There is not enough room to express all of the thoughts racing through my head this week. I have spent days reflecting in mediation and messaging with countless friends about the atrocities we've seen. Yesterday, as a form of therapy, I spent several hours typing up a nine page word document, full of my unfiltered introspection just to let it out. I have felt nauseated, fearful, infuriated, tearful and sleepless, all while gearing up for my first day back to work (from home) after a Covid 19 furlough. I asked God to give me the words to effectively convey a message that could be meaningful, or provide some comfort in the wake of the media coverage of this centuries old black genocide.
When all of this flared up last week over a video of another casual, smug murder, #georgefloyd, I was fed up with talking. I did not feel like explaining my perspective again or comforting a newly awestruck acquaintance or debating as I have done on behalf of my people for years. I just grew weary. I thought that the self care I needed this time was relief from talking points... but that was selfish. For the first time I see people looking for answers, and if I have anything to contribute, it doesn’t feel right to keep it to myself. The least I can do is share my experiences. Consequently, my silence was causing my black friends to shoulder the burden of education alone. So here I am, reporting for duty.
I grew up in a predominantly white, conservative Christian bubble. I knew instinctively from childhood that I was responsible for representing my race at all times. It may sound extreme and ridiculous (which frankly it is), but for many of these kids, parents, teachers… I might have been the first black girl they encountered. The first one to rattle their stereotypes. I took the responsibility very seriously, knowing that how they perceived me was paramount to the treatment I would receive, and potentially others after me. This experience is definitely not unique to me, but familiar to many of my black friends and colleagues.
I was raised with this awareness, not only to give me the best possible chance to succeed in life, but also for my safety. My black mother and black grandparents would always instill in me the power of how I carried myself as a young black woman. Because, unfortunately, there would be a world that chose to see me through the lens of their own preconception, light skinned privilege aside. I had to be aware of these obstacles to overcome them.
I made every effort to always remain slightly above the cut. The love I have for my black heritage is a miracle, because everything around me from an early age, down to the smallest microaggression, would try to discredit it. This explosion of suppressed rage may be too much for some to process, but I know this feeling all too well.
"To be black and conscious in America is to be in a constant state of rage." – James Baldwin
I feel more solidarity with my ancestors than ever before. I feel their power and their strength running through my veins now, invigorating me to do all of the things that they were not permitted to. It motivates me daily. Blackness is royalty, but this nation would have you drink a poison of lies that says it's worthless, even subconsciously. This is systematic brainwashing at its finest.
Next to the Bible, “Roots” by Alex Haley is my favorite book of all time. It changed the course of my life when I was 13 years old, by teaching me the glory and resilience of my heritage in the face of the most evil adversity. Perhaps it can illuminate the same for you. Perhaps it can give you some perspective on why blackness represents the utmost prestige to me, why these issues are so dear to my heart, and why, ultimately, they prevail under a more cloaked expression. You can only sweep a problem under the rug for so long before it begins to fester. Before people realize it’s there, and has always been there.
I’ve heard many say that they can never understand what we’ve been through. With all due respect, I think that is a cop out. This pain you see manifesting is not alien and our experience is not otherworldly. It is all-American. Shielding one’s eyes to injustice, does not make it untrue. Empathy and knowledge will be your guide to snuff out ignorance. We are called as Christians to empathize, to love deeply, and share in the suffering of our neighbor.
We cannot return to business as usual. Just as Jesus put Himself in our shoes, if you can put yourself in the shoes of those of us who have lived this reality, you will understand. You will be compelled to speak out against it in secret as well as in public, and turn the tide of complacency. No healing can come from denial.
Be vigilant! Examine your heart. As true allies you will put yourself in the line of fire along with us. I have seen many doing this, black and non-black, combating prejudice relentlessly by advocating for the voiceless in both words and deeds. Because doing so is right. This has not been overlooked and means more than you know. “Count it all joy, wherever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that it may be mature and complete, lacking nothing.” James 1:2-4
There is something beautiful about this righteous outrage. It is an awakening, a revolution and a much needed revelation for many. I am witnessing a realization in real time, heart postures changing because eyes are seeing the light. I rejoice at this, knowing that there is still a long way to go. I pray that you keep looking through our eyes and learning our history, which is also your history. The effects are lingering. In the midst of the grief and mourning, a fire of hope has been ignited. Black lives have always mattered and I am blessed to be counted in that number. ✊🏽🖤