are there. Some of the children of those great uncles
and their children still talk that way.
I suppose when words are so often spoken they become embedded so deeply
it would take something momentous to change.
Even the inter-racial relationships of some of my second cousins have
not smoothed some of this language. I
wonder how their babies have been and will be affected.
Fast forward. When we
married we made a decision to live in an inner ring suburb of the Minneapolis
area. We chose to raise our children in
a culturally diverse area so that we would all become richer through the
experience. Our faith community has many
immigrants as worshipers, from all around the globe: Filipinos, Malaysian, Liberian, Nigerian,
Cuban, etc. As members of the Anglican
Communion, our community of faith represents our world. So we have been enriched by these
relationships and blessed through their stories (and foods!).
Our kids have gone to public schools with all kinds of
people, with all kinds of stories. But
most of their instructors have been white.
Most of their friends are white.
Most of the participants in their activities are white. At one school, a visiting artist, who happens
to be African American, asked the school leaders and parents why there weren’t
more kids of color in the music program.
That question impacted me deeply and I have often paid attention at
music events to the high percentage of white kids. We wonder if it is an economic decision. Is learning an instrument too expensive? Is transportation the issue?
The high school our daughter attends has an African American
woman as the principal. There is a
conscious effort to have African American adult leaders throughout the
school. But most teachers are
white. The music program is mostly
white. The quarterback is white, but is
flanked by many African American or African young men. Half of the football cheerleaders are of
color. Most of the kids in the
accelerated program at the school are white.
And the kids segregate themselves in the lunch room.
Why? Why? How do we break this chain? Why do I put hope in our children when I am
still seeing the way they segregate themselves in high school?
I don’t have answers.
I have dreams that we can learn how to get along. I have hope that we can set aside differences
and spend time learning about each other to find out that, as humans, we are more
alike than different. Yes, I’m white and
I don’t have to tell my kids this stuff, like the uncle in the video does. But I do have a responsibility to teach the kids
in my life that people are people, that in some places people are not treated
equally, but it is up to us to change that.
When we develop relationships we know who we can trust and whom we
cannot; we learn how to get along when getting along can be hard; we begin to
understand the deep history and we try to overcome even a sliver of it; we have
our own pasts to reconcile, with help, and the results can be life-changing. These are the things I can tell kids. Hopefully, things can change.
O Heavenly One, people are complex, as you know. We try so hard to affect change in the
systems that have been embedded within us and we fail. We fail because we cannot even begin to
understand the impact of history on others.
We fail because we hope we can overcome our prejudices in the eyes of
others and we cannot. But our silence is
not an option, either. My story is
complex, as is everyone’s story and we cannot change them. We cannot dismiss what we have experienced,
but we can make a greater effort to use those stories for change. Help us change. Amen.