So there has been a recent rise in discussions regarding authors of color and the world of publishing, particularly of Christian publishing. I have been extraordinarily hesitant in giving voice to my thoughts and concerns on this topic because-- you know--- ramifications. One day I want to be a published author, preferably with a Christian publishing house. So lending my voice to anything that would critique said body, just doesn't seem very wise. And yet, this is my voice, these are my thoughts, and I "attack" no specific house, group, or person. I only want to explore some of the ideas fueling the conversation. So basically, I'm doing this scared. Here we go. Well, here I go.  

1. "Race books" belong on everyone's shelf.

So I know that race books and social justice books are considered niche, but I really believe they ought to be considered "general" and placed right along side the "lifestyle" books. Whether we Christians want to admit it or not prayer, leadership, spiritual gifts, and parenting can be more niche than race when we look at our daily lives. Why? Because we can choose whether or not to develop our prayer lives, whether or not to be leaders, whether or not to exercise our spiritual gifts, and many of us are not yet parents… but race is always here. We live in a racialized society and the Church has yet to get its stuff together on this topic. So while we may have a little special section for race and social justice books in our stores, we would do well to rethink this. Race, gender, sexuality, class, abilities- these are LIVED experiences. For as long as we stumble around in the dark trying to figure out how to relate to one another as the body of Christ, we need more books on these topics. We should be drinking them up, thirsting for them. We should be promoting them as books that are just as essential as the parenting books, and the leadership books and the theology books and the teaching books and the teen books. Because what we refuse to realize is that all of our interactions with people contain cultural nuances. Until we address these nuances, the other areas of our lives will suffer. You will be a better teacher if you read and understand race. You will be a better parent if you read and understand class. You will be a better pastor if you read and understand sexuality and gender. You will be a better person if you read and understand how we are differently abled. If you want to make a loving impact in the world, these "niche" books are essential. 

2. We need more. 

When was the last time we complained about there being too many prayer books on the market? When did we decide that we don't need another theology book? Has anyone ever thought there are more than enough leadership books, the world doesn't need one more? Are we ever going to stop talking about parenting? I mean we have been talking about parenting for a looong time, people. Of course not! We produce these books over and over and over again. We expect new ones to pop up. We want to soak in the new ideas. We want to form book clubs and read them with our friends. We go to book stores hoping to find something inspirational on topics that have been printed for centuries. Those with the courage and insight to write on reconciliation and these hot topics ought to be applauded, and we should be asking for more. Publishing houses should be asking for more. Churches should be asking for more. Pastors and leaders should be asking for more. We don't have nearly enough of these books. We need more perspectives, more studies, more tools, more stories. 

3. People of color read books, too. 

There is no lack of Christians of color in the United States. I realize that white folks have traditionally been the audience for Christian publishing houses, and in an age of segregation that made sense. In 2014, it doesn't. If publishing houses have a lack of purchasers of color, there may be an issue with credibility, trust, accessibility, relationships, understanding, medium or funding- but there is not a problem of audience. If there is one thing major corporations have figured out in the last 30 years, its that people of color have serious purchasing power. I am not sure why Christian publishing houses are having a harder time believing or discovering this, but I am not buying the argument that people of color aren't buying/reading/promoting books. If publishing houses only have relationships with white churches, white parachurches organizations, white church leaders, white audiences, white radio/tv stations etc… than it seems to me there is some work to do. Believe it or not, there are black mega churches, black schools, and black organizations. Yep, you guessed it- other ethnicities, too. For the success of authors of color, but also for their own longevity, it might be wise for publishing houses to look beyond a white audience. 

4. I believe in white people. 

I am not entirely sure why we keep treating white Christians as incapable beings. For quite some time, people of color have been reading about sailing, climbing mountains, and canoeing. We've read about blushing, swinging ponytails, bright red sunburns and singing 'round campfires. Some of these are things people of color can identify with, and some we do not. The point is, people of color can follow the analogy, get the point, walk away with a revelation even when the picture being painted falls outside of our experience. Why on earth, do we act as if white people are incapable of the same imagination? If we agree that white people are in fact perfectly capable of stepping outside their lived experiences, why such a focus on needing to "make sure" white people will pick up the book? Is it that we are afraid of challenging the white mind? Are we afraid of stretching, of sharing, of pushing? Are we genuinely afraid that white folks won't get it if I talk about soul food, gospel music, or black history? Are we afraid that when I drop the "g" from this title of this post everyone will be confused? Or is the truth, not that people of color need to write in a specific voice for the white audience- but rather that we don't trust white people want to grow. Because if thats the real fear, then we should start filling shelves with books on courage, and hope and possibilities, and imagination for them, and we should fill the remaining shelves with books that will be practice ground for all of us. Reconcilers have to believe in us all- white people and all other races, too. Otherwise, why are we bothering to write these books at all? 

5. Okay, last one. And this is about my own junk. This is not how anyone has "made" me feel and is therefore more confession than anything else. I am loving the conversation happening about authors of color reaching beyond the topic race. I absolutely believe that authors of color can write on prayer, parenting, leadership, teaching, theology, family, etc. I'm down with seeing more authors of color in every section of the bookstore. But. Sometimes I hear this conversation and I feel as if I am being put down for my desire to write on race. In a strange way the conversation that begins, "of course a person of color can write on race…" feels like my {hopeful} contribution to our bookshelves will somehow be less because it is on race and not on a "general" topic. Now, did I just break down how culture actually permeates almost every area of our lives? Yes. And do I still sometimes feel like my {hopeful} accomplishment of writing a book on race will be considered less of an accomplishment? Yes.

So that is my work to do. We all have work to do. Publishing houses, current authors, hopeful authors and readers. And I truly believe we could be surprised by what the Church might accomplish- how closer we might move towards love- if only we were willing to be inspired by the work.  

**Please check out the recent writings at By Their Strange Fruit for more on the inner workings of Christian publishing.** 

I was a vorascous reader. I loved anything written by Judy Blume. The Babysitters Club, the Boxcar Children, and the silly Amelia Bedelia had my loyalty. I was always on my best behavior when we went to library (yes, it was an event, not a class). I wanted to be the first chosen so I could grab any new books our librarian bought. I was so in love with books, my father knew never to send me to my room for punishment. I would happily read for hours longer than my punishment required.

A wave of nostalgia comes over me when I think about these books. But I also remember constantly reading about ruddy cheeks, porcelain skin, and sandy hair. Faces turned red, ponytails swung, and blue eyes shone. Though these characters made me laugh and cry, they couldn't teach me about being a black girl. Entering their world was leaving my own because very little reflected my actual experience of the world.

Until Maya. My stepmom has been an English teacher for decades. When her books hit our shelves at home, I was enthralled. Running my index finger along the worn spines, I read for the first time the names Alice Walker, Nikki Giovanni, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Langston Hughes, Ntozake Shange and so many others. But first, there was Maya. My stepmom knew Phenomenal Woman by heart, and when those words rolled off her tongue as she swung her hips to the rhythm of the lines, my eyes were wide with fascination: "I'm not cute or built to fashion model size… the span of my hips… the bend of my hair…" Phenomenal Woman really was ME! Not just me, but my stepmom, my mother, my aunties, my grandmothers. Maya's poetry was the first reflection of myself- of black women- on a page.

I was hooked. I wanted more and found Still I Rise. She had me at the first line, "You may write me down in history with your bitter twisted lies…" Now the beauty of poetry is that we bring ourselves to it, and for me, Maya was talking about black history. And then she talked about being sassy, hated and sexy. She equated blackness with the wondrous ocean. She even talked about the way our thighs meet! Revolutionary. Maya knew me, and these were just the popular poems- a scratch on the surface of her plethora of writings. 

Maya's poems and books were both balm and reviver. Her words were healing to little black girls like me who who rarely saw our reflection in the wider world. Her words didn't just heal us, they revived us. We were soothed in one line and made defiant in the next. She dared us to hang our heads low- "Oh, no you don't!" Maya would shout from the page! She told us we are beautiful as we are.

While I am glad these poems mentioned above have transcended race, that many people have found her words eloquent and stirring- to little black girls, her words were life. Never was one more gracefully defiant than Maya. We love these poems now, but consider the era when she wrote them. Her words may have reached all of America, but black women, black girls knew they were for us.  

And her books became an open door. The accessibility of her words made you want more. She was encouraging me to go read Nikki and Ntozake and Audre and Alice. And I did. We did. 

As if this were not enough, Maya lived her words. She walked with grace, spoke the truth, and made us laugh. She lived. She was a writer and poet. She was a journalist and actor. She was a professor and producer. She was a director and activist. Maya didn't just tell us we could do anything, she showed us.

So I'll let the world grieve for Maya. It is only right that someone so beloved by America should be mourned by them all. But forgive me if I hand out special cloth tissues to wipe the tears of sistahs because Maya was always ours. We were always hers.

Rest well, Marguerite. We promise to tell our daughters what you said.  

We Christians really love talking about grace- unmerited favor, gifts we don't deserve, blessings we couldn't earn. And grace is good. I'm down with grace, but I also really love mercy. 

I had three cousins growing up. One was the girl I wanted to follow everywhere! I wanted to know what she was wearing, where she was going, and when she would be back to tell me all about it. I had the cousin who played tickle monster with me, who entertained me endlessly, and always made me laugh. And then there was Dalin. He was larger than life. He was cool. Elusive. He had a laugh that rocked the house, but he used it sparingly. He was only going to laugh if it was funny. He had friends who constantly walked in and out of the house. I couldn't keep track of them, but I always knew when Dalin was around. He was older than me (all of them were). So Dalin and I never really talked- not like with with my other cousins. But I liked him. I found myself often trying to inch closer to him when he slowed down long enough to eat a Thanksgiving meal at the table or sat on the porch during the 4th of July. He was funny, but you had to sit close to hear him (until he laughed, of course). 

As we got older all of our lives took very different directions. I want to Catholic school and then college. Dalin fell in love with rap music, produced cds, and learned far more about the streets than I likely ever will. Eventually Dalin ended up in jail- a couple times. In my insular world, I didn't really know what to do with that. My social justice wings hadn't grown yet. I didn't know much about police brutality or illegal searches. I wasn't aware of public defender offices or how money is tied to a good defense. I didn't know much about life behind bars. And consequently, I no longer knew much about him.

In the years that he was away I don't recall once asking my aunt or cousins about how he was doing. I don't recall ever asking my dad to make sure we told my aunt (his sister) that we are thinking about him. I don't recall asking about him during major holidays when our family was sure to gather together- Thanksgiving, Christmas, Memorial Day. I didn't suddenly dislike him. We were just so far away from one another before, I didn't know how to cross this new barrier to our relationship, and I didn't try.

My cousin was home for one holiday, and we finally talked. Me and my "big cousin" had a real conversation with words and everything. I was on cloud nine. So when I later heard he was inside again (and therefore would not be making another family function for some years), I was genuinely disappointed, but again I did nothing.

Life continued to pass, and my understanding started to grow, culminating with my formal education in social justice. As part of the course we had to read a book about prison life. It rocked me. The book itself was good (sorry I don't remember the name), but I read it only partially a story about the author. For me, I was reading a story about my cousin. It was filling in gaps and holes to questions I had never asked. And for the first time I stopped thinking about my cousin as an object whose personality I wanted to enjoy and rather as a person- a real person- who's life was unfolding in ways I couldn't begin to imagine.

And in 2010 I decided to do something about it. I got on the internet. Figured out where he was and the protocol for writing letters. I bought stationary and wrote about 127 drafts of my first letter to my "big cousin". As I signed it, I got stuck. It had been years since I saw him. We only had one real conversation in my entire life. I love him. But would he believe me? I had absolutely no evidence to prove that I loved this man. Would he laugh and tear it up? Would it become a joke he'd tell to those around him? Would he call home and ask his aunt if I was for real? I was so scared of rejection (and for good reason) that I signed something generic. I slipped it in the mail, and waited and waited and waited. And then it came.

He wrote back. My fingers trembled as I picked up the letter. I was too scared to open it. I sat in my car staring at it, hoping it wasn't a letter telling me where I could shove my feelings. My hands shook so badly I ended up ripping the envelope something terrible, but the letter remained intact. I had a hard time focusing, but willed myself to slow down, breathe, and read every word. It was the most beautiful letter I have ever received in my life. His first line was "I know we haven't talked in a long time but we are family, and I love you". That was the FIRST LINE, friends! It only got better from there. By the time I got to the end, I was crying.

First I was crying because I knew I was finally going to get to know my cousin. We were going to be pen pals until he got out. We would start now, and by the time he joined the next family affair, we'd be old friends. But I was also crying because I knew this email could have rightfully been accusatory. I deserved far worse than what my cousin gave me that day. He had mercy on me. He forgave me. And I was overwhelmed by how completely I experienced hope and mercy in that moment.

I started the next letter and plopped it in the mail. But I don't know if he ever got it. 

For more then 40 years, my family has gathered for Memorial Day. We go to the cemetery, clean off the headstones, and share our favorite memories of the deceased. We laugh through our tears as we remember aloud. When we get to the final site, we hold hands and pray as a family. If our family circle remains unbroken that year, we praise God for that. If we've lost someone dear to us, we ask for the strength to make it through. 

That day we were asking for strength. You see earlier that weekend, we lost my Uncle John. So we stood there in support of on one another, propping one another up as we continued this family tradition. We usually did this in the morning, but it had been raining. So we waited for the storm to pass before going out. Once our tradition was complete, we went back to the house and ate, comforting one another and telling stories. (My family can tell stories like nobodies business). And then it was time to go. We all stood in a circle and prayed, gave out hugs and kisses, and turned to leave.

Before I could make it out the door, a young man pulled up to the curb, almost landing on the grass. He got out the car so fast, he didn't even bother shutting the door. Taking the stairs two at a time, he raced into the house. There were too many bodies for him to make sense of, we were still hugging and crying, and he wasn't sure why. What was going on? In desperation he yelled out, "Is it true? Is Dalin dead?"

The room stopped cold. For a second no one moved as his words sank in. All the air was sucked out of the room as we collectively inhaled in surprise. My aunt was the first to speak, "What are you talking about?" she yelled back from the other side of the room.

The young man started talking faster. Something about a storm and a phone call and other things we just couldn't process. Suddenly the room erupted. We hadn't even had the funeral for my uncle yet, and now we potentially had two unexpected deaths on our hands. It was too much. I've never heard wailing like this in my life.

I sent my sister outside to tell my dad to get his Bible and come on back in the house. We weren't going anywhere for awhile.

For hours we waited. My dad expertly moved among the family members as waves of mourning and exhaustion rose and fell among them. For hours we waited. The emotions were so think in the room as we wondered if this night would end in relief or pain. For hours we waited. We alternately grabbed on to hope with all of our might, until it gave way to despair. And when despair had momentarily run its course, we'd grab onto hope again. For hours we waited. We called and called and called. Until finally my only girl cousin (the one I wanted to emulate) had enough. She picked up her phone, called the prison, and refused to get off the phone. She refused. She explained that her mother had already lost her husband this week, and we needed to know if she also lost her son. She was not getting off that phone until someone told us if he was still with us, or if he was gone. She was tenacious, and it worked.

We held our breath as my aunt took the phone. We all focused on her face as she listened to the voice on the other end. She gave no clues until the call was done. Her daughter kneeled down in between her legs, staring at her face. They saw only each other in that moment. As my aunts eyes filled with tears, her daughter whimpered, "no." over and over "no. no. no. no." At first in a small voice barely perceptible to those not around. The two clung to each other. And the wave moved across the room. We were exhausted but now we knew. He was gone.

The same storm that had stalled our tradition, headed his direction. He was out in the yard when the storm came. Unable to get inside, he was struck by lightening and passed away. 

It was a day no one in our family will ever forget.

For weeks after, I searched our mailbox. Hoping against hope he received my letter and wrote one back. For weeks I held my breath, not wanting our new relationship to be gone so soon. But none came, and eventually I had to mourn that it was done. 

Turns out my aunt received a ton of letters from other inmates. The letters told her how much of a difference Dalin had made in their lives. How he had mentored them, cared for them, shared with them. Apparently I wasn't the only person who experienced an extraordinary amount of hope and mercy through him.

So today, I am thankful for mercy. And I am filled with hope that one day I will walk 'round heaven with all those we've lost. And I'll be sure to inch my way over to Dalin and wait for that laugh.  

*please forgive typos. As you can imagine this is a difficult story to recount and then re-read. 

I grew up the daughter of two college graduates. My entire childhood, I knew that my education would not end until I, too, had gone to college. It wasn't just the next logical step, it was the only step. When I was a sophomore in high school someone asked me if I was already thinking about college. "Are you going to go?" they asked. I paused for a moment. It had never occurred to me that people didn't go to college. That was never presented as an option to me- to go or not go… For my parents (and then for me), college was a must. 

Of course, I soon realized that attending college is a luxury not afforded to many. I also know that many people who could go, choose not to because thats the right decision for them. I write about my experience not to shame or judge anyone who made a different choice (or couldn't make the choice), I write it only to underscore how important the idea of traditional education has been in my life. I am descended from a long line of principals and teachers. Even my great grandfather, born in 1906, had a masters degree. I mean its serious around these parts, people. Because of this, I have often relied on educating myself to teach me about the things that matter to me. I've spent years reading books by Paulo Friere and MLK Jr. I've read Soong Chan Rah, Brenda Salter McNeil, and the great Dr. John Perkins. Divided By Faith is so marked up, I don't think anyone could barrow it; reading around my notes could prove impossible. From Black Like Me and To Kill A Mocking Bird to Caucasia, and Five Smooth Stones I devour books that play with our ideas and experiences around race. Ntozake Shange, Pearl Cleage, Nikki Giovanni and others have given me words to explain myself. I have an armoire in my bedroom; its filled with books, and this particular stack is dedicated exclusively to racial justice.  

Most of you know the vast majority of my twitter feed contains more things to read- articles, studies, biographies- anything interesting is fair game. I want to know how people are interpreting the importance of race. I want to know how people are loving, hating, engaging, or withdrawing. I.want.to.learn and so much of my learning has come from books, professors, classes, conferences. I've used traditional forms of education to try to understand the world. But I am finding that now I am entering a place in my journey of racial justice and reconciliation that has focused far less on learning. I am unlearning. 

1. I am unlearning the need to be all things to all {white} people. I am growing a backbone. I am choosing when I want to teach and when I don't. I am learning that I don't have to bust out my scars to prove their presence. I am learning to trust myself, my needs, my body, my emotions, my discernment. I am choosing when to walk away. There is nothing in me that needs to be the one black friend of every white, progressive, evangelical who has just discovered the existence of racism. Some people need to go read a book first. Others can have a coffee date, but nothing more. Still others I will be in relationship with- some for a season and others a lifetime. Both are okay. I no longer feel the need to change the minds of white people by showing them how great we (black folks) can be. If you don't know, your loss. Finally, I'm not fighting with folks who don't want to fight for themselves. I refuse to care more than you do. And by doing this I have more energy, more life for the people and institutions who are ready to move forward. But I first unlearn my "duty" to teach anyone who expresses even a passing interest. 

2. I am unlearning to center whiteness instead of the stories of people of color, even when those stories are divergent. For such  long time, I have been so focused on number one, on the incredibly importance of teaching white people so that the world will finally change, that I forgotten to pay attention to the healing of people of color- and more specifically women of color. I have been so focused on whiteness, that I stopped investigating what it means to be a person of color for the sake of our healing. And the result of focusing so much on the education of whiteness, has produced a need for people of color to share a similar story. Though I know our stories, our journeys are unique, I haven't always let those diverging stories live. I am unlearning the constant centering of whiteness and by virtue of this, I am learning to enjoy without hesitation the diversity of stories contained within communities of color. Its quite liberating. Recently there was a campaign on twitter called #WhatKindOfBlackAreYou. It was so much FUN! It proved that blackness is deep and wide, that there are things we share, and things are that are vastly different. It showcased subcultures of blackness and celebrated them all. It was wonderful. That is the atmosphere I want to create- where are similarities and our differences are truly (not just claimed to be) celebrated. (I should note that the longer this hashtag trended it of course garnered negativity, so be sure to filter if you check it out).

3. I am unlearning the ways I perceive my own areas of privilege as "normal". I am so aware when white people normalize their cultural decisions (or even declare them holy). I can smell when patriarchy is leaking all over a man as he interacts with me. But there are plenty of other ways that that I engage in oppression, ignorance, avoidance, and all kinds of crazy. While I want to continue learning- owning my education so that I am not reliant on the scars of others for my own edification- I also want to focus on unlearning the ways my unchallenged mentality assumes that anyone who is not Christian, able-bodied, cis, a singular race, etc is a deviation from the "norm". I don't suffer from believing that everyone is like me, but I do sometimes still have a knee-jerk reaction that goes, "Ohh! how interesting" which is my internal code-word for "different" in an alien sense of the word. It must change. But this I cannot learn from a book. This is learned through interaction with the world as it is, seeing people as they are, being a safe place for others to be themselves, and expanding my world. I have some unlearning to do.

I love books. I will always love books. But I don't just want to be informed, I want to be transformed. I am in need of a transformed mind. Its all pretty scary, but its all exciting. 

Perhaps you are unlearning, too?