| Since everyone else has already piled on the Bush Administration for the one-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, I’ll try to keep that to a minimum. I do want to say, however, that if this were any other beachfront property—you know, the kind where rich white people live—we would have seen a different response. In light of that, I thought it might be helpful to declare my racial-awareness journey to this point. I am no expert, and I don’t claim to begin to understand what it means to live in this country as a racial minority, but I do know myself, and what I see, and however misguided and inaccurate my perceptions are, they are mine, and I will try to be as honest about them as I can be.
I want to first express my appreciation to my parents, both of whom broke generational cycles of racism and racial distrust by instilling in me a loathing of overt racial prejudice and discrimination. Though I now realize that is only the first step toward reconciliation, I believe it was probably more difficult for them than the journey I’ve traveled, especially considering the circumstances. Of my four grandparents, I can clearly remember that three of them used the “n”-word with regularity, doubted the character and mental capacity of minorities, especially black people, and in one case remained bitter for decades that those “damn Yankees” forced Governor Faubus to integrate Little Rock Central High. I loved my grandparents, but I regret this is part of my heritage. Still I was unaware of any racist legacy until I was a pre-teen. All I knew was that racial prejudice, discrimination, and slurs were forbidden, and I would have a good butt-whippin’ if I tried it.
I don’t believe my direct ancestors owned slaves—at least not for 7 or 8 generations, which is a relief. My father’s ancestors were immigrants and pioneers, who came from slave-free parts of the world—Canada, and Free states, and before that, Ireland. My mother’s side was from the south, but they were so poor that they couldn’t afford to feed themselves—though I’m sure my grandmother would have liked nothing more than to have descended from a rich plantation owner.
I should point out that my paternal grandfather told an apocryphal story toward the end of his life about paying a young Jackie Robinson to caddie for him in a golf tournament (he was a “professional” golfer, aka gambler). He claimed to have tried to force a diner in Bakersfield to serve young Mr. Robinson lunch, even though Robinson knew it wasn’t going to happen, and he thought ahead to bring a sack lunch. I don’t know how true it is—my grandfather was a great storyteller, but his storytelling slid from historical to fictional in his last years. I do know, however, that he did have early contact with Jackie Robinson due to his baseball ties (he also played semi-pro baseball in Pasadena when Robinson was in high school).
I remember almost nothing about my first few years of school, but one memory from first grade stands out. I was riding the bus to school when it stopped to pick up my friend John. When he got on the bus, I waved him over to sit by me. Another classmate whispered in my ear: “Don’t let him sit next to us; he’s colored.” To be honest, at first I didn’t know what the word ‘colored’ meant. But when I figured it out, I was shocked. For one thing I hadn’t even thought about what race John was. I guess I just assumed he was white even though I can still picture him, and he was obviously African-American. But I was also shocked that some people were actually prejudiced—imagine that!
I must admit that throughout the rest of my growing up, my racial attitudes didn’t changed much. I did become aware of more and more outright bigoted people—including relatives. I also began to develop an increasing uneasiness on those rare occasions when I was in the racial minority. I was totally unconscious of it at the time, but I didn’t come close to understanding the world from a minority point of view, and that led me to develop a silent disdain for many of the things I heard from civil rights leaders of the time. Even that didn’t matter much to me because I assumed that because I wasn’t intentionally discriminating against anyone, I wasn’t causing any racial harm, even though I was cloistered within my mostly white, mostly middle-class community.
Then, in college, two significant events really changed the way I looked at race and my role in race relations. The first happened by chance. My parents had rented a beach house for the week in Newport Beach, the heart of the O.C. both in geography and mentality. My brother, Scott, who was practicing with his high school football team asked me to find his friend, Corey, at Balboa Pier and show him to our beach house which was about two miles away. Scott was going to drive in later that night. I found Corey at the pier around 9:00 that night, and we walked together over to the beach house.
At this point, I should probably describe our appearances. We were both wearing typical beachwear, shorts, tank-top, flip-flops, etc. At the time I was a college All-American swimmer and water polo player. I had just spent the entire summer in the weight room, weighing about 195 pounds with less than 4% body fat, on my 5’ 9” frame. Corey, a high school junior was about 5’ 8” and weighed about 130 with extra clothes, dripping wet. Oh, did I mention that Corey is African-American?
I will never forget that two-mile walk along the boardwalk. Every bicyclist and skateboarder gave us a wide berth when we passed. Conversations on the patio hushed when we went by. Men and boys stepped back averting their eyes. The women and girls who stayed within view clearly demonstrated raw fear. At first I thought to myself, “Man, this weight work is paying off!” Then I realized that they weren’t afraid of me, and for that brief moment, I caught a glimpse of what it is like to be black in a white world.
I realized that merely avoiding overt racial discrimination was not enough, but I was at a loss as to what to do about it. But later that same year, I had another encounter that opened my eyes further. That year I was nominated to be the president of our campus Intervarsity chapter. Among other responsibilities, I had to invite and approve guest speakers on campus. Chris, a paid InterVarsity campus minister recommended that I invite a woman named Brenda Salter McNeil to speak about racial reconciliation. I had no idea what this would entail, but I agreed.
Now our large group meetings usually drew about 60 people on Friday evenings, maybe 8 of whom weren’t white. I can remember hanging a single small poster in one of the classroom buildings of my public university. That night when I came a half-hour early to help set up for the meeting, there were already about 75 people there, all but about 8 were African-American. By the time the meeting started, there were well over 250 people, almost all of whom were black (some of the white regulars managed to skip this week’s meeting). Ms. McNeil immediately broke us up into groups to share our personal stories of discrimination. I was the only person in the group who had never personally experienced the wrong end of discrimination, and coincidentally, I was the only person who was white. Again, if only for a moment, I got a glimpse of what it is like to be an African-American.
I can remember her message that night was based on the story of the woman at the well, in John’s Gospel. I can also remember her call for us to be like Jesus in the story and ask for help just as Jesus asked for water—help in discovering how to be reconciled. We who are white need help because we don’t fully understand the problem, let alone the solution. That hit me right where I was. I needed help if I was ever going to be a help rather than a hindrance to any kind of significant racial reconciliation.
I realize that I didn’t even have friendships with African-Americans to ask for help, let alone take strides to overcome centuries of pain, mistrust, fear, oppression, and hatred. I began making friends—though admittedly not enough. Even now, I can only claim three local African-American families/persons that I engage with on a regular basis, a neighbor, a local friend, and a terrific member of the small group that I lead. (Actually, our small group also includes people of Asian and Hispanic descent as well. This is truly a small group that reflects God’s glory!) Lately, I have also developed several internet relationships with some very insightful people of color, one of technologies’ blessings.
It's still much easier to ignore the problem, but when I am engaging the issue of race—either through my reading or through my relationships with people who aren’t like me, I naturally discover ways to promote justice and reconciliation. When I read “Divided by Faith”, I was challenged to move and worship and live in a more ethnically diverse community. When I talk to people of color, I become more determined to get involved in the struggle for survival in Africa, a continent that the white world would rather pretend contained only zebras, elephants, and lions (maybe a few Masi warriors posing for a photo would be okay). When I see what happened in New Orleans, and when I live among people who more easily identify with the suffering those people faced, then I can be more bold to proclaim God’s insistence on justice and mercy and freedom—in short good news for the poor now! That was a theme of my sermon last weekend, and I don’t think I would have ever gotten there without the blessings I have received from the times God has placed people like Corey and Ms. McNeil in my life, people who have challenged and awakened me.
I am still only a beginner on this journey, and I am still not afraid to ask: “help!” But I am grateful for the journey thus far, and grateful for the diverse beauty and love of God. |
