I have always loved a college campus.
Last fall Chris and I attended a concert in an auditorium on the campus of the University of Minnesota, and I couldn't wipe the silly grin off my face. In my memory, it's perpetually fall on a campus. The leaves always have the perfect under-foot crunch, and the crisp air whispers secrets of cozy sweatshirts and too-full backpacks and stolen glances at the cute boy in my writing class. Now I'm a grown-up, and my new teaching chapter has me on a campus again. I'm teaching two sections of Composition I and helping a student in a writing lab. I'm just two days in, but so far the change of pace feels just right. Chris and I intentionally made the not-so-easy financial decision for me to step away from the full-time classroom this year so I'm more available as our boys transition to a new school. I will be there when they leave for school and come home from school, and in the ideal world, I'll get my work done while they're gone so that I can be more present with them at home. (Those who are familiar with the world of teaching composition realize how laughable that dream is, but it's nice to have hope still.) I'm parking in faculty-only spaces and trying not to giggle when students all me "Professor." (I'm just waiting for someone to ask me how to get to Potions class.) I'm wearing a ridiculous grin when I walk through the beautiful brick buildings and looking out my row of classroom windows. I'm teaching again, and that feels just right.
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I grew up briefly learning about the KKK in history class. "Wow. So much hate," I probably thought. And we learned about the Nazis, too. Of course we did. I read historical nonfiction, my thoughts consumed that it was possible to have that much visceral hate towards a group of people different than you. But it was all in the past. I had yet to learn about implicit bias and systemic racism. I could tuck those scary bad guys into the same category as black-and-white TV and the horse and buggy: historical artifacts. So imagine my horror when I woke this past weekend to see a new visceral kind of hate. This kind didn't wear masks or starched uniforms. This kind looked remarkably like some of my former students or classmates when I was in college. This kind had the same hatred on their face directed at people different than them. And seeing these images now feels different than seeing them when I was a child for two reasons: 1) This is MY lifetime, not the lifetime of my grandparents. 2) I am the mother of children who are in one of the hated groups. So this week I watched the video with Chris Cantwell, a white nationalist leader, and I heard him say without emotion, "I think a lot more people are going to die before we're done here," and that scares me. Because the bad guys aren't tucked away in my history book anymore. They are gathering and organizing and making plans. I see the map of hate groups and realize that yes, there are a few here in my new state of Minnesota. I listen to NPR and hear experts on white nationalists talk about the strength of the movement and their agenda to make sure that whites remain the majority in our country. Yes, some are willing to use violence to achieve that goal. And there it is again: fear and sadness. Fear for the safety of my children, especially my son who struggles to control his anger and refuses to back down from a fight. Sadness that this is really the country I brought my Black children to. Sadness that I haven't fallen into some strange time machine; it truly is 2017. Last fall Chris and I took a class on the hard conversations that come when we discuss racism. We learned more about implicit bias and systemic racism. We heard a bit more about what it means to be an ally, on creating dialogue to hopefully build bridges. So when things like Charlottesville happen, like many others, I post articles that speak to me on Facebook. Maybe it's silly because most of the people who don't believe that racism is still a problem in our country have hidden me from their newsfeeds years ago. But still I post. And sometimes there is a dialogue, and sometimes there is not. Sometimes people get riled up, and sometimes they do not. Often, though, I lose sleep. That I need to work on. Parenting transracially adopted children brings a whole host of challenges that Chris and I weren't prepared for. There, I said it. We weren't prepared. We were ignorant white folks who thought that racism was a thing of the past and everyone was the same on the inside anyway, so why did it matter if we lived in an all-white town in Iowa? And then we began the hard road of parenting. We heard our child get yelled at by a grown-up for leaving his bike in the wrong spot, while all of the white children who parked their bikes in the same exact spot weren't addressed at all. We saw the police pull up to our house because our sons were seen doing something suspicious at the park behind our house while the white friend who was with them sat safely in his house without a visit from the police. We watched while our son was followed around a gift shop at the Grand Canyon while the white children wandered the aisles freely. We yelled at our child to put down his friend's airsoft gun because we could still see Tamir Rice's face. We made sure to stay near them in convenience stories, especially when traveling in other parts of the country. We had The Talk again and again and again because the world will treat them differently. It already has. We called church leaders and emailed principals when our son was called the n-word or made fun of because his skin looked different. We talked to our boys about microaggressions and why they don't have to let others touch their hair and how to correct grown-ups when their name is mispronounced. It's tiring, and we had no clue. And to think the the African-American community has endured a lifetime of this fatigue. We have great friends to offer support and encouragement on the journey, but some days it feels incredibly lonely and isolating as we learn who is in our corner and who isn't. Others using their voices to speak out don't feel scared and sad; they feel angry. Angry at injustice and the baffling reactions from Trump and the silence from their white neighbors. Anger isn't my go-to emotion because I'm so damn sensitive, but I understand that anger, too. And sometimes that means our words aren't measured; our reactions might get messy. I'm not even sure my point in writing this other than to say that I'm watching history repeat itself and I refuse to be a bystander. I wrote earlier this week about the importance of speaking out, and I will continue to do so in some way. Because I want a better world for my kids, for all of us. In this process I'm probably burning some bridges and hopefully building others. I witnessed a powerful, personal manifestation of racial reconciliation at Heartland Vineyard Church in Waterloo, Iowa, many years ago. A former white supremacist stood at the front of the church and shared his testimony, a story of redemption and transformation -- from hate to love, from dark to light. Many in the congregation were crying as this man emotionally spoke, and at the end, two Black women from the church body quietly stood, walked to the front of the church, and hugged the man as he wept. It was the most powerful, concrete display of forgiveness and grace that I have ever had the privilege of watching. A hush fell over the church because we knew the Spirit of God was among us.
Job 12: 22 "He reveals the deep things of darkness and brings utter darkness into light." Here I am, years later, and today I sat in Mercy Vineyard Church in the Twin Cities. I've been in a very vulnerable emotional space lately. I miss my sister and my coworkers, and while I had many difficult days last school year, the knowledge I am not returning has filled me with Big Feelings. And then yesterday in Charlottesville a group of emboldened and brazen white nationalists left me feeling shaken and scared for my country, for my children. In church I silently hoped that Pastor Jeff would speak of these issues, and he did not disappoint. He proclaimed that those who used the Bible to support their racist worldview were completely wrong. He boldly prayed for our brothers and sisters of color, and he spoke the Truth about hatred and darkness. The congregation responded with applause and amens and nods of affirmation, and we continued with our study of Ruth. Micah 6:8 "He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." I sat throughout the rest of church today thinking about silence and complicity. Our pastor made it very clear where our church stands. We are FOR the marginalized in our community; we support justice and mercy and denounce racists and white nationalism. He spoke boldly. Many of my friends and family are speaking out online and in public against the violence in Charlottesville. They are posting articles and attending vigils and using their voices to combat the clanging of hatred. As I post articles, these friends and family share comments of affirmation; they start conversations with their neighbors. They are not being silent in the face of hatred. These conversations are not easy, and they involve words that we aren't comfortable using in our world today. My own sons were shocked this morning when I told them of the events that had unfolded. My 13-year-old learned about the Nazis last year in school, so when I told him that this rally involved Nazi flags and armbands, he was in disbelief. Have we learned nothing? It's hard to talk about white nationalists, white supremacy, the KKK and neo-Nazis. In 2017, well-meaning white folks such as myself like to believe that chapter of our country's history is behind us. Yesterday should serve as a wake-up call to us. We need to boldly denounce these actions and beliefs. What is our silence saying? Revelation 5:9 "And they sang a new song, saying, 'Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation.'" I believe that one day God will set all things right. And in the meantime, I believe we have a lot of work to do. Like the former white supremacist at Heartland Vineyard who shared his sin so many years ago, we all have some soul-searching to do. Where is my privilege? How am I experiencing prejudice? What difficult conversations do I need to have? Where do I need to ask for forgiveness? And perhaps most importantly, how can I show love? Psalm 33:5 "The LORD loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love." |
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September 2020
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