As I boarded the plane in Dallas, excitement still pulsated
through my body. The plane was full of people wearing purple and gold. JMU had
just won the national championship, and I was there. I was there supporting my
brother in his first season coaching—and he was a national champion! I was so
proud of him.
I found my seat—a middle seat—and got comfortable. The
window seat was already taken by a woman who was either already sleeping or
realized I was primed to talk so quickly pretended she was. As I was buckling
my seatbelt a young man sat down in the aisle seat. He was clearly an athlete—not
only was he in extremely good shape, but he also had on U of L athletic gear
(and not the kind just anyone can buy), and if that hadn’t been a give away, he
was also carrying a duffle bag with the bowl emblem on it. I’m quite the
detective.
This poor young man didn’t know he was doomed—he just got
comfortable in a seat next to a middle aged woman who loves to talk football,
and probably (read most likely) thinks she knows more than she does, who had
just left a National Championship football game and who had three hours of
flying time. Before he could get his earphones in I blurted out, “Do you go to
U of L?” He said, “Yes m’am” and that opened the floodgates.
For the next hour and a half we talked about what position
he played; he replayed several plays from his bowl game for me; he listened to
me talk about the JMU game; and he empathized with me about UVA football. I
asked him how he wound up choosing U of L and why he was in Dallas. And I
listened to him as he told me his mother had never missed one of his games in
high school but now it was harder and she didn’t make many.
After the first hour and a half I heard my sons’ voices in
my head saying, “Okay Mama leave him alone now. You don’t want to be arrested
for stalking.” Which actually should have stopped me from doing the next thing
I did—I snuck a picture of him!
The next day I posted said picture on facebook with the
something to the effect that I had been able to sit next to a kind, articulate
young man, and I admitted I snuck his picture—something Boss said was akin to
stalking. Other than a few people agreeing with Boss that I could quite
possibly be the most creepy person ever, there was little conversation, until a
week later…
I received a private message from a seminary friend. My
friend is African American and during seminary we bonded over our love for
sports as women as well as theological issues. Several times we had long conversations
about gender and race equality over wine and dinners out. We shared stories of
growing up and of mother/daughter relationships. I love this friend of mine and
admire her passion.
Her message was not what I expected. She challenged me on my
use of the word “articulate” to describe my young friend on the plane. She
asked me if I was surprised an African American young man could be articulate?
I must admit I was taken aback—didn’t she know me? Where was this coming from?
I felt attacked and misunderstood. After taking a long walk and processing I
responded to her message.
I explained my comments came from an entirely different
place—I am the mother of two sons 18 and 19—this young man’s age—and I was
impressed with his kindness, his willingness to be in conversation and how he
conversed with me maintaining eye contact and being genuinely engaged. I came
from the place of hoping my sons would be able to do the same and knowing there
are many young men this age who only grunt and look down when engaging with
adults—and those are the ones they know!
Her response was, “That’s what I thought.” And then she
explained to me the word “articulate” is a trigger word in the African American
culture. I must admit for the next few days I was still uneasy. I would never
hurt my friend and I was horrified I had done something that could be
misconstrued to be racist. There was also a part of me that felt afraid—afraid of
what else I don’t know that I say or do that is offensive or could hurt
someone. I admit I was also still somewhat defensive…
As I worked through these thoughts and feelings, I gradually
found a peace. First, what I did was unintentional and from a place of
ignorance. What my friend did was kind—she didn’t blast me in the public sphere—she
privately challenged me, and she affirmed my intention while still educating
me. And I believe she heard me. I came to the understanding that this could not
have happened if we didn’t have a relationship—a respect and love for one
another that was developed over wine and sports talk, sharing our lives and
watching one another live into our own ministries. I gave thanks for our
friendship and our ability to have difficult conversations.
Not two weeks later I was part of a group gathered to talk
about race and to work on partnership between predominately African American
and predominately white churches. I shared my story as, I thought, an example
of the need for us to start with building relationships through fellowship
before we start having hard conversations, conversations that can be misunderstood.
As I told my story people were quiet and there were several nodding heads, but
the quiet was interrupted as a women looked at me and almost shouted, “Are you
kidding? You said ‘articulate?’ That is absolutely offensive and racist.” And
then she physically turned her back on me.
I felt my face flame with embarrassment, and then I became
angry. Who was she to call me out? She doesn’t even know me or know anything
about me! And she’s WHITE I sputtered in my head. How dare she blast me in a
public sphere without knowing my intentions?!?! I stayed angry, and I certainly
had no desire to talk to her further—“judgmental jerk,” I thought, “holier than
thou.”
As the days passed I continued to think about both of these
encounters and I see them as examples of the need for relationship. In the
first we already had a relationship and that helped the conversation from the beginning.
In the second encounter, I was so angry as I’m fairly certain the other woman
was, that we both shut down any potential relationship. What would have
happened if I’d reached out and asked, “How did you know ‘articulate’ was an
offensive word? Tell me your story.”
Around this time I also heard an On Being podcast with Eula
Biss; it was titled “On Whiteness.” In the podcast Eula Biss challenges the
power of words. She says we give words power when we spend so much energy being
offended by them. She quickly adds that doesn’t give us free rein to say
whatever we want, to be intentionally offensive. But she wonders if
conversations are shut down before they begin because people are so worried
about being offensive they just choose not to talk. And if we don’t talk, we
don’t think, and if we don’t think we can’t get to the systemic roots of
racism. (or probably any other ism…)
I’m still trying to put all these things together. I’m still
trying to make some sense of what I can learn from these things. I am trying to
find a way to be a part of conversations about race, to be a part of the
solution. What I do know is that I wish for a society where trust and good
intentions were assumed until they were broken. I’m not sure that is the norm
any more, and that makes me sad. It makes me sad, but it also leads me to
consider what actions I can take, to consider how I can be a part.
I can continue to talk and write bumbling my way through and
remain open to being critiqued. I can try to hear and not be defensive even
when the delivery is challenging. I can ask for clarification. I can try to
live a life of trust and good intentions and risk taking. And when I fail, I
can ask for forgiveness. I can confess, “I
have sinned again you in thought, word, and deed, by what I have done and by
what I have left undone.” (BCP, p.66) and
through my sins known and unknown.
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*Disclaimer: I intentionally
did not go back and look up the specific facebook post or the messages between
my friend and me. I did not relisten to the podcast or look up the transcript.
To understand why—see tomorrow’s blog.
