The Crumbling of my Straight, White, Ivory Tower

Disclaimer to the reader:  If you don’t understand why liberals are crying over the election, then you can just skip this blog post.  It is not meant for you.  Move on and spend your time more usefully.

Today, one of my friends messaged me to make sure I was OK.  One of my gay friends, whose new marriage soon may be no longer legal and whose child’s health insurance soon may be no longer available,  asked ME if I was OK after the 2016 election.  Ironic--because I really have nothing much to lose by this election.  My job and my husband’s jobs are reasonably secure, we live within our middle-class means, we have good health insurance, and our children have access to good public education.  Our lives are especially fortunate, as straight, educated, middle-class white people living in America.  A new President of the United States won’t really make our lives more difficult.  We are the lucky ones.  And, my gay friend asked me if I was OK.

My husband says I am being melodramatic over this election.  He’s probably right.  My Republican friends assure me that they voted based on the issues of limited government and personal freedom, that the family and friends I’ve known all my life are still the upstanding, moral, respectable people that I’ve always known.  They are right, too.  I know that a vote for a particular candidate does not mean sanctification of that person’s every action and word.  Certainly, I wouldn’t want to be held accountable for every action of the person for whom I voted.  I know that there are checks and balances in this country that limit the power of the presidency.  I know all of that.  And I am still crying.

What is wrong with me?  I am that classic whining liberal, crying in my Cabernet after my candidate lost.  But, it doesn’t just feel like we lost the game.  It doesn’t just feel like a peaceful transfer of power, the kind on which our country was founded.  It feels like my illusions about the nature of my country have been shattered.  It feels like the voters chose other issues over MY issues.  The voters chose issues of economy over equality, of rights for guns over rights for gay people, of pro-life over pro-choice for life.  My side lost, but that isn’t all.  It feels like the voters sanctioned racist comments, sexist comments, hateful comments, and I’m shocked. I am shocked that by the hatred and vitriol I see towards people who aren’t straight and white.  My gay friends aren’t surprised; they have lived this most of their life.

The straight, white, ivory tower in which I’ve lived my life has crumbled, and so have my assumptions.  I’ve been lucky; I have the peculiar privilege of a white liberal.  I can speak passionately about social justice, I can teach diverse children, I can write blog posts and share memes about equality and social justice, but nothing actually touches me.  If things get too heated, it’s easy enough to retreat into civility.  I am quite skilled at appearing armless and noncompetitive; I know how to make nice.  I don’t actually have to live through the conflict--that’s what privilege does for me.  But that privilege feels different now.

 I can no longer assume that justice will be done if I don’t speak up.  I’ve spent too many years making nice and hoping that things will be work out if we can all just get along.   I can no longer assume that my LGBTQ friends, my minority friends, or my poor friends will be cared for by society without my action.   I’ve spent too much of my time assuming that other people agree that society should strive for equality for all people.  I can no longer assume that most of society is working for equality and justice.  I can no longer passively move through life, protected by my own privilege, education, and peacefulness.

 I can no longer passively look to the government to save us.  Maybe that is my lesson, the lesson that my Republican friends mean when they tell me that WE are the ones to make change, that we cannot rely on a President, a Congress, or any government to build our country.  Maybe my lesson is to take off the blinders and see, truly see, the need in my community and my country, and to meet that need where I find it.   Maybe my lesson is to stand up for what I believe in, even in the midst of conflict.  I expect I will find allies from across the political spectrum, from the right and from the left.  I expect that my friends will join me, and I expect that it will NOT be easy.  The time has come to wipe away the tears and get to work.

I can only pray... (thoughts on Election Day)

This election has me terrified, deep down.   There is a knot of anxiety deep in my chest that will not loosen tomorrow, even if my candidate proves victorious.  The other day, I read an article in Time magazine about a family of Syrian refugees that relocated to Iowa.  One particular point struck me dumb.  The family had been middle-class in Syria, attending choir concerts and planning family vacations.  Within months, civil war destroyed their peaceful, humdrum existence, and they were displaced people, struggling to find a safe home.  A common story, I know.  Reading those words, days before the end of the most divisive and hateful presidential campaign in my lifetime, gave me pause.  I had a waking daydream, of the fabric of our country torn apart by hate, by people who refuse to accept a peaceful transition of power, by people driven to desperation by the loss of their privilege and power.  I had a waking daydream of civil war, the kind that certain militia groups threaten if their candidate doesn’t win.  Drinking my Sunday morning coffee in my middle-class house in my middle-class town, it almost seemed possible.  And I was terrified.

My friends who happen to be married to people of the same gender, are terrified by more than just a waking daydream.  They are terrified by threats to rent their very families, so newly formed under the law, to invalidate their newly validated unions, and nullify their spousal benefits.  I am afraid that the health-care act that helped my family find affordable coverage for their child will disappear.  I am afraid that our country will no longer work towards justice for all--all skin colors, all genders, all sexual orientations.  I am afraid that hatred and racism will win. It breaks my heart that the biggest comfort I can find is to think, “It will be OK; the President doesn’t really have that much power, anyway.”

I cast my vote for the candidate who reflects my politics.  I’m proud to vote for the first woman President.  I won’t apologize for supporting her, or make excuses for her.  She is my choice.  Many of my friends and family disagree with me and I don’t begrudge them their vote.  We all have our reasons and we all make our choice.  As I say often, just because I have a strong opinion about something doesn’t mean I have to win.  I say it often, but I’m not usually this scared by the thought of losing.  

My friend, Bill, reassures me on Facebook that all will be OK.  Bill, the consummate fiscal conservative, is my go-to guy for silver linings.  I joke that he is the most optimistic Republican I’ve ever met.  Bill tells me that, no matter who wins, he or she will be our President, that it will only be four years, and that we will work together to continue to build a country with freedom and justice for all.   I can only pray that he is right.

I can only pray that we can all find common ground again, that we all honor the government that allows for disagreement and free speech, that we work together to build up what has been broken in the last months.  I can only pray…

Almighty God, to whom we must account for all our powers and privileges: guide the people of the United States in the election of officials and representatives, that, by faithful administration and wise laws, the rights of all may be protected and our nation be enabled to fulfill your purposes; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Âmen

Why teach? Because it strengthens my heart

Sometimes when people hear that I teach middle school special education, they look a little shocked.  They say something like, “Wow--How can you do that?  That must be difficult.”  It’s true, it is difficult; it is uniquely challenging.  When I take the time to examine my vocation, I realize very clearly that, although it’s a strange world, it’s a world that fits me, a world that I love.  It is a place where my heart breaks a little bit almost every day, and I am stronger for the breaking.  The triumphs and challenges of teaching, especially teaching adolescents, especially teaching adolescents with different learning needs, strengthen my heart and my spirit.

In his excellent book, Healing the heart of democracy:  The courage to create a politics worthy of the human spirit, Parker Palmer explains:

“Everyday life is a school of the spirit that offers us chance after chance to practice dealing with heartbreak.  Those chances come when we aspire and fail or hope and have our hopes dashed or love and suffer love’s loss.  If we are able to enter into and consciously engage hard experiences of this sort, our hearts will get the kind of exercise that can make them supple.  But if we try to shield ourselves against life’s teachable moments, our hearts--like any unexercised muscle--become more vulnerable to stress.  

Under stress, an unexercised heart will explode in frustration or fury.  If the situation is especially tense, that exploding heart may be hurled like a fragment grenade toward the source of its pain.  But a heart that has been consistently exercised through conscious engagement with suffering is more likely to break open instead of apart.  Such a heart has learned how to flex to hold tension in a way that expands its capacity for both suffering and joy.”  (Palmer, 2011, p. 60)

I know something about hearts breaking open.  I teach children reading and writing who have specific learning disabilities in the areas of reading and writing.  They are smart, very smart (some of them much smarter than I am), but reading and writing is difficult for them.  They do not learn best through reading.  They do not show their incredible intelligence through their writing.  My students show up to school every day to do something that does not come easily to them, and they have to do it ALL day long.  They learn, they strengthen, and they improve, but it will never be as easy for them as it is for some other people (like me).  Their courage breaks my heart.

I teach them literature, stories about people whose hearts broke open through love, through tragedy, through genocide, through grief and horror.  We talk about how a person builds character, about the damage done by prejudice and stereotypes, about the importance of individual decisions, about the nature of being human, about the crazy things that love drives people to do.  They impress me every day with their insights and their understanding.  They are wise beyond their years.

The day of a middle school student is a long string of teachable moments; I am privileged to witness them.  They gain and lose their first real friends.  They fall in “love” (we, as adults may not believe it is love at the age of 12, but I assure you that THEY do).  They lose interest.  They find new interests.  They challenge themselves.  They give up.  They try again.  Everything is brand new to them.  Everything is old and boring.  They know it all.  They know nothing.  They are delightful and devilish.  And, they are damn difficult to handle sometimes.  Teaching my students sometimes causes my hopes to soar and sometimes dashes my hopes on the rocks below.

I teach because it’s difficult and I need the difficulty.  I teach because it breaks my heart open again and again, and I am stronger for it.  I cry often, as a special ed teacher.  I cry for the student who can’t handle one more assignment right now, even though he desperately wants to succeed.  I cry for the student whose best part of the day is coming to school, who has no real home to return to at night.  I cry for the family who is overwhelmed by the needs of their child.  I cry for the student with whom I tried to hard to build a relationship who got himself in big trouble from a careless mistake.  I cry, and then I dry my eyes and I go back to work.  Because, I am a teacher and my heart is getting stronger every day.

Palmer, P.J. (2011).  Healing the heart of democracy:  The courage to create a politics worthy of the human spirit.  San Francisco, CA:  Jossey-Bass.

Duh! It's Worship!

Meeting a hero can be nerve-wracking.  I was practically shaking when I shook the hand of Nadia Bolz-Weber, one of the people I call “my theological super-heroes”.  I had the privilege of assisting with an event at my church, St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church, where Nadia was the keynote speaker.  The interesting thing about this woman, who has such a strong presence and magnetic personality, is that it’s not all about her at all.  It is about the God of Jesus Christ----Worship (with a capital W) and Liturgy (with a capital L).  

When asked what her church does besides Sunday worship, Nadia replied, “Yeah…  Mostly we worship.  Everything else comes from that.”  During a speech about why she is a Christian, Nadia spoke lovingly, desperately of the liturgy, of the proclaiming of the gospel, the interpreting of the word, of the sacrament of confession and absolution, and of the sacrament of the Eucharist.  She repeated the words of absolution that forgives the sinner and remarked, “Nobody tells me that shit in yoga class.” Clearly, the most important role of the church today is to worship God.  Everything else, the service, the education, the friendship, could be found somewhere else.  But nowhere else will we get to bask in the grace of God found in Jesus Christ.

It doesn’t take long for church people to forget the main purpose that brought us there, though.  Churches have plenty of stuff to do besides worship.  We are supposed to organize community projects, work for social justice, feed the hungry, and educate children.  We are supposed to have plans for growth, finance reports, education committees, and mission statements.  Churches need structure, plans, and projects.  There is nothing wrong with some good planning.  Personally,  I LOVE structure, plans, and projects.  I’m a teacher; give me a syllabus, a scope and sequence, and a strategic plan, and I’m happy as a lark.  Admittedly, plans and organizations help churches get stuff done, stuff that the world needs us to do.  The problem is that none of that other stuff, that can be so consuming and distracting, is the actual purpose of the church.  Distracted by tasked, we can forget the meaning.  It’s like a marriage where the partners have lost sight of the things that drew them together, the very thing that they need so desperately.  

While preparing for this event, I had an anxiety attack when the projector wouldn’t connect to my computer; my chest tightened up, my heartbeat quickened, and I ran into the bathroom to hide.  Ironically, mass was starting at this exact moment.  I could have taken the time to worship, to rest, to contemplate God.  Instead, I splashed some cold water on my face and proceeded to battle stubborn technology.  I had things to do; there was no time to worship.  Christ!  For an educated woman, I can be such an idiot sometimes!  While preparing for worship, wrapped in anxiety over the details, longing for recognition for my hard work, I forgot to GO worship.  I forgot the whole damn point.  I had forgotten the very thing that had drawn me to church four years ago, the thing that fed my soul, the thing that I can’t find anywhere else:  not at my rewarding job, not with my loving family, not riding my horse, not working out, not reading my favorite authors, not walking beside the lake contemplating the sunset.  I forgot the purpose of the thing that drew me there.

After years of estrangement from Christianity, I returned to Christian church because the mystery called me home.  Years ago, in a moment of terror, after my career ambitions had run into walls and my relationship suffered for it, after nothing seemed good enough no matter how much I tried, I collapsed on the bathroom floor, sobbing, saying, “This is the best I can do.”  In that moment, puddled in tears, hiding in a heap on the tile floor, something lovingly embraced me, something answered me, “Yes, it is.  You are OK.”  I have to believe that it was God.  The grace of God had touched me, knocked me out of my selfishness and self-loathing, embraced me with unconditional love, the kind of love that burnt, because I knew I didn’t love others well enough to deserve it.  God opened my heart with a wrench, and it hurt.  I saw the world differently and I needed to understand it.  Reeling from the experience, I longed to rest in the grace I’ve found, and to find others who had found it too.  I needed to know that I wasn’t crazy, that there really was love, that there really was mystery.  So, I went to church, and I found a home.

I remember when I first walked through the red doors of St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church.  I remember what I ached for, so deeply.  It wasn’t service projects, or new friends, or book discussion groups.  I longed to confess the sins weighing heavy on my soul and revel in the grace I found.  I had heard of a party of forgiven sinners, of a God who came to save the world, not condemn it, of a God who entered into our brokenness and healed it, of a God who loved us through our pettiness, our jealousy, and our hatred, of a God who conquered through surrender, of a God who lived by dying.  I had heard of a party celebrating that God and I longed to join it.  Although the liturgy was unfamiliar, the words new, the actions confusing, when I knelt and said the confession and received absolution and took communion, the noose around my heart loosened.  Worship set me free, and I found a home.  

My friends, whatever happens to our strategic plans, to our adult education, to our charity resale shops, whatever happens to our buildings and our staff, we ARE the church.  We proclaim the gospel.  We confess our sins.  We receive absolution.  We celebrate the sacred eucharist, the mystery of Christ in bread and wine.  What does a church do?  Duh!  We worship the triune God.  To quote Nadia, “No one does that shit at yoga class”.

The Rainbow Flag: Why?

Over the green grass of my church, St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church, a new flag waves--the rainbow flag.  Most of the parishioners are thrilled with our flagpole, which now flies the American flag, the Episcopal Church flag, and right below it, the rainbow flag, symbolizing support and love for the LGBTQ community.  Since we hoisted the rainbow, however, the church leadership has fielded a few questions.  Most notably this question, “We are an Episcopal Church.  We have a gay, married bishop.  We have a liturgy for same-sex marriages.  Everyone knows we are inclusive of all types of people.  Why do we need to wave a flag?”

"Why?" is a difficult question.  It implies that I understand the roots of a problem, the antecedents behind behavior, the motives of a man.  “Why?” implies that I can explain the reason behind something.  Although I could tell the story of how I mentioned the flag to our priest, Fr. Tim, who said, “If you buy it, we can fly it.”  Then, I mentioned that conversation to another friend, who graciously purchased the flag on her own.  Then, the vestry discussed it, debated it, and decided to fly it.  The story of the grassroots desire to fly the rainbow doesn’t really explain, “Why?  Why does a church dedicated to loving others, serving the community, and enacting social justice have to advertise it?”

My answer, my friends, honestly, is that I do not really know “Why?”

• I do not know why people have never heard of Christian churches who affirm and celebrate ALL people, regardless of race, sex, or sexual orientation.  But they haven’t.
• I do not know why people unfamiliar with churches assume all Christians are against gays and lesbians.  But they do.
• I do not know why people who call themselves Christians can judge and hate people based on who they love and yet claim to “love the sinner and hate the sin.”  But they do.
• I do not know why leadership in certain churches wouldn’t allow my gay and lesbian friends to be ministers, lay-leaders, or to teach children.  But they won’t.
• I do not know why church leaders would tell a gay person that he or she is welcome, as long as he or she is celibate, or doesn’t “flaunt their ‘gayness’.”  But they do.
• I do not know why outspoken religious leaders spew hate-filled rhetoric proclaiming eternal damnation based on who a person loves.  But they do.

• I do not know why people tell my friend’s children that they are not welcome in “this club” because their parents are two men.  But they do.
• I do not know why people leave dead cats and feces and other disgusting and degrading things on the porch steps of two men raising their adopted daughters together in a loving family.  But they do.
• I do not know why any church founded on the principles of Christ’s love would have to advertise loving the marginalized and the oppressed.  But we do.
• I do not know know why there is ignorance, bigotry, and hatred of people based on who they were born to be and who they love.  But, there is.

My friends, there are people longing to find Christ’s love in a welcoming community, people who have been hurt by Christians, people who are afraid that they and their families will be judged, people who have been denied, marginalized, oppressed, and hated by Christian churches for the “sin” of loving another person.  I do not know why my LGBTQ brothers and sisters have had to endure such bigotry and hatred.  But I do know that they tell me their hearts lift and tears of joy well in their eyes when they see the rainbow flying proudly over a house of God.  Although I wish it were just an unnecessary adornment, a redundant symbol of a long-won war, it is not.  There are still people marginalized and discriminated against, and I am proud to see the rainbow flag flying over the green grass of St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church.

The Ridiculous Joy of Easter

People say there are Good Friday Christians and Easter Christians.  If so, I am firmly in the Good Friday camp.  I came back to the Christian church during Lent, longing for austerity,  structure, and sacrifice in my spiritual life.   That year, the Good Friday liturgy broke my heart open and grace streamed into it.  Since then, I anticipate the catharsis of Good Friday with a sorrowful longing.  As I weep in the darkened, black-draped sanctuary and grieve for the hate that humanity commits upon itself, God sloughs away the calluses of my soul and I feel the pain of all the victims.  Good Friday breaks my heart open to empathy for the least of these--I emerge, more raw, more vulnerable, and more loving.

The grief of Good Friday feels more natural to me than the celebration of Easter Sunday. I have a difficult time connecting with the joy.  Part of it is personal history.  Easter was the last time I saw my father alive.  In 2005, we spent the holiday together during his 18 month-long battle with cancer.  I knew he was weakening, but he was still in strong spirits with good quality of life when I left him.  A few days later, he couldn’t walk.  The tumor on his spine paralyzed him.  A few weeks later, the cancer overtook his body and he lost the fight.  So, for me, Easter begins a period of mourning that concludes on May 7, the anniversary of my father’s death. Every year since, I attend church, I sing, “Christ the Lord has risen today”; however, I fear I lack that “Easter spirit”.

If the spirituality of Easter is a challenge for me, the secular celebration of Easter seems absolutely ridiculous.  Admittedly, in my regular life, I’m somewhat of a party pooper.  I dislike most celebrations that require more planning than a casual beer and burger with friends. Easter is a big loser on the cost-benefit party analysis.  I am supposed to color eggs which I do not want to eat, hide eggs which I do not want to look for, and purchase candy which will only make me fat.  Not to mention that the Easter Bunny is full-on weird.  Why on earth does a bunny deliver eggs?  It is embarrassing that the culmination of the Christian faith is reduced to a middle-aged man in a bunny suit distributing candy.  I prefer my holidays dignified, or at least a little less bizarre.  This year, however, my Easter eggstravaganza is in full force.  We will baptize my youngest son, with all the pomp and circumstance that entails.  I am up to my armpits in Easter this year-- all the spiritual and secular celebration:  hymns, Easter lilies, baptisms, christening outfits, new clothes, Easter bunnies, egg hunts, food and drink.  I just can’t escape the festivities this time and somehow, I wonder if it’s all meant to be.  Perhaps this is the year that I find my “Easter spirit”, that my Easter Grinch heart grows three sizes.  

This is the year we celebrate my adorable little son, the joy of my life that I didn’t know I needed until he arrived.  This is the year I celebrate surprise, the life of my newborn baby, and the life I have found in the resurrection of Christ Jesus. If I had my druthers, my life would be routine, predictable, and follow a prescribed plan.  Work, family, church, and other pursuits would fit nicely into my schedule.  I could look ahead for the next ten years or so, crossing items off my to-do list as I plod through the days.  No need for fanfare or disruption.  But, God doesn’t give me my druthers, God gives me a life.  Life doesn’t fit into my google calendar and my budget spreadsheet. Life is messy, joyous, and ridiculous.  Life is unpredictable blessings--snotty-nosed, sassy-mouthed, sleep-depriving, adorable, loving blessings.  Life takes my organized, predictable satisfaction and raises the stakes. Life sprinkles my contentment with craziness.  Sorrow and joy disrupt my plans, and in the eye of the disruption, in the midst of the ridiculous, in the heart of the disbelief, I find God.

I expect that Easter didn’t fit into the plans of the disciples, either.  They thought they were getting a messiah who would defeat the Romans, not a martyr crucified as a criminal.  If the tragedy didn’t make sense, the triumph was absolutely mystifying.  Christ was back, but he still wasn’t liberating Israel.  He was liberating souls, which is much more difficult to understand, much more ridiculous.  I can imagine Peter and his friends saying, “OK, now we have a risen Lord.  What do we do with him?”  Even for believers, Easter requires a leap of faith, faith that God loves ALL the sinners, faith that good will continue to defeat evil, faith that, in the face of discord and hatred, love still wins.

Perhaps this is the year when my sorrow turns to joy, when I allow myself to come out from the Good Friday mourning clothes into my Easter bonnet, when I lay down my grief over the death of my father and take up my joy in the birth of my son.  After all, Easter isn’t just one day of gladness and gluttony.  When that stone rolled away, it didn’t roll back again--the world was changed forever.  Perhaps Easter celebrations are ridiculous because Easter itself is ridiculous.  It is completely ridiculous that the God of all creation would love the silly, selfish human race enough to become human incarnate.  It is completely ridiculous that this God would then allow those misguided, scared, selfish human beings to kill him.  It is completely ridiculous that this God would descend into hell and rise again, resurrected in form, whole in body, to restore grace to all those who are lost.  We don’t worship a God that makes sense, that sticks to the routine, that follows the rules; we worship God in Jesus Christ, who surprises us with an embarrassment of ridiculous riches in the grace of Easter.

Laying Down the Privilege of Denial

“The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice.”  --Martin Luther King, Jr.  All I can say is, “Dear God, may it be so.”  Lately, I doubt that this is true.  After the Charleston church shooting in June 2015, my doubts overcame my hope.  People say that systemic racism will never change until white people become angry.  My friends, I was angry--angry, frustrated, and impotent to make any positive change.

In my frustration, I wrote these words, “How can I help?  I am stricken by these events.  I am listening and begging for answers, because I don’t understand how to help the problem.  I grew up in a predominantly white area, I live in a predominantly white neighborhood, worship in a predominantly white church, and work in a school with a predominantly white staff.  Of course, I believe I'm not a racist, but I benefit from my pale skin and blue eyes, from my middle-class upbringing, from a society built upon the backs of slaves and oppressed minorities.  I bear the guilt by virtue of my lucky birth.  When I interact with the police and other law enforcement, I meet respect and helpfulness, not suspicion and fear.  My children will not be called “thug” or “ho” based on the color of their skin.  My male children will not have to learn how to submit to the police in order to stay alive.  As a white person in a white-dominated culture, I cannot truly understand the struggle of minorities.  I cannot get out of my own skin to experience it.  How does a privileged white person address the racism that is pervasive and corrosive in our culture?  How am I complicit?  How can I help?” l http://lindaloumiz.blogspot.com/2015/06/love-thy-enemies-reaction-to-charleston.html

Last November my church, St. Ignatius of Antioch Episcopal Church, hosted a 2.5 day training in analyzing systemic racism through Crossroads Anti-Racism Organizing and Training. http://crossroadsantiracism.org/  The Episcopal Diocese of Chicago hosts these trainings twice a year for clergy and laypersons.  I attended the training to try to gain some knowledge, and through the knowledge, to gain some power to help.  I knew it would be difficult, disappointing, and heart-wrenching to contemplate my white privilege in the face of hundreds of years of oppression of my fellow human beings.  I knew it would bring up my own biases.  I didn’t know it would be so healing and empowering.  

One of the phrases our trainers used to set the tone for the workshop was “We are called and carried here”.  Called and Carried--I love that phrase.  I was called into this work through injustice and hatred, through my ignorance, frustration, and impotence.  I was called by the lessons in social justice learned from my family, my teachers, my ministers and priests, and my friends.  I was called by the long arc of resistance to oppression, by seekers of justice, and by those who face hatred with love.  Something called to me that there must be a better way, there must be someone else fighting this fight, there must be hope.  So, I answered the call.  I began reading and talking with people, and I found out about some trainings and programs.  I met some people who honestly believe they can dismantle systemic racism--what an amazing idea!  I reached out to friends who might want to join the fight.

Called and Carried:  called into the fight by those before me and carried forward by those with me.  During the process of organizing this training, we ran into some major obstacles.   I spoke with one of the trainers, Derrick.  As I explained the roadblocks and my inability to overcome them, I vented my frustration and anger.  “This is something that should happen. This is something that I need to MAKE happen.  Why isn’t it working the way it SHOULD?”  I am used to accomplishing my goals and I expected this event to fall into lines with my plans.   Derrick’s answer was, “Linda, we are talking about dismantling racism here.  It’s not going to happen in the next three months.  These things take time.”

These things take time, years, decades, generations, but there is no time to waste.  Before the training, I thought I had a concept of white privilege, but now the scales have truly fallen from my eyes.  My husband says I see everything as a matter of race now--he’s right.  That’s because so many people do NOT see things as a matter of race.  White America has the unique distinction of oppressing classes of people with almost complete deniability.  There is always another explanation for racial discrimination, “It’s really a matter of income disparity.”  “The problem here is lack of respect for authority.”  There is always a defense, “I don’t ‘see color’.”  “I have many black friends.”  There is always a way for white people to remain blameless while we are complicit in a system of oppression that has spanned 400 years of slavery, genocide, abuse, and marginalization of people of color.  The greatest white privilege is the privilege to deny it all.  That is the privilege I freely shed now.

I cannot wake up tomorrow and become a person of color in order to understand the struggle of existing in a racially biased world.  I am not going to move my family to an impoverished neighborhood to experience the lack of safety people live with there.  I am a product of a flawed system, who has benefitted from pale skin and blue eyes, a nuclear family that valued education, an excellent public education system, fair student loan rates, and accessible employment.  Yes, I have worked hard to get where I am today; I have sacrificed, made responsible choices, and lived within my means.  So have millions of other people, and not many of them have the advantages in life that I have, as a regular middle-class school teacher and married mother.  Many, many people work hard, my friends; it is time to admit that hard work does not always pay off.  It is time to admit that the deck is stacked, the dice are loaded, the game is rigged.  It is time to put down the rose-colored glasses of denial and pick up the lens of clarity.

Today, I am ready to join the fight, and the first battle is within my own perception.  I am ready to see racism and the pain it causes.  I am ready to see white privilege and the disparity it causes.  I am ready to stop denying and begin changing it.