I shifted my
feet as we stood in the slow, snaking security line at the Denver airport. Reaching
down to remove my sandals and place them on the conveyor belt, I had the
thought I’ve often had in my years of traveling, I would make an outstanding criminal. The exact opposite of those
who are usually profiled, my blond hair, white skin and female gender provide
the invisibility cloak every terrorist longs to hide behind. I would make an
excellent spy.
Confessing
this private thought implicates me--not as a covert criminal, but as someone
who enjoys certain privileges because of my appearance. I never drive around at
night wondering if the police are going to pull me over. I’m not afraid that
I’ll be picked up for shoplifting. Being unjustly accused is not something that
I worry about and I’m convinced I would be let off easily even if I did commit
a crime. I trust the system.
I write this
not to brag, but to confess. Because I’m ashamed. I clutch my whiteness to
myself as a safety net and squeeze my eyes shut to the injustices of those who
do not have this privilege. And it’s time to change.
As white
people, we brag that we are “colorblind” and congratulate ourselves for being
inclusive and tolerant. Because we don’t actively hate, abuse or reject those
of another color personally, we would never call ourselves “racists.” We say we
see everyone as the same and silently assume that everyone, deep down, is like
us.
But as we
boast that we are colorblind, what we are blind to is that color really does
matter. People are treated certain
ways simply because of the color of their skin.
My journey
toward sight began as all breakdowns of prejudice inevitably must: through a relationship. My friend and I sat sipping tea as our three-year-old sons
boisterously played together in the living room. We discussed common mom woes such
as which preschool to send our sons to, potty training and how to encourage
longer sleep. But then my friend, a white woman like myself, tiptoed onto
unfamiliar ground as she shared some fears that were unique to her experience,
because her adopted son is African American.
She has
already considered coaching her son on how to interact with police and other
authority figures. Right now, he is an adorable little boy with gorgeous hair
and a winning smile, but she already dreads the day when a white woman will
look at him and clutch her purse or intentionally cross the street to avoid
him. She knows she will have to teach him to treat authority with respect and
to always show his hands. And he will never be allowed to play with a toy gun
in public.
Talking to
her made me realize how naïve I’ve been. I’ve never once thought of training my
son in these ways. I rubbed my eyes and wondered if this disparity has been
here all along and if so, how have I not noticed it before?
There’s a
story in the Bible where a blind man begs for Jesus to heal him.
Jesus leans down, scoops up a handful of mud and smears it over his eyes before
telling him to wash in a nearby pool of water. This is the stage of recovery I
am at--stumbling and begging for Jesus to finish restoring my sight and point
me toward the clear pool. But I must allow Him to continue rubbing mud in my
eyes. It’s this stinging mud of discovery that’s making me whole.
The
activist, Austin Channing Brown, tells about when she first toured Civil Rights
sites and she and her classmates’ eyes were opened to the injustice embedded in
America’s history. A
classmate stood up and gave a speech to the others on the bus. “Now that we
know all of this, doing nothing is no longer an option,” she announced to the
group.
Now that I
see more clearly, walking around in blindness is no longer an option. But what
can I—a white, minivan-driving mom in the suburbs--do?
So far,
fiery rage has been my first response. I’m angry at the history, enraged at
“the system,” livid about the judges, politicians and law enforcement that seem
to perpetuate this injustice.
I hate myself for my ignorance and inability to change anything. The flames of
injustice are searing into my soul like an uncontrolled wildfire.
At the commencement
speech for The University of Denver law department I attended last week, four
graduating students shared the hopelessness they felt in being confronted with
glaring injustice and the inability of the law to overcome those injustices.
But one optimistic student declared, “Anger is fire and fire is energy.” So I
write this to blow on the flame and fan it into fire in my heart and yours. Because
as others like me begin to feel the heat, perhaps we’ll beg for sight and be
healed of our blindness. And a person with sight is much more capable of
fighting battles than a blind one.
And so I
tune my heart to hear, learn, watch, confess and acknowledge my role. I seek
out relationships with those who are different from me, haul my kids to
diverse parks on the opposite side of the city, and keep rubbing this stinging
mud of horrendous injustice into my eyes until I see clearly and can walk
forward. I write, talk (okay, rant), pray, read, share stories, educate my
children and vote. I feed the fire so it becomes a constructive energy instead
of a destructive devastation.
Gregory
Boyle states in Tattoos on the Heart,
“We have a chance, sometimes, to create a new jurisdiction, a place of
astonishing mutuality, whenever we close both eyes of judgement and open the
other eye to pay attention.”
It’s time to
start paying attention.
Labels: race
