Racism in Me

Racism in Me

            The deaths of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor and the responses and protests to those deaths have created an opening unlike any I have seen in my lifetime. Unfortunately, black men and women have been dying at the hands of the police for a long time. The anger and grief have been simmering a while and have now boiled over. This anger and grief do not simply need a release so things can return to normal. They need to push us into the very issues that are causing the anger and grief.

            Racism is systemic and pervasive. Though changes in law and police polices will help, these changes do not address depth of racism. Racism has been a part of the fabric of our country since the first settlers came from Europe. The horrendous treatment and destruction of the indigenous people. The discrimination of people based on the color of their skin. The judging of those with darker skin as unworthy. The importing of slaves to grow the economy.

The first Affirmative Action law was passed in 1620. This law stated only white men could own land. White men have worked ever since to keep things in their favor and have been successful at this. White people become uncomfortable when they see these protests and demand for actions. It could affect their advantage and control.

            I was born in 1960 in south Louisiana. The segregated South. I was not aware of segregation or of the Civil Rights struggle. It was not a part of my personal world. I was aware that in Lake Charles blacks lived in a certain part of town and were not allowed to live in my neighborhood. They could try but my white neighbors would be sure the blacks would not want to stay. Any time I had to go into the black part of town, I got nervous. I watched to see what dangers might be lurking.

            Somehow, I was taught growing up that blacks are less than whites. Here is the depth of the racism.  I learned that blacks aren’t as smart as whites, don’t work as hard as whites, don’t fit in because they are too loud or don’t behave properly. It’s just how blacks are. They are different. Even though I know today that all this is wrong, so very wrong, this racism is still a part of me. It lives in me.

Because of this, I am a racist. Though I don’t want to, I judge people by the color of their skin, and I judge them as less than, not as good as. I must see this in me, and I must name it as racism. When I have conversations with people who are a different color than me, I need to be aware of my own judgmentalism, my own power and privilege as a white man.

            Over the last few years, I have tried to address my own racism and my own ignorance about the racial history of our country.  I have read books. I have listened to podcasts. I have watched movies. I have taken seminary classes and anti-racism training. I have participated in a Civil Rights Pilgrimage. I have led and participated in conversations on racism. I have had many lunches with black friends, asking them to help me learn. I have spoken to groups large and small as a white male on my journey into learning about my own racism and the racism of our society. I have joined organizations that are addressing racism.

            I see a shift happening in me and it scares me. I see that I have spent lots of time learning and seeking to understand. This is good and necessary and important. It can never stop. But what I am being called to now is action. It is going where I need to go to resist racism, to announce where the sin of racism is present, and to work hard for reconciliation. I am called into action at the city council chambers, the streets, the meetings, anywhere people are pushing for justice and righteousness and mercy.  I have played it safe for long enough, staying in my comfortable house of privilege. The call is to engage.

            I don’t know what this looks like. But I do know a Christ whose heart burns with passion. I will step into that passion. I will seek to love all those I encounter, especially myself. And I will show up, even when doing so makes me very uncomfortable. My black brothers and sisters have been struggling for generations and generations. My invitation is to join that struggle. To bring my white male self into those wounded places and be a part of the healing.