Yep, its that time of year when every black history hashtag will be met with cries of "foul!" and retaliatory questions like, "Why don't we have a white history month?" Every year there is a backlash, whether large or small from white folks who feel that this dedication to black history falls into the "reverse discrimination" and "special treatment" category. Contrary to popular belief, not all black folks feel the same way about black history month either. There are some who charge that having a month dedicated to black history perpetuates the idea that our history is somehow separate from America's history. 

To both I respectfully say, "Phooey". 

I also sadly say, "Phooey".

I wish there was no need to dedicate a special month to recounting black history. I wish there was no need for "special treatment" throughout the month of February. I wish black history (and asian histories and first nation histories and southern american histories) were told as commonly as white eurocentric history. I wish that hearing about black men and women inventors, leaders, heroes, struggles, and victories were embedded in our language, our history books, our media, our schools. I wish that sharing black history was so common, I couldn't tell it was black history month by looking at PBS's line up for the month. (Grateful though I am for the line up). How wonderful it would be to not need a Black History Month.

But we are not there yet.

In school I had to learn about all the presidents of the United States, long before there was a black one. I had to learn about the generals of the civil war, but had no idea that black Americans were fighting in the war, too. There were three paragraphs dedicated to black history in my elementary education. 1. Slavery, in which I had to learn the name of Eli Whitney and his cotton gin; heaven forbid I learn the name of just one slave. 2. Civil Rights in which I learned about the "good negro" Martin and the "bad negro" Malcolm. 3. Oh, wait. There was no third paragraph. My bad.  I had to take every chance I could to sneak a black face into my own education. Book report due- I choose Harriet Tubman. Essay to write- I'll focus on women in the Civil Rights Movement. I have to read a book over the summer- How about Invisible Man.  Like many black Americans, I created my own education with the help of parents, the church, and my beloved books. 

But this isn't where things ended. I was required to take a course on European History, but no courses were offered about anyone else's history. I had to learn church history, but the church in Africa was missing from the story. Far beyond curriculum woes, there was an absence of understanding. Ice breakers that started with "Where is your family from?" ripped a hole through the hearts of every African American in the room. Classmates answer- French and English or Irish and Greek. Some answer Chile or Mexico. And others Korea or Japan. As the responses snake their way around the room, some declaring their responses boldly with pride, others are unsure and timid. But soon comes the group who wish they knew. Wish there was a response. Wish a DNA test wouldn't be necessary to be any more specific than… Africa. 

And so too the analogies that made no sense to me- skiing and sailing and surfing. Sitting in class trying to decipher the analogy that was supposed to make another concept clearer was (is) frustrating. I don't get perms, I get relaxers. I don't need to wash my hair once a day, little health book, but thanks for the suggestion. 

And how I wish it ended in the classroom. How I wish that with adulthood came a sudden realization that black history is celebrated everywhere except the classroom. But when I step out into the world, whiteness is everywhere. Not just white people, but whiteness. Its in the art of doctors, dentists, practices, hotels, restaurants. Smiling faces of white folks, abstract art painted by white hands, some of it quite beautiful but rarely reflective of the diversity that is America. Whiteness is celebrated on magazine covers, billboards, commercials and awards shows. Whiteness is the default in movies and television. (I will never understand how shows set in any major city can consist of an all white cast.) Whiteness is the default in Christian conferences and symposiums. We all have to think really hard to come up with faces of color that meet the "standards" of planners. Whiteness is clearly valued in Christian bookstores and Christian movies and Christian fiction and certainly theology. Whiteness is celebrated everywhere.

And so I ask for a month. One month. 4 weeks. To watch faces that look like me on PBS. To hear stories that sound like mine on NPR. To learn something new about an inventor, creator, speaker, teacher that history would otherwise forget, if not for black history month. I choose to retell the stories of my own family, my ancestors who survived. I choose to celebrate Black History Month, and will continue to do so until a special month is no longer necessary. I reserve the right to determine for myself if/when that will be… but its not today. So happy black history month!  

In the book, American Apartheid, authors Douglas Massey and Nancy Denton explore the correlation between racially segregated neighborhoods and poor communities. The authors argue that segregation, including segregation by choice, has major economic implications. As they outline this argument using data and research, a very interesting question emerges as the focal point of a survey. Subjects are asked to quantify a diverse neighborhood. Average answers? Black folks responded that a 50/50 split would qualify a neighborhood to be considered diverse. White folks responded that 96/4 (whites/blacks) would constitute a diverse neighborhood. While most respondents- black or white- declared they would like to live in a diverse neighborhood, there was a vast difference in how each defined diversity. This book was written in 1990, but I believe the difference in response has incredible implications for us today. 

Because of this discrepancy in defining what it means to be multiracial, sociologist have  determined that there can only be an 80% racial majority. At least 20% of the church must be a different race or ethnicity from the majority. The theory goes that 20% becomes a tipping point for the congregation. According to Michael Emerson (co-author of Divided By Faith and this recent article in the Annual Review of Sociology) at this point, the 20% are less likely to be perceived as token minorities. They also are more likely to begin exerting their collective influence on the church culture and policies. Additionally, when at least 20% of the congregants are racially diverse, the probability of random cross-racial contact is 99%.

Now, I cannot speak for all people of color everywhere. I can only speak for me and my experience at white churches/schools. Since this is my blog, I'm just going to say it. Having 20% people of color surrounded by 80% of white people doesn't feel very diverse. There are some additional criteria that I would have to add:

1. 20% of the influential leadership of the church is of color 

2. 20% of the teaching staff is of color

3. 20% of the worship elements represented the culture of another race or ethnicity 

4. 20% of the attendance at small groups, classes and events were people of color 

5. 20% of the study resources/materials being used in the church are authored by people of color

And this is how focusing on the numbers of your church rather than the culture of your church can become tricky.  While 20% may be the point at which you can declare your church is multiracial, the health of that multiracial balance could still be in question.  Is the minority group satisfied with being 20% are would they like to see that percentage grow? Is the majority group feeling invigorated or suspicious of the changing demographics? Are the donors and long-time members feeling the need to "take the church back"? As the minority members push for similar goals like the ones I have stated above, is the church feeling excited or burdened?

We call this 80/20 split the tipping point, and I think it really does become one for both the majority and minority groups involved. Are they tipping the same direction- hoping for more change and growth? Or has the tipping point become a source of tension?  Its vital that our churches give language to what's happening when our church demographics change and form a clear vision for the future of the congregation. 

The other interesting notation about the tipping point is this probability of random cross-cultural contact. 99% is incredibly high! I understand why that detail would be an important reason for understanding 20% as a tipping point. However, as a black woman I must ask, what is the quality of that cross-racial interaction? 

Am I being called "colored" in the hallway? 

Are multiracial families being stared at? 

Are latino families being called "illegals"? 

Are Koreans being asked if they speak English? 

It is not enough for churches to wear a multiracial ribbon if the 20% minority is not being cared for, valued, or loved. Otherwise, we may not be individual tokens within the congregation, but we remain your collective token, your badge of relevancy, your trophy of accomplishment. Depending on the size of your church or school, 20% can still feel like an awfully small number of people with whom you share a common background. And the possibility to experience micro aggressions is still pretty high when surrounded by an 80% majority. When your church reaches the 80/20 split please don't assume that the racial minority feels welcome, seen, or valued. Numbers don't offer those feelings. People do. 

One final thought. Just as important as the question regarding cross-racial contact, I would add one more: Is this a church where people of color can bring their racial wounds (whether those wounds occurred inside or outside the church)? 

I wish I could underscore how incredibly important this question is to people of color. There are all kinds of micro-aggressions being faced by people of color every day. Recently my husband was looking at magazines in our local Walgreens as he waited for Pizza Hut to complete our takeout order. As he flipped through a magazine of the natural wonders of the world, a white man walked up to him and started badgering him with questions. "Do you prefer to be called black or African American?" Followed by, "Do you like rap music? Why do all these thugs kill each other and why doesn't your leader, Jesse Jackson, have anything to say about that?" My husband never even acknowledged the man's presence, but his pestering continued, "I have a black friend. He's a lot like Carlton from the Fresh Prince, and he says…" Thoroughly embarrassed by this mans verbal vomit, my husband turned to leave, preferring to sit in the car than entertain the madness. Where does my husband go to be reminded that he is fully human? What church flings open its doors and says, 'We appreciate all that your culture means to you'? Where can he go to share this experience and have a church family bear the pain with him? Where does he find safety, healing, affirmation? This describes a great many homogenous churches where the micro aggressions we face are similar. Is there space in our multiracial churches for this level of love? 

As our churches move closer to (or even surpass) the 80/20 tipping point, I hope that our churches will keep in mind all the people represented by those numbers. May our churches become places where people of all races feel safe, loved and affirmed. That may be the true tipping point of welcoming diversity within our doors.  

Sometimes when I write a blog post, I ask questions that I already (think) I know the answers to. This is not one of those posts. This is me processing "out loud" with no definitive conclusions other than those I might stumble upon in the process of writing. 

I have been thinking a lot lately about the story of the Good Samaritan. I love this story. I am one of those kids who grew up in Christian schools my whole life, so this is a story that has been with me since childhood. It is so easy to fall in love with the idea that the outsiders, the marginalized, the unclean can actually be "good". Can make a difference in the lives of others. Might have greater moral standing than ever expected. Can be capable of love. Compassion. Grace. As a black child in a mostly white school (where most of the other black children in my class were boys), this story spoke to me. Despite the things that made me different, I was still capable of goodness, and was always capable of that goodness whether others wanted to recognize it or not. Yes, I loved this story. And I also realized that I was not immune from creating boundaries around who was "in" and who was "out". So, challenging my relationships by asking the question, "who is my neighbor" was relevant in childhood and is relevant in my life today. 

But this story is evolving for me. 

Rather than looking at the Good Samaritan, I have been thinking a lot about this broken man who needed the compassion of the Samaritan. Am I crazy, or is that also pretty revolutionary? 

What does it mean for us that the beaten man needed the Samaritan? Needed him to walk by. Needed him to bend down. Needed him to offer shelter. Needed him to pay for healing care. 

Is a key moment in racial reconciliation, not when the broken man realizes the Samaritan is his neighbor, not when the broken man realizes the Samaritan is capable of goodness, not when the broken man realizes no one else has stopped, but instead is it when the broken man realizes he is broken and in need of the Samaritan for healing?  

I ask because when I lead classes and trainings, it is not uncommon to find white people practicing reconciliation from a place of anger over systemic injustice. Or from a place of guilt and shame derived from white privilege. Or from a place of pity for the poor and disenfranchised. So many emotions. And not necessarily bad places to begin. What I wonder though, is how much growth happens when white people realize they are broken? 

What happens when white people realize that injustice doesn't just weigh down poor people, or black people or immigrant people or trafficked people-- but that the injustice in the world creates brokenness in them?

I don't mean a deriding, sarcastic, making fun of whiteness. I don't mean a childish "what-you-say-bounces-off-of-me-and-sticks-to-you". I am trying to dig for a profound sense of brokenness in which there is a realization that white privilege is harmful to white people's identity. That it is living a lie, breaking the spirit, weighing on the soul. I mean a deep sense of sorrow from generations of systematically denying the humanity of others and thereby destroying ones own humanity. I mean a sense of losing lifeblood from being unable to fully experience the Trinitarian God who dwells in relationship with distinct others. 

Is it possible that the Good Samaritan isn't only about neighbors, but about recognition of brokenness so deep that there is a life-or-death sense of needing one another?

I wonder. 

2013 was filled with apologies. Home Depot apologized to every Twitter user talking about this picture. Justine Sacco issued an apology after posting an offensive tweet about South Africans and AIDS. Questlove issued an apology on Christmas day for making fun of Japanese people on his instagram account. Padma Lakshmi followed suit for her participation in the mocking.  No one was sure Paula Deen would ever stop apologizing as she released video after video for her use of the N-word and her desire to have a plantation style wedding party (with an all black wait staff).  Ani DiFranco issued this apology for agreeing to host an retreat on a plantation site. Now we are in a new year, but the apologies for 2014 have already begun.  Melissa Harris Perry recently apologized for a segment on her show which utilized a picture of a transracial adoption in the Romney family.  And when Ani's apology didn't go over well, an apology for the apology appeared on her Facebook page.  

Truthfully, the number of apologies that get made in a year seem endless. Stars, politicians, companies all hover over the delete button should an offensive post discover too much negative attention. While it would be nice to think that only high profile people/companies need to learn the art of apologizing, the truth is we all need a little practice.  Learning to apologize is a key tool for racial reconcilers. If we can't offer a sincere apology, we will not last long in cross-cultural relationships. So I would like to offer you an anatomy of an apology. 

Let's start with the mind. When called out for making an insensitive remark, our first inclination may be to prove that we know our stuff about race relations. Instead of focusing on what we "know," let's spend more time seeking to understand the particular offense we caused. Owning the mistake is the first step in making sure we don't repeat it.    

Now, onto the throat. I know it seems elementary, but we have to learn to say, "I'm sorry." Especially in written apologies, you might be surprised to find how often this little phrase is missing. It can also be helpful to add why we are sorry- "I would never want to hurt you." or "I hate that I have risked the trust we share." 

A weight on our shoulders is how reconciliation starts to feel, when we have landed in hot water with someone- a weight that would be all too easy to cast off. Yes, we could walk away, remain in a homogenous community and never risk offending anyone ever again. But remember who called us to this work. Don't cast off what feels like a burden in this moment. When we offer one another apologies and forgiveness, we shoulder the load together.  

Apologies are best when they come from the heart. It goes a long way to actually be sorry. Have you ever heard a kid give a grudging apology? Not cute in adults. Don't lose your vulnerability by putting up a wall of defensiveness. Let your heart break over what occurred.  

Write down the list of all the good things you've done in your personal journal. An apology is not the time to recite all the things you did right in recent memory. When you begin reciting all the good things you've done, it sounds like your asking for a pass rather than forgiveness.  

Sit on your derrière! Calm down. Listen. This is where a lot of apologies fall apart. It is so easily to get offended when someone calls you out. Try not to lash out, explain "what you were trying to say", or walk away. Try not to talk over, interrupt, or shut down. Grab a coffee. Sit down. Talk it through. We must make sure we really understand why our words or actions were offensive. 

Walk it out. Commit to doing better. We are all on a journey, learning more about our own histories, translating our own experiences while also learning about others. We can't let our pride stop us from continuing to walk forward. If there is a way to make the offense right, do that. But if nothing else, learn more on your own. If you used an offensive word, research it. If you misunderstood some historical implications, pick up a book. If there is a movie available to help you dig deeper, watch it. When we own our growth, we keep moving forward.

I'm sure there are more components of a good apology when it comes to race relations. What would you add to the list?