“So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary's hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime--the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. Perhaps the South, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.” -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Letters From Birmingham Jail After suffering through a lengthy winter, I soak in the backyard sun, cleaning out my perennial flower beds. I enjoy the process of pulling out dead leaves and stems to give new plants room to breathe. One week I look at a pile of dry, brown debris, and the next week I witness the glorious debut of a colorful symphony of tulips. The fresh beauty we uncover when we get rid of decay is a miracle to behold. This is the work Christians need to be willing to do -- to pull our own weeds, to get rid of the parts that have stopped growing, to create room for fresh growth. That pertains to the Church’s relationships with race as well. After years of living in predominantly white areas in Iowa and Missouri, my journey brought me to a more diverse world in St. Paul, Minnesota. My children, teen boys adopted almost seven years ago and born in Ethiopia, deserve a world of richness in color and culture. Through my experience as the mom of kids of color and our transition to an urban area, I listen as I work on uprooting previously held beliefs and prejudices. I listen to the voices of my Christian brothers and sisters of color who have been othered by those in the Church, who have suffered in the prison of a church culture that never felt like home to them. As a professor I’ve listened to the voices of my college students who write heartbreaking essays about their own loneliness as minority students on a predominantly white Christian campus. I’ve engaged with them in conversation about their experiences in their dorms and their classes where they sometimes suffer from exclusion. In the news and through social media, I listen to the experiences of people of color as they recount their stories of being profiled when shopping, when waiting for a friend, when taking a nap on campus, when checking out of a vacation rental, when taking a college tour. This process of listening has pushed me to pull out the decay from my own heart. I’ve examined my previously held beliefs. I’ve thought about the times from my past when I’ve othered someone who doesn’t share my cultural experience and the times when I’ve applied a stereotype. In painful ways I’ve questioned my own unconscious biases and thought deeply about my own privilege. And when I discover things that make me uncomfortable, even in my own heart, I am pulling out the dead to make room for new growth. Yes, this can be painful. I have not yet perfected this process, but I continue to try. The beauty in new relationships and worldviews is certainly worth it. Our rebirth in Christ promises newness (2 Corinthians 5:17), but that only comes after death. In other words, in order to be resurrected, we must first die (Romans 6:4). Jesus himself explained in John 12:24 that a seed can only produce fruit after it has fallen to the ground and died. The work of racial reconciliation in the Church will require the same. Ingrained culture and preconceived notions need to be uprooted and discarded in a holy fire if we want healing and bridge-building to take place. This takes time and effort and a continual focus on the ultimate knowledge that we all bear the image of the Father. Of course this work doesn’t happen in isolation; I rely on the Holy Spirit as my instigator. This requires cooperation and a willingness to respond to conviction. My voice is one among many, and my words are not new. There are other voices with more experience and knowledge than mine. That is why I listen and then dig in to do the work in this continual process of removing the deadness to make room for fresh new life. It is my prayer that more in the Church will do the same. The miraculous beauty of reconciliation and redemption is worth it. Lord Jesus, giver of all good gifts, give us today the gift of listening. Give us ears attuned to stories of injustice, and like You, give us the courage to speak boldly for love and truth. Amen.
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We live near this lovely lake, and I've walked around it more times than I can count since we moved nearly a year ago. In the summer you can watch kayaks and hear live music from the pavilion. Right now spring is singing its "Hallelujah Chorus" with blossoms spilling onto the sidewalk and trees bursting out in their new leaves. It's a splendor. Tonight as I made my second lap of the day, I also paid attention to the people. I think I saw every shade of brown and black. I saw moms with various skin tones pushing their little ones in strollers and watched children from different ethnicities zoom around on their bikes. Amongst the chatter of the birds, I heard at least three different languages. It was a lovely reminder of the exact reason we uprooted our family almost a year ago to relocate here in St. Paul. Diversity is a lovely thing. I rejoice in the different species of ducks in the pond and the many varieties of trees showing off their blooms and blossoms. I praise God for the beautiful skin tones seen on and the myriad of languages spoken by His people. How boring if we were all the same! Earlier today, however, I was reminded that not everyone feels the way I do. My youngest son, 13, is away for the week on a trip with his school. He is brave and kind and funny, and I was excited to send him out in the world. I was also a bit sad as this is the longest I have been separated from him. Bravely, though, we sent him off on Monday, excited for the start of his new adventure. This afternoon, however, our principal called us to report that a student from a different school told my beautiful son with skin the most perfect shade of mocha to "go back to Africa." For the rest of the afternoon I stewed. I posted on Facebook where I received so much love and support and shared anger from other family members and dear friends. I cried a few tears because I want so badly to check in with my son, but he's three hours away from me, and I won't see him until Friday. Ultimately, I felt disappointed more than anything. I'm disappointed that it's 2018 and this is the climate in our country, where it's becoming more and more unacceptable to peacefully protest the fact that racism is still indeed alive and well. I'm disappointed that parents aren't doing better by their children, raising them to share love and admiration for diversity rather than to spout hatred for those who are different. I'm disappointed that I couldn't send my child on an innocent school field trip to the wilderness without incident. Really, we can do better, can't we? I will continue to work for that. I have to. (As an essential side note, please, parents of white children, talk to your children about diversity and race. Teach them to use their voice like my son's friends did yesterday. They were the ones who reported the incident, and I am so grateful for their care for my son.) In the meantime, tonight Chris and I took a walk around the lake. Occasionally Chris would compliment a stranger for her adorable dog, and I would smile knowingly at a mom with a rambunctious child. We stopped to watch the ducks with others, sharing the experience without speaking a word. I didn't hear one person criticized for looking different or for speaking another language. No one was told to go back to his/her country of origin. We were just humans enjoying the perfect spring evening. And that's what I want. Humans from all walks of life enjoying beauty together. Maybe it's too much to ask on the grand scale, but it will continue to be my hope. On Friday I will process with my sweet boy and hug him, even as I empty his stinky laundry from his duffel bag. I will love on him and tell him he is precious and cared for by so many in the world. I will promise that love will always win, even if our victories on this side of Eternity feel small. If you're involved in the transracial adoption world, you have more than likely heard of or experienced the bead activity. Basically you take an empty clear cup and fill it with beads to represent people. Each color of bead represents a different race, and you put beads in the cup to symbolize your dentist, doctor, spiritual leaders, neighbors, etc. By the end, you have an understanding of how diverse your world is. If Chris and I had done this activity prior to adoption, our cup would have been 100% white. The diversity was only increased by the addition of our two Black sons. Two beads of color in a sea of white. Have you ever had the experience of being the only person like you in a certain scenario? Maybe you're the only Iowa State fan in a family full of Hawkeyes. Maybe you're the only female in a workplace full of males. Maybe you're the only Muslim in a classroom full of Christians. That experience can feel isolating and sometimes scary. Of course we are adaptive creatures and can more than likely adjust eventually, maybe even discovering empowerment. But isn't there something comforting in looking at someone with shared experiences and without even exchanging a word, knowing they "get" you? When Chris and I entered the terminal for Ethiopian Airlines at the airport in Washington, DC, it was one of the first moments in my life where I was one of only a few white people in a room filled with people of color. It was exhilarating because we were preparing to visit the birth country of our soon-to-be sons, and the diversity of language and skin color was a beautiful reminder of what heaven would surely be. Of course we spent those few days in Addis Ababa with extra attention as the "ferengi," but the Ethiopians warmly welcomed us with smiles and coffee ceremonies. We weren't bombarded with unwelcome questions or requests to touch our hair or skin. And of course after those few days, we returned home to our world of white where we would soon bring our children. Our neighbors and friends welcomed our sons with open arms and kindness. Our boys received services and attention at school and church. They were known and loved, but they were often the only people of color in pretty much every scenario we put them in. From sports teams to summer camps, our church home to our school family, our boys rarely had a racial mirror other than each other and a few other international adoptees in our community. As we tried to navigate a world of racial disparities and inequalities, our boys had to learn lessons about taking care of their Black skin and being a young Black man in America from two white people just trying to do the best we could. I often tell others that our agency did a fantastic job preparing us as best they could for the realities of early childhood trauma and what that might look like for our children. They did not, however, do an adequate job of preparing us for the realities of raising children of color in a nearly all-white community. Eventually, the idea of moving came up again and again in conversations between Chris and me. In the car or at night after the boys were tucked in bed, we began to research potential destinations that would provide opportunities for more beads of color in our cup. And then we made the leap. I will be honest in saying that this decision came with a side order of sacrifice. We left behind a support network of friends and family, including the blessing of "doing life" with my sister and her crew. I closed the door on many years of a successful career as a high school English teacher with coworkers who were my friends and confidants and many students who made my work feel like play. Chris said goodbye to the flexibility of owning his own business and, for the most part, setting his own schedule, a dream for family life. Our boys left behind the only sense of stability they had ever known in their young lives, including a network of solid friendships and teachers who knew them. And of course we miss those things. We would all be lying if we said we didn't. I still cry when I think about missing my niece's junior high volleyball games and sharing a knowing smile with my nephew in the high school hallways. While we're growing our network here, adult friendships take time and energy, two things that are often in deficit in our busy lives. Time and time again, however, our children are in a sea of color, and all of those tiny sacrifices become so worth it. This summer I found myself at awards ceremonies at the end of basketball camp where I was one of two white adults in a gym. My boys are playing on a flag football team full of children of color. We have a Black family practice doctor and a rec center up the street staffed almost entirely by people of color. My sons are no longer finding themselves in that isolating role as the only. We have a church with a diverse staff and congregation, and better yet, we have co-lead pastors who frequently address race and the Gospel. I'm not here to tell other adoptive families that they absolutely must move, that an urban environment is the only way to go if you are trying to raise kids of color in today's word. I'm just saying that our cup has more colorful beads today, and we are so thankful. Because my childhood was so idyllic (two happily married parents, a supportive educational system, room to be creative and explore, etc.), it's difficult to write about that time with a critical lens. I need to share something here, however, to help you understand my journey. We didn't have to drive far from our predominantly white community to discover a pocket of diversity. Aside from a small grocery store and a second-hand store that sold clothes, our shopping options were limited, so occasionally my family would pile into the station wagon and drive to the nearest urban area. It wasn't a huge city, but it had multiple stoplights and even a mall! As I grew older, those same trips were taken with carloads of friends. It was in this space that I learned, through observation, that people of color were to be feared. We avoided the more diverse areas of the city because of the crime; we locked our doors when someone with a certain look came too close to the car. "What makes Black people so criminal?" I thought to myself. "Are the Black people here so poor because they're lazy?" I wondered. And of course the logical conclusion could only be this: certain populations of people of color were inherently uneducated, poor, criminal, bad. None of these words were ever explicitly said to me, however. My parents worked hard to teach me to love everyone; I grew up in a church that preached and lived out the gospel's mission to love our neighbor. But still, I was learning. When I became a mother to children of color, the scales began to fall from my eyes as I learned about systemic racism and implicit bias. And I realized I had been asking the wrong questions all along. Instead of "What makes Black people so criminal?" I should have been asking, "Why are Black communities policed differently than white communities? Why are Black perpetrators handed different sentences than their white counterparts? What has led to the school-to-prison pipeline?" Instead of asking "Are the Black people here so poor because they're lazy?" I should have been asking, "What kinds of discrepancies exist in our educational system? What unfair rules and regulations in the housing industry have created these neighborhoods? Do Black people and white people always have the same employment opportunities?" If I had started with those questions rather than the questions full of stereotypes and assumptions, I would have reached a healthier conclusion much sooner. But here I am today, digging deep and looking for the answers. Today you might find yourself asking, "Why are these Black protestors so angry? Why are these Black athletes so disrespectful to the flag and veterans?" And maybe it's time you reframe those questions to really discover the answers, not the assumptions. We live in a country deeply divided for reasons more complex than any of us understand. For today, however, I'm going to look at the questions I'm asking and move forward from there. If you'd like suggestions for resources on these hard conversations, I'm happy to point you in the right direction. Until then, let's keep asking the right questions. 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." The word “essay” first entered our language in 1597. It comes from the French verb essayer, “to try.” Today I try to capture in words my recent feelings regarding race in Middle America. Let’s start with a conversation I had with my oldest son. He’s 13 now, with the muscles and build of a young adult. He walks with the weight of extra burdens not cast on many of his peers. He’s had trouble this year with a classmate who carries a heaviness of his own. At one point this student made fun of my black son for the color of his skin. My son reacted in his own heavy way. Heavy seems to be the word of the day. Black parents often refer to “The Talk” that they must have with their young kids of color. This isn’t about the birds and the bees, however; this is about survival. How do you respond to the police? How do you handle yourself when faced with confrontation? How can you take measures that, while not guaranteed, will hopefully keep you safe? So in our own heavy moment at home, we have our version of The Talk. (Think about how strange that must feel for my son. We look like the oppressor, not like him.) We tell him that of course he wants to respond when hateful things are said. Lashing back is in our nature. But he must learn to control the anger. The white boy will instigate, and you will be caught. It’s the law of the land. My husband compares it to basketball, the language my son understands best. One player pushes another, but the push back gets the whistle for the foul. I call on the powerful words of former First Lady Michelle Obama. Let the classmate go low, but you must always rise high. You have no other choice. And perhaps the saddest fact of all? We took this child from a country where he was the majority. Where the color of his skin allowed him to blend in and was never the ammunition forced into the weapon of childhood bullying. And we brought him here. Here. Middle America. Where just last week I had to push pause during a short documentary on the Civil Rights march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 because a handful of my 10th and 11th graders couldn’t control the giggles and suspicious sideways glances every time the n-word was uttered. Here in my home state, Steve King, who says “we can’t restore civilization with someone else’s babies,” routinely wins elections and the support of white supremacist David Duke. This is also the Middle America of my childhood. Of leisurely bike rides around town with my best friend when our number one priority was having enough change for candy at Casey’s. This is the Middle America of rolling farmland and highways straight like an arrow. This is the Middle America where I first encountered Jesus and had my first kiss and received my college degrees. I love this place. But this is the Middle America where every year, still, in 2017 my two sons face racist remarks in school. It’s the same place where a student told me that she didn’t experience racism in our high school, saying, “Well, just from my friends, but we all know it’s a joke.” It’s the same place where the Confederate flag is routinely featured on screen savers and in the backs of farm trucks. (For those who need a history refresher, Iowa was a Union state.) I don’t know what will bring about change. Last week when we watched the documentary on Selma, I simultaneously marveled that just a few decades ago blacks were denied the right to vote and mourned that we still have conversations today about the motivation of new voter ID laws that most directly impact minorities. I look at the fact that Loving v. Virginia invalidated laws against interracial marriage in 1967, and now 50 years later my husband and I can adopt transracially without fighting in court. At the same time, I look at the racist garbage posted on Facebook and Twitter, sometimes by my students, and think that 50 years hasn’t afforded too much change. I see pockets of progress around me, but I also see the dark corners of Middle America; I peek under the rug where we don’t like to sweep, and I see remnants of a segregated past, an unspoken “know your place” that hasn’t gone away. And there it is. I’ve tried as Francis Bacon first did in 1597. I haven’t made a clear point. I haven’t drawn any strong conclusions, but I'm trying. I’m sure I’ll try again tomorrow. And the next day and the next day. I’ll try until I get it right. My students recently wrote letters of the next president. I thought I would do the same. Dear Future President: This morning I was reminded of a song I love, and it is the message that I want to implore you to remember. The message will sound simplistic because it is. The song is titled “Everyone’s Beautiful,” and that’s where I want to start. Our country feels more deeply divided than it ever has in my memory. I have my theories as to why this is, but I know you’re busy, so I won’t share them here. I do want to share what I think can fix that. It can be summed up in a word: empathy. Empathy will help us remember that everyone is, indeed, beautiful. I’m teaching my high school students the beauty of To Kill a Mockingbird right now. I hope you know the story. The main character, Scout, develops empathy for others throughout the story because of lessons her father teaches her, lessons about walking around in someone else’s skin, learning from others’ experiences. You don’t need to know my whole life story, but I will tell you this: I had an idyllic childhood with loving parents and extended family and a strong educational foundation. My world lacked one essential element, though: diversity. My friends were like me: white, Midwestern, Christian, and heterosexual (or so I believed at the time.) It may have not been explicitly stated to me as a child, but I grew up knowing to vote Republican. Because my world looked just like me, I thought that WAS the world. That changed. Now here I am, decades later, the white mom of black children with gay friends and Buddhist friends. I’ve traveled outside of my Midwestern bubble more times than I can count on all my fingers and toes. Every one of those people, every single experience expanded my world. It’s no longer white, Midwestern, Christian, heterosexual, and Republican. And it’s better because of that. My worldview changed because I now love people who are different than I am. (Now here's a lengthy side note on faith. It’s worth noting that I’m still a Christian. My relationships with Buddhists and agnostics didn’t sway my beliefs. However, I want to live in a country where my friends feel they have freedom of their religion as well. I hope you realize that you can’t legislate salvation, as much as some well-meaning Christians might wish you could. The rest of the lyrics from “Everyone’s Beautiful” mentions that redemption is found “down deep in your [God’s] eyes.” Redemption isn’t found on a ballot or scrawled on a piece of legislature. I’m not sure where that faulty idea came from, but it’s a permeating, poisonous one.) Maybe what I’m suggesting is a book club where the Syrian refugee and the Midwestern farmer join together with some other folks to read To Kill a Mockingbird. I guess that’s probably not feasible, so what I’m asking you to do is this: help our country remember that we’re not all the same, and that’s a good thing. I recently saw a poll that suggested the majority of Republican voters thought life was better in the 1950s. But Mr. or Madam President, my transracial family would not exist if it were the 1950s. One of my favorite former students would probably still be living in the closet, and my role as a working mom would be the exception, not the norm. Personally, that’s not a way of life I would like to return to. My encounters with the exceptional diversity in this country tell me that America is still pretty great. This all means that you’re assigned a task that I’m sure feels nearly impossible; you must make decisions that are in the best interest of a wide range of people groups. For a long time the direction of our country was driven by white men, but that is no longer the case. You need to do your job accordingly. That means you’re representing the white man, the black man, the Jewish woman, and the Muslim refugee. That’s a tough task, and I sincerely hope you’re up for the challenge. After all, we are all beautiful. Thank you for your time. Sincerely and respectfully, Kimberly Witt Today in a young adult book
I read a violent rape scene Between two boys in a refugee camp Ariel was victimized. He was robbed and then he himself Became a thief. Isn’t it always about power? Last night I posted a blog About race and protest and my sons And in my blog I poured out my heart And how I was learning and growing And facing my Fear. (Should fear always be capitalized?) And then this afternoon during sixth period I saw it. I stood in the front of my classroom Looking out the sea of white students In front of me, and I saw it. Out my window in the back of a student’s truck A giant confederate flag. (I will not capitalize that word.) I thought of dylan roof. dylan roof would have hated my children. Does this student hate my children? Does he hate me for speaking Truth? (Truth SHOULD always be capitalized.) Did this student place his truck outside my Window today on purpose, To make a statement? Like the boys in my book Does he want power over me? Is that his statement? I will not let him win. I will keep using my voice. I will shout louder. I will raise my fist Or I will kneel. But I will NOT be silent. I am capitalized. **Upon further investigation, the flag in the truck was not a message to me. However, I've seen more of those flags in my little community lately. I'm not a fan, as I've shared before. I share this poem that I wrote, however, as a reminder to myself that I don't need to be controlled by fear. Maybe it was a message you needed to hear, too. Some days I feel pretty hopeless. A student wrote, in response to an article about Colin Kaepernick, “I kind of get sick when black people say it’s a white man’s country because it is we were here first and if you don’t like it then get out of our country.” And I think as I read those words, are you thinking of my children? Where did you learn such falsehoods? I see the giant Confederate flag waving in the back of another student’s truck, and I think, do you know what that symbolizes to so many? I sit at my desk and vacillate between throwing my hands up in the air or weeping or screaming. I want to give in. Today I’m feeling pretty beat up and broken. This afternoon I can’t read one more Article of the Week response telling me why the police are justified in all of their shootings. I can’t look at another essay that tells me that racism is over and black people need to get over it. It’s hard to talk about favorite books with a student one minute and the next minute read the hatred sprinkled in his writing. So this afternoon I switch Pandora to some worship music and remember that change once happened in me. Yes, this is a teaching blog that often touches on issues of social justice, but I am first and foremost a follower of Christ. When I was 20 years old and working at church camp, I sat alone in the quiet with God and had a vision of my heart hardened like a rock floating up to heaven. In return I received a heart of flesh. It was new. I was new. At that point in my life, my heart of stone was crusty and dusty and full of regret. But I went from living a life of darkness and sin to walking in the light with Love. Last night at my church small group we talked about the patience of Abraham and Sarah. They were promised a precious son, and then they waited. And they waited some more, waiting on a promise that God would fulfill only in His perfect timing. As we continue to live in the midst of sinfulness and depravity and the remnants of a white supremacist society, we are waiting on another promise that God made, the one in Revelation 21:4 that says, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." In the meantime, we’re living in this shitty mess, the old order of things. (Excuse the language in a blog about faith. Sometimes it’s the only word that will do.) And in the meantime, it’s really really hard to have hope in this mess. It’s hard to hear of divisions and hatred; it’s nearly impossible to believe in that promise. But still. I have to cling to that same hope for humanity, even if that change doesn’t come in the timing I desire. (Or in my lifetime.) That doesn’t mean I don’t keep trying and praying and posting and pleading. It doesn’t mean that I sigh and give up in resignation. It just means that I do NOT give up my hope. It means that His ways are higher than mine. In “Your Hands” by JJ Heller she sings the Truth that “one day You will set all things right.” That is where my trust is today. Not in my words. Not in the government. Not in humanity’s ability to get it right on their own. I trust in God’s power to transform hearts of stone into hearts of feeling flesh. Come, Lord Jesus. Set all things right. |
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September 2020
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