This post is a little ramble-y I warn you in advance. I kinda switch themes and points throughout, but rather than trying to fix it, I am going to leave it as is. I hope that it illustrates my point of how it feels to always have one portion of myself emphasized and another shunned. It is nothing nice to feel like a metaphysical dilemma, and turns out it isn't easy to write out either. 

Last week I shared a post with you about my metaphysical dilemma of rarely being what people expect when they meet me. While this has made for many an awkward moment, it is not the only time I feel like a metaphysical dilemma. There have been many posts written about this, but it has been weighing on my heart, so I have decided to add my two cents, even if its only worth exactly that. 

Can I be really honest and tell you that as much as I love conferences, I enter them with a certain level of fear and trepidation? My fear is not that I will experience an overt act of racism. I have no fears that I will be stopped at the door or rejected. I have no fears that someone will say or do anything unkind. My fear is not at all physical. Rather I fear the number of ways I will feel devalued, unimportant, sidelined, monolithic, or invisible. I never fear that I will standout. I fear that I will never be seen at all. 

It is really hard to walk into women conferences when I know there will be few (if any) women of color on stage. There are many things women experience in similar fashion. I truly enjoy talking about relationships and body image and calling and marriage and even kids (thought I don't have any). I enjoy the sense of camaraderie, the sense of knowing that can transpire within a room full of strangers. It is a profound experience, but it is also one that is too often limited. There are so many cultural nuances, even within these topics that never get spoken because there isn't anyone present to say, "the way you describe this experience is based on a cultural norm not experienced by everyone". While I realize it is impossible to cover every culture in existence, it would be so nice to see a diverse group of women represented from various socioeconomic backgrounds valued as speakers, contributors, experts whose stories and wisdom are valuable for everyone in the room. Conference planners clearly expect women of color will have something to gain from white women (and its true), but why is it not assumed women of color can also contribute greatly to the lives of white women? 

Not only this, but I believe I have much to learn from other women of color. I love seeing black women represented on stage, but I have so much to learn from my Asian sisters, my Latino sisters, my First Nations sisters and so many others. I have much to learn from their history, their theology, their success and failures. I have much to learn from their languages and customs and celebrations. I have much to learn about things we absolutely have in common and things that will blow my mind. I want to hear from all woman. I don't want women of color to be a checkmark on a list. I want women of color to be pursued, chased, overtaken because we all must sit at their feet and learn. I want us to believe God can and will speak to our hearts through them. 

While I appreciate the small steps women conferences are taking to make sure that the line-up isn't all white, it is not uncommon to feel like I need to leave my blackness in the hotel room. It is indeed a metaphysical dilemma. I am both black and woman- both- all the time. Hard as I try, I cannot separate the two. I am sure I will not be able to adequately explain this, but if I cannot be fully black in white spaces, somehow my womanhood is also not fully represented in that same space.  

It is not just women conferences where I feel like a metaphysical dilemma. I often feel it at justice themed conferences, too. You may not have noticed, but these conferences have a tendency to be dominated by men. I have found that it is not at all uncommon to find justice conferences perfectly willing to proclaim the equality of potential, value, and role of every human soul before God when talking about color but use an asterisk as a provision to exempt women from that statement. 

Justice conferences seem enamored with people of color, but sometimes only as products to be saved rather then experts to employ. The rhetoric of these conference has gotten so good at proclaiming the innate value of the marginalized, and yet seem to stumble through finding speakers from multiple walks of life.

Let me tell you, its also really demoralizing to see more faces that look like mine on posters of sponsored children than in the speaker line-up. I am grateful for the desire to see women and girls around the world receive a great education. I am grateful for the energy being given to end the trafficking of women and girls. I am grateful for all the efforts worldwide to make sure that women and girls reach their full potential. it would also be nice to be considered an invaluable and necessary resource, a leader, a must have expert, a needed voice on the stage. I realize that conferences only make their money by employing famous names, famous authors, and famous pastors. Really I do, but this reality of wealth does nothing to ease my dilemma of not being fully represented. 

Its all very confusing folks. In one arena my womanhood is proof that I cam called by God to be a leader, but my color is not considered an important part of that calling. On the other, God wouldn't hesitate to use my color and culture to proclaim his Kingdom but my vagina is a definitive boundary of my leadership potential. Feeling like a metaphysical dilemma is wearying.

I want to give space to say that there are conferences at varying levels of getting this right, and believe me, the ones I trust, I attend faithfully. Yet these feel more like exceptions than the rule.  

If it is at all inspiring to planners, please let me say that I want to be a full member of your conference. I want give my money to register. I want to meet lots of new people. I want to make purchases at your resource tables. I want to travel and experience the locations you choose. But I also want to bring my full self. The last place I should feel like a metaphysical dilemma is surround by my brothers and sisters in Christ in a space where we all are supposed to leave with notebooks full of revelations. Too often I find myself seeking friends and mentors who will offset the discomfort of not being fully known, fully valued as women of color. Too often we huddled in corners and hotel rooms and lunch counters dissecting, retranslating and making applications that will fit our full selves. How wonderful would it be to gain all this during the conference, rather than need therapy after?!

I don't know if you've noticed, but it is actually pretty strange for the name Austin to belong to a black girl. Growing up in the mid-eighties I could usually find my name engraved on little keychains and cups, but they were always in the "boy" section, never the one designated for girls. The teachers doing roll call on the first day of class always expected me to be sitting among the group of boys. I usually had to do jumping jacks to get teachers to see me waving on the other side of the room. When giving the librarian my card, I always got the second degree as if stealing someone's library card was my highest aim at 11 years old. If ever I was out and ran into another person named Austin… always a boy (except one time in junior high, in the Appalachian mountains at a corner store- the cashier was female; we celebrated!) But in my day-to-day life, always a boy. 

Completely fed up with the frustration of constantly being assumed to be a boy, I asked my parents why they gave me the name Austin. My mother's reply, "Your father and I had a terrible time trying to find a girl's name we both liked. Had you been a boy, you would have been a junior. Easy. But we didn't know what to name a girl. So I suggested my grandfather's last name, Austin. No boys have been born to carry on the name into your generation, so I thought you could be the "last" Austin. We both loved it."

"But why?" I insisted. "Why did you love it?" 

Then came the answer that changed everything. "We knew that if you ever applied for a job, wrote a resume, filled out an application for school, people would look at your name and assume you are a white man. We knew you'd be smart and charming enough to make it through anyone's interview. But we had to get you to the interview." 

And something clicked. It was true. The people named Austin weren't just boys… they were all white boys. (Even as I grew up and met a couple more female Austins… still white.) Let me tell you, that far from giving me a complex, it all suddenly made sense. People were curious about me, sometimes suspicious of me. People didn't just ask me once if I was "sure" about my name. (what does that even mean?!) People asked me twice or even three times. The surprise on people's faces lasted far longer than other girls with traditional boy names. I finally understood why. When people read my name, they had no expectation of a black girl waving back. 

Carrying around a white mans name has created some interesting (and awkward) moments. Most are minor- people who have written emails giving me the title "Mr." feel the need to apologize when they meet me in person. Or on the telephone I typically have to say my name a couple times before the caller realizes they do have the right number. Occasionally, though, its a really jolting experience. 

I've applied for a job. I got the interview. Its a group interview. I sit outside the conference room waiting for someone to bring me inside. A person carrying a clipboard emerges. They look at my resume in their hands. They look around the room. They look at the resume in their hands. They look around the room. Tentatively, they ask, "Are you Austin?" I smile and nod, pretending not to notice their confusion. I walk into the conference room. Everyone glances at each other. They look back down at my resume, too. They look at me. I am asked again, "You're Austin?" I keep smiling and nodding. I know what's coming next. "That is such a ______ name." The adjectives vary, but this is always the transition. People need to comment on it to move passed it. Finally the interview begins. 

Now this may not sound like a very traumatic experience. It only lasts a couple minutes. To be honest, the hard part only lasts a few seconds. But its excruciating. It happens somewhere between me stepping into the room and the glances at one another and/or my resume. There is a moment, when all of their expectation are undone. A moment when they must decide if it matters that I am not a white male. A moment when they must determine if their expectations will now be different. A moment when they must glance down at my resume once more to see if my accomplishments now mean something different. A moment when they must confirm with one another in silence by admitting, this is not who I expected. That is the trauma. 

In my body, I know that we have work to do because a moment of adjustment is needed. A moment to gather oneself. A moment to make sense of everything. Usually the moment passes without incident. Usually my parents are correct, and my charisma dismisses any awkwardness from the room. But not always. 

Occasionally there is a presence who simply cannot reconcile that I am not the white male authority that was expected. Occasionally, I find myself responding to questions like, "So who is really in charge here?" Occasionally, it becomes inconceivable that the lesson I taught is as good, as thorough, as meaningful as it would have been if only my name matched the expectations of my body. Occasionally, people aren't entirely sure what to do with me- so they leave the room, or hang up the phone, or ask me for an explanation. How? Why? I think some people genuinely feel deceived.

When I first learned to write my name, I had no idea it would be so subversive. I had no idea it carried meaning, expectations. I had no idea it was tied to race or gender- how others would perceive me. I had no idea. But I experience the "surprise and wonder" pretty regularly. 

Though most of this post has focused singularly on me, my point is actually for all women of color. My experience of being sized up next to my white counterparts, is obvious and sometimes over the top, but in a more subtle way, I think many women of color who spend the bulk of their time navigating white evangelical culture experience this.

Glances back and forth between white colleagues after voicing an opinion. Or worse, being "translated" after speaking our piece.  

Checking and double checking our professional history, "Did you really…?"

Demanding to know how we got here, wherever here is.

The awkward apologies when incorrect assumptions have been made about our lives.

Always wondering if we are being sized up based solely on our contributions or only in relationship to our white counterparts. 

Desperately trying to figure out what people expect when we show up. 

My name is Austin, so I notice the shifting in the seats, the long pauses,  the looks of curiosity. But this is not my story alone. It is one grain of sand in the experience of being a "colored girl" and Ms. Ntozanke Shange's words still ring with truth in my soul, "bein alive & bein a woman & bein colored is a metaphysical dilemma / i have not conquered yet"   

Every now and then I realize that as much as I teach, train, and quite frankly bemoan how far we have yet to go in racial justice (let alone racial reconciliation), sometimes my pendulum swings a little far. Doing this work comes with great sacrifice, and those sacrifices are easy to name. In fact they must be named for the sake of our health. There are so many wounds that must be healed, confessions that must be released, disappointments that must be swallowed, hope that must be found. I think I do a disservice to this work when I am not honest about what it takes, what it risks, what it means. And yet. 

And yet, there are so many reasons why I find this work incredibly fulfilling.

I have some of the most amazing cross-cultural relationships a girl could ask for in this world. I have friends who come alongside me when I am hurt and wounded and tired and overwhelmed. I have friends who know intimately the experiences I describe, who give voice like prose and poetry when they say, "I understand." They validate my experiences with their own scars and let me rest in their arms. I have friends who get angry before I've even realized I've been cut. Friends who cut off the crazy at the pass when I am too tired to respond. Friends who let me take a break, not because they love me, but because they are just as passionate as I am- if I left this earth, their work would continue. Friends who use their power, their influence, their voice. Friends who would let me sleep on their couch. I have friends who make space for my own learning, growth, mistakes. I have friends with whom I don't have to hide. Don't have to leave half myself at the door. They would never allow it. If I actively tried not to talk about how it feels to colored today, the door would be locked until I talked. If I tried to avoid talking about my womanhood, they would bribe me with chocolate shakes or french fries or cheesecake until I said whats on my heart. I have friends with whom I don't have to hide or edit or sugarcoat anything.  

And I have experienced the most incredible worship. Sometimes it is hundreds of people singing in Mandarin and Spanish and English. Sometimes it is 5 women sitting in a circle giving voice to our diversity, our stories, our experience of America, of Christianity. Sometimes it is hearing the voices of "every nation and every tongue" rise in spontaneous prayer across a sanctuary. Sometimes it is one voice in Spanish, my own in English but united in the Spirit. Sometimes it is coffee dates and more cheesecake as I seek to grow in my own understanding of the experiences of other minorities. It is the grace that I receive when I am completely ignorant. It is the trust we share. 

And I have been on the front lines with the most incredible people. I have learned at their feet. Internalized their passions. Been inspired by their lives. Been challenged by their words. I have been protected in their communities, welcomed by their families, considered life-long friends. I have learned about history, given a new appreciation for politics, connected the dots around similar issues. My life has been impacted by kids and adults, students and teachers, lawyers and the incarcerated, social service workers and those experiencing homelessness, kids in foster care and directors of group homes, the hungry and the wealthy- my world is better because of them all. City or suburbs, even the rural appalachian mountains have widen my lens of my concept of justice. 

This work comes at a cost, but I experience life fully. I am not immune to pain but I appreciate healing- I display my scars proudly. I earned them. The disappointments come, but so does change- small wins, over time- lives changed. I have experienced great joy in this work. I have watched women find their voices, come alive, speak truth with grace and wisdom and depth and per-son-al-it-y! I have watched young men alter their educational careers and vocations to be fully devoted to this work. I have experienced the sacrifices of others. I have watched resistance melt into acceptance and become the fire that lights a new path. I have seen guilt and shame morph into anger and passion for making America better. I sometimes witness the ugliness of humanity, but I've also experienced its wondrous beauty.

So, today, I celebrate. 

Bang. 

Bang. 

Bang. 

Bang. 

Bang. 

Bang. 

Bang. 

Bang.

Bang.  

Bang.

This, along with the cries of his friends, the last sound Jordan Davis heard before slipping from this earth. 10 shots fired. 9 hit the car. 3 hit Jordan Davis. The circumstance in this case? Loud music. Jordan Davis. Trayvon Martin. Jonathan Ferrell. Renisha McBride. The circumstances are different in each case. They took place in different parts of America. But the thread that seems common among all the assailants in these murders is fear of the black body.

I warn you in advance. The verdict just came and I am a flood of emotion. This is me ranting and raving. I have no intention of doing anything other than sharing my broken heart tonight.

I imagine that if all I knew of black people came from the defendants in these murders, I would be left to assume that black people are absolute monsters. I mean monsters, like the fantasy kind. You know the ones that can pick up cars and throw them across city blocks. The kind of monsters who can scale buildings with superhuman strength. The kind of monsters who posses an unnatural form of power- the kind gained only by chemical reaction, abnormal genes, or a science experiment gone wrong. If all I knew about black folks came from these cases, I'd believe that black skin comes with an aggressive gene. A suspicious gene. A murder gene. Be afraid. Be very afraid. I didn't know, but apparently black people just can't help but be violent. So stand your ground. Be prepared to shoot. Arm yourselves. Get us before we get you. And this is important. It is important that all these young black bodies are monsters, because we don't mourn monsters. People who kill monsters are heroes. I don't watch many cartoons these days, but I'm pretty sure thats how it works. Monsters die and we celebrate the hero who slayed the beast.    

But here is the thing. These kids seem awfully normal. Walking down the street. Knocking on a door for help. Seeking out the police. Playing loud music in the car. Didn't I do these things as a kid? Don't I do them now? 

But this is different contends the gun-toter. These kids did bad things. They slung their jeans low. They smoked. They drank. They cursed. They listened to rap music. These were not ordinary kids, these were those infamous gangsters ready to take my life in a moments notice. I could tell. These were bad kids. 

And as much as I want this to matter. As much as I want to separate myself from the fate of these children, I cannot. I know no child saints- black, white or any other color. I know kids who make mistakes, who experiment, who get into trouble. I know kids who speak out of turn, who are disrespectful, who are angry. I know kids who get suspended and expelled and go to rehab. I know kids who get bad grades and make the day hell for teachers. I know kids who take a long time to mature, to learn from their mistakes, to make better choices. In fact, I hear there are a lot of adults who have these same struggles. But black kids don't have the luxury of immaturity. 

Black kids must be saints. Must be angelic. Must be Jesus.

I want to scream to the world tonight, that black kids are precious. They are beautiful. They are full of life, of creativity, of soul. Black kids are bursting at the seems with potential, with possibilities. Black kids are made in the image of God. Black kids are made in the image of God. They carry within themselves the capacity to love deeply, to give generously, to hope eternally. They could change the world, if only we would let them live. Black kids laugh. They LAUGH. They cry. They scream. They smile.  Black kids experience emotion because they are human. They.are.human. 

Black babies are not immune to the experience of life. They are not immune to mistakes or anger or frustration. They are not immune to peer pressure or instagram or clubs. They are not immune to friendship or media or hip hop. They are not immune from car crashes or walking or needing the help of a stranger. They are not immune, and they shouldn't have to be. 

Black kids should be able to live without needing a defense. They should be able to mess up, to ask for help, to go to the store. They should be able to talk back, to curse, to play loud music. They should be able to do all the things that other kids do without fear of losing their lives. 

Why are the stakes so high for kids who look like me?

Why are the stakes so high for kids who look like me? Why are the normal things of life so costly.

Why are the stakes so high for kids who look like me? 

The best quote I've heard tonight following the Dunn verdict came from Joshua DuBois, he writes on twitter, "I want young black men to know: there is nothing wrong with you. You are worthy of protection. Of care. Of love and of life."

I echo this statement.

Black kids- boys and girls- are worthy. They are worthy.

Black folks are not monsters who need to be stopped. We are your sisters and brothers. We are members of humanity, carriers of divinity, lovers of life. And we deserve to live.