Things I Didn’t Know, I Didn’t Know

We were seated at circular tables of the elementary school library. The faded lighting of the afternoon sun infiltrated through numerous southwest facing windows. Requirements by the state dictated mandatory participation in this curriculum to help meet the needs of ELL (English Language Learner) students. Teachers from across the county, a well-diversified assembly of age, experience, and ethnicity were in attendance.

Nearing the completion of the day’s tasks, we openly discussed race in America. One topic was about children spending the night at friends’ homes. I was a bit shocked to learn that this habit was controversial. Sleepovers, after all, were a typical, innocent, rite of passage in my friend group, but many in the room disagreed with that sentiment. In their neighborhoods there weren’t any spend the night parties. This was not safe for many children. My heart sank a bit as I listened. At one point, I said, “Look, we are all here together. We have the same education and career, the same paycheck. We have an African American President. Surely we have come a long way since Jim Crowe Laws and separate drinking fountains?”

My colleague responded to that comment. I don’t remember her exact verbiage. Obama being the president was little relief from her point of view. With striking clarity, I recall her deep-seated anguish. She was weary from continuous battles that I had never fought. Her soul bared wounds, foreign to me. I could feel fatigued sadness like radiating waves similar to my own discomfort in labor. Her pain would not subside shortly with the arrival of a newborn. Her suffering would persist into the future, perhaps for the entirety of her life.

I left that discussion aware of one thing: I didn’t know, what I didn’t know. It left me restless for more pieces to the complex puzzle. In the following years I have taken more notice, purposeful care, to pay attention to differing cultures. I have read books about history (that no one ever bothered to teach me), and initiated conversations. I’ll never forget the day I asked a biracial twenty something, “When is the last time you encountered racial prejudice?” His response, “Well, two weeks ago…” I was taken aback by what he encountered. He was not. He brushed it off as just another day. I was outraged. He was not.

At work, after a discussion about Martin Luther King Jr., one of my ten-year-old, male students confided in a whisper, “Some people still do not like black people.” My heart sank at his assessment.

Recently on social media, I started a discussion about the tragic death of Ahmaud Arbery. I noticed that agony filled radiating pain similar to the discussion during my ESOL (English as a Second Language) class. Some of my white friends wanted to argue points. I tried to direct their attention to the collective long-standing grief being expressed by my African American friends. I prodded, “Something is wrong. We need to pay attention.” I engaged in a side discussion with one young father, “I’m scared my sons will not make it to adulthood.” I knew his fear was rooted in reality.

Another senseless death, that of George Floyd, has shaken the nation. Something is wrong. We do need to pay attention. I don’t think the answer lies in the political parties per se. I can see how someone could surmise that the Democratic party panders to minority votes, but rarely implements laws that make lasting changes in vulnerable communities. Similarly, I can see how someone could argue that the Republican party is racist. It is under represented by those it is trying to foster economic change for. The Church hasn’t done such a great job. The 9:00 and 11:00 hours on Sunday are perhaps the most segregated times of the week.

That leaves individuals to be the change that we want to see in the world. I think we have to work together, even one conversation at a time. I don’t understand the enormity of the pain felt in minority communities. Even less do I have solutions but listening and leaning into discussions as a good listener (not arguer) would be a start. Listening to learn and show compassion has potential to foster healing, even if it will only heal one wound of one heart. The heart that transforms might be your own.

Thousands or years ago, a haughty legal expert questioned Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” Jesus presented a short object lesson and then asked His own question, “Who acted as the man’s neighbor? The Lawyer’s response, “The one who had mercy on him.” We should aim to be more merciful. We should seek to be friendly across the melanin spectrum. Kind, friendly gestures, words and actions can be seeds of restoration soaked into our nation’s soil. America, we have to do better. The ball has to move forward. The status quo requires too high of a price tag to keep paying.