I was a Soft Racist at UVA

Three days ago I wrote about being a UVA parent and the racist violence in Charlottesville this past

weekend,  and I must confess I was quite flattered by the responses I received. I was told the writing was beautiful and inspiring among other things. It was shared and read repeatedly. I confess it may have gone a little (a lot) to my head, but that's not the confession I need to make.

Over the last 24 hours I have felt less proud and more, well compelled to tell the rest of my story. The part of my story that is not so beautiful, that is not so inspiring. The part of the story that I have been forced to face especially since reading Josh Bryan's blog Charlottesville was my Fault. The part that makes Charlottesville my fault...

I don't suppose anyone would have ever considered my family of origin racist. And I can assure you soap would have been eaten if either of my parents had ever heard us use the n-word or any other racist language. But...

The story was told many times about my mother crying for hours after seeing the movie Guess Who's Coming to Dinner because she had two baby girls and worried that might one day be us. We "weren't racist" but we had family and friends who were and after visits with them we were lectured on how wrong it was, but no one ever said anything while we were there instead choosing to keep the peace. And then we went to Charlottesville...

In 1987 I transferred to UVA the school I had sworn I would never attend. (In fact I may have told Dean Jack Blackburn to his face that he didn't need to waste the stamp sending me an application; yep I was that kind of kid) On our drive to Charlottesville my grandfather died which we learned when we arrived at my aunt and uncle's home. My uncle was an English  professor at UVA and former Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. We made a plan to quickly move me into my university housing apartment so Mama and Daddy could drive back to Augusta. Meredith, my sister, and I would fly back two days later.

We arrived at the apartment and entered finding warm, smiling faces lounging in the living room--warm, smiling black faces. We introduced ourselves to them, explained what had happened and quickly moved my things into my room. I don't remember much about the next 24 hours but I remember this...

Shortly after arriving back in Augusta for grandfather's funeral my parents took me aside and said, "We can get you moved. We've already talked to Uncle Irby." I'd like to say I was aghast, offended and outraged, but I wasn't. I told them I'd think about it. And I did.

Again, I'd like to think my decision was based solely on my principles but I think it was based as much on not wanting to have to pack up and move. I do remember thinking, "I'm not going to move just because my roommates are black." but again I'm not sure that was based on some moral stance as much as defiance. (Remember I was that kid in Dean Blackburn's office....)

I arrived back in C'ville very late and tired. As I walked into my room there lying on my bed were flowers and the nicest card that I still have. My roommates, Angelique, Sondra, and Carmella, came into the room, asked how I was and then we sat down and talked about the apartment and living together.

I loved living with them. There were many late nights of laughter; there were many days we gathered around sharing stories and making fun of each other. They began to call me Kunta Kanto and the name stuck. Very quickly African American students all over Grounds would holler out "Hey Kunta" when they saw me. Here's the thing, it made me feel special. I liked being known; I liked knowing so many people. It was about me and me feeling included and accepted, and not about me reaching out But here's the truth no one talked about.

In the apartment we were close; when I went to watch Carmella play basketball (she was on the women's team) we were close; but not once did we socialize outside of the apartment. Not once...(unless you consider the one time they invited me to a step show and then persuaded me to try...I give thanks daily there was no such thing as iphones then...)

But my University story doesn't stop there. That was also the year for the first time the University had a "wear jeans to support gay rights" day. And no one, myself included, that I know did.

I am not proud of any of the above, but as Dr. Catherine Meeks shared several weeks ago in the Dismantling Racism workshop, unless we own our own stories, acknowledge our part in the system, and repent then we cannot move forward.

I am truly ashamed of that year, but I also know that year was the beginning of a change in me, and I'd like to believe that year was the beginning of the story that is continuing to be told today through my daughter.  I truly wish I was as resolute then in my beliefs as my daughter is now. I can blame it on the times or I can just own my story and seek forgiveness.
Thank you UVA for being part of both of our stories.

And now I pray....

Most merciful God,
we confess that we have sinned against thee
in thought, word, and deed,
by what we have done,
and by what we have left undone.
We have not loved thee with our whole heart;
we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.
We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.
For the sake of thy Son Jesus Christ,
have mercy on us and forgive us;
that we may delight in thy will,
and walk in thy ways,
to the glory of thy Name. Amen. (BCP)

God of all mercy, we confess that we have sinned against you, opposing your will in our lives. We have denied your goodness in each other, in ourselves, and in the world you have created. We repent of the evil that enslaves us, the evil we have done, and the evil done on our behalf. Forgive, restore, and strengthen us through our Savior Jesus Christ, that we may abide in your love and serve only your will. Amen. (Enriching Our Worship)

"If I Were a UVA Parent...."

"If I were a UVA parent..." words spoken by numerous people all over social media, in the news, in conversations over the last 48 hours. "If I were a UVA parent..." but you're not, and I am.

I am a UVA parent, and just to be completely transparent, I am a UVA parent of a white woman. Over the last 48 hours I have been seized by terror, anger, anxiety and my student is white. I cannot begin to imagine how intense the emotions of African American parents must be as they watched the assault on Charlottesville and the University of Virginia by white supremacists. I can only speak from my perspective.

What I do know is this. What occurred in Charlottesville was as John Pavlovitz said in his blog (Full blog)
This is racism.
This is domestic terrorism.
This is religious extremism.
This is bigotry.
It is blind hatred of the most vile kind.
It doesn’t represent America.
It doesn’t represent Jesus.
It doesn’t speak for the majority of white Americans.
It’s a cancerous, terrible, putrid sickness that represents the absolute worst of who we are.

I know these people descended on Charlottesville and the University wanting to spew their vile evil and hate. But there are many things I don't know.

The march onto the hallowed Grounds on Friday night was a surprise march. I don't know how far in advance the surprise was discovered. I don't know when President Teresa Sullivan, president of UVA, knew of the onslaught or what she tried or didn't try to do.  I do know this is public property and that she had to follow the law. I do not know what she was doing behind the scenes. I do not know what phone calls she was making or what advisors she was consulting. I do not know whether she crossed the street.

I do know I am heartbroken this happened in Charlottesville at my beloved University. And yes I did want my daughter to leave and come to me at the beach. But I never, not once, considered driving to Charlottesville, demanding my tuition, and removing my daughter--and for anyone who knows SK you know she wouldn't have left anyway.


What I also know is this isn't the first time I have wanted to drive to C'ville and grab my daughter. It has not been an easy 3 years. Very shortly after SK arrived for her first year Hannah Graham went missing and then was found murdered; she experienced the abhorrent violent arrest of Martese Johnson; she was there when Rolling Stone printed an article--later to be found false--that brought to light the culture of sexual predators and assault in the Greek culture both at UVA and across the country, and each and every time I watched a little bit more of her innocence ripped away.

And each and every time I also watched those spaces of her filled with a strength and maturity that left me speechless. I watched that innocence be replaced with kindness, compassion, power and the drive to be part of the solution. I saw her grow before my very eyes into a leader that recognizes her privilege and seeks ways to use it to walk with others. I saw her march, attend candle light vigils, attend prayer services, and sit and cry with those who were marginalized. And I learned from her; I continue to learn from her.

I watched these parts of her grow as she participated in the life of the University--in the academic village that Mr. Jefferson created. A village that has professors, students, and leaders living, studying and dialoging together. A university that respects the voices of the students.

Yes, I know Mr. Jefferson, our third president, was a slave owner. And that is horrible and evil and there is NO part of that I don't condemn. But that's not all he was. Did you know part of the reason Mr. Jefferson founded UVA was in response to his disappointment in his alma mater William and Mary that required all students to agree to the same religious beliefs? In a letter to William Roscoe Jefferson writes, "This institution will be based on the illimitable freedom of the human mind. For here we are not afraid to follow truth wherever it may lead, nor to tolerate any error so long as reason is left free to combat it." The truth we need to be following is that ALL are equal and we're nowhere near there

What I do know is that these thousands of white supremacists who tried to besiege Charlottesville were NOT created by UVA (yes, I know at least one of the leaders was, but not the majority). What I do know is what UVA has helped to create in my daughter. A woman who last year traveled to South Africa despite the danger to work for race reconciliation; a woman who this summer took an 8 week unpaid (long coveted--she heard Becca Stevens speak when she was in high school) internship with the Magdalene House of Thistle Farms (Thistle Farms ); a woman who before she left the danger this weekend texted all the middle and high school students she has mentored to make certain they were safe and to assure them she was there if they needed her; and a woman who showed up at St. Paul's Episcopal Church this morning because she believes despite the evil she witnessed this weekend there is always hope.

So no, I'm not descending upon Carr's Hill (the President's home) to demand my tuition or to berate President Sullivan for what she did or did not do. And I'm also not judging those who are choosing to withdraw their children. But I am suggesting there may be another option. Perhaps what we parents should do is to descend on Carr's Hill or in the President's email to ask, "What can WE do? How can WE be part of the solution? How can WE support you?"

It Was About the Wax Paper

Running gets me in trouble EVERY time!!!

I chose to listen to a podcast instead of music--I needed to slow down my pace so perhaps I could actually finish the run--that would be mistake number 1.

Then I chose to listen to Oprah and Glennon Doyle--that would be mistake number 2. As I was moving into the third mile I heard these words, "Addiction was a place to hide. It was a hiding place. Addiction is a hiding place where sensitive people can go."

"or not writing" I thought, "not writing is where sensitive people go, well maybe not lots of people but me. Not writing that's where I hide." Hiding takes so much energy. Hiding is making me tired. So, I guess it's time for me to come out of the bushes, here goes....

Last week we had the Louisville Episcopal vacation bible school at St. Thomas. The kitchen was full of men and women organizing the food for dinner and the supplies for bread baking (which was our craft for the night). As people arrived some of the same questions were repeatedly asked; questions that usually started with, "Have you thought about..." or "What about...." I thought I responded in a playful way laughing and asking if they trusted me.

That night I couldn't sleep (more so than normal but that's a whole different blog post). I worried about how I had behaved and how it was perceived. I worried I had not been the leader I wanted to be and that I had hurt others. Fortunately the next day was the day our weekly email goes out, so this is what I wrote...

A Message from Just Katherine

I can be pretty sarcastic—some would call it being a smart alec, some would call it something else. I prefer to call it playful BUT sometimes it’s not. Let me clarify—most of the time, if not always, it is my intention to be playful, but sometimes (and probably more than I know) it is not taken in the way I intend it to be. Feelings get hurt, anger is stirred, misunderstandings occur, and relationships are damaged, and the bottom line is it’s my fault, not the receiver’s. Confession—it may have happened last night….. We gathered to prepare for VBS—gathered is an interesting word—more like we randomly arrived as our schedules permitted. With the staggered arrivals, conversations were repeated; some of the same questions were asked; and I was, frankly, a smart alec.  The gist, I guess, was I said something like, “Do y’all not trust me? Do you not think I have thought of these things?” I truly was kidding; I found myself hilarious…(and I do think multiple checks on things is a good idea…) What I didn’t take into consideration was how it was received. Beyond that, my failed attempt at humor negated the hard work and the time so many of you brought last night. People with their own children, new members of the family, people with no children, people who have been to every VBS at the other churches, and people who came for the first time all showed up and worked tirelessly to make certain those who came were greeted warmly, fed well, and experienced the love of God. I want to acknowledge everyone who came last night (but I’m terrified I’ll forget someone); I want to thank you for the ministry you shared with so many others. And I want to both apologize for my words and thank you for ministering to me—giving me much on which to reflect. Ephesians 4:29 says, “Do not let unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” I’m going to substitute the word “sarcastic” for unwholesome and commit this verse to memory. Is there a verse you need to learn? Is there a trait upon which you need to reflect? I read the email after it went out, and I read it again after I received a few messages. And I started thinking about my challenge to everyone to reflect on a trait. And here is now the ugly truth I want to hide behind--it really wasn't about me trying to be playful.  It was about me. It was about how I heard the questions. I didn't hear them as questions coming from a group of people working together to make certain the event was successful, a group of people with checks and balances, a group of people just thinking aloud. I heard accusation and doubt in me. While they were asking the questions last week, I was hearing the words from 1997, "What do you mean you don't have wax paper? How could you not have wax paper? A good kitchen has wax paper." (and these questions went on for 3 days!!!), and I became defensive and scared--worried I had or would make a mistake and then everyone would know I wasn't enough, that I wasn't competent, that I didn't have it as together as I tried to make it seem. Worried that people already thought those things and that's why they were asking.... It was about the wax paper and the many other ways I had been told I wasn't enough. Despite years of therapy, I went back to that place.... Did I still owe people an apology for my sarcastic tone and words? Absolutely, it was wrong, But what I owed to myself was the truth behind my words and actions.  It is only through acknowledging our own truths that we grow; it is only through acknowledging the places where we hide that we can become the people God intended us to be. Guess I'll start writing again. Oh, and I still don't own wax paper.....