Recently, my friend Grace Sandra wrote a risky article for CT on the vulnerabilities faced by black women. In it she discusses the links between her personal experiences, current events and statistics. Grace explains how this trifecta weighs on her personally, and by extension other black women as well. She ends by requesting that the Church not shy away from but instead engages the hearts of black women who feel as weighed down as she.

Sounds simple right? It rarely is. Unfortunately for many people attempting to speak truth to power, sharing our hearts on these issues (not just theories, but how they make us FEEL) is always risky. Sometimes those listening engage well, but we always know there is a chance things will fall apart. It doesn't always matter what the justice issue is- mass incarceration, education, immigration, or in this case racial justice- there is always a risk that our hearts will leave as broken as when we came.

I use Grace's recent experience as a backdrop 1. because the article is good and you should read it. 2. because the comments section managed to use ten of the most common deflections known to racial reconcilers. If it wasn't so frustrating, it would be amazing. So I thought it might be helpful to make a Top 10 List for those who are new and perhaps frustrated by how quickly these conversations can devolve.  

10. "No, it's a different -ism… " 

More than one -ism can exist in any given situation. Your denial that racism was present in the story I am telling you is insulting my experience and my intelligence. It might not be wise to assume you are the most learned in an -ism that you don't experience. 

9. "My singular experiences trump your lifetime of experiences."

Its really nice that you work in the 'hood, attend a church with some black people, learned Spanish, travelled to an underresourced community, have an Asian friend etc. Yeah, no. Your short-term experiences will never "trump" my lifetime of experiences.  Additionally, if none of these experiences have opened your eyes to the realities of racism, you're not paying attention. So you should probably listen to these stories. It will make you a better friend. 

8. "Why aren't you listening to me?"

This comes in numerous forms: Shouldn't we all be heard? Why doesn't my voice matter? We're tired of listening to {insert race} people. Haven't we talked about this enough? No matter the form, this is an attempt to silence people of color and exert power to control the conversation. Resist the desire to control. A conversation is going to be the easiest form of releasing power; if you can't do that, you will have little success doing so in systems, structures and interpersonal relationships.  

7. "You're feelings aren't valid until I'm convinced the cause of those feelings is just."

Ouch. This can often be an incredibly painful response for someone who is sharing the pain of their lives. If I said, "I had a bad day today," and continued to express what happened, would you judge whether or not my experiences legitimately add up to a bad day? Would you pick apart what you think valid and what is not? Would you dare tell me that you don't think my bad day is valid and walk away? Why is greater grace given to a single bad day than a lifetime of struggling against racism?  You don't get to be the judge and jury over anyone's feelings. Stop picking apart people's stories. 

6. "But what about what this other black person said?"

Newsflash: We are not all the same. We are allowed to have varied experiences, perspectives, and ideas. And we trust that you can take them all in. If you are basing everything you believe about race on one person, thats a problem. You should be quiet and take in a few more perspectives. 

5. "Scripture, Scripture, Scripture… All clear now?" 

Ummm, can we stop assuming that people of color haven't already reconciled their ideas, experiences, and studies of racism with the Bible? Please don't try to fix me with Scripture when I'm busy trying to fix a broken world. 

4. "History is not tied to today's problems"

Yes. It is. History matters, including slavery which is what most folks mean when they want to dismiss history. Racism wasn't created in a vacuum. It was constructed and you would do well to know how, when, and why. This information leads to all the ways race has then been reconstructed over time until today. 

3. "But others have it worse"

The fact that other people have been/are being oppressed isnt a good reason to stop having the conversation about this particular oppression. And it certainly doesn't dismiss it or make it okay. People of color are generally well aware of the different forms oppression has taken throughout history. We could probably school you on some of the connections between them, but lets be honest. You're not trying to dive deeper, you are trying to dismiss. Stop. Focus on this oppression. We can talk about the others later, if you can have this conversation well. 

2. Hyper focus on a micro-issue 

This may be one of the most effective tools for derailing a conversation. Hyper focusing on a minor example, story, or media event has the ability to shift the conversation into a fight over arguable specifics instead of connecting the dots between multiple forms of racism.   

1. You're making me feel bad; make it stop.

Ultimately, most of the above responses are an attempt to guard against feelings of guilt, shame, sadness, frustration, anger and helplessness. Even when there is nothing accusatory spoken, just the race conversation- the retelling of painful stories- is enough to elicit an emotional response. Rather than let the emotions live, it is quite common for participants to resist. 

Now, I am sure there are more, but I hope this is a good starting place. Before I close, I would like to offer another thought. Just sit in it. I know its hard. I know its uncomfortable. I know there is a lot of emotion. I am having feels. You are having feels. But it will be okay. Just join me in the pain, muck, mire. Don't resist it. Let down your defenses. Pull up a seat and be witness, be a friend. 

Finally, I would like to acknowledge Grace, Brenna, Kathy, and others who chose to engage specifically in the convo that inspired this post. Despite the refusal of some to just sit in the pain being expressed in the article, it was incredibly encouraging to see these women tag team responses. You should also check out their responses in the comments section. It was beautiful and encouraging the way they encouraged folks to return to Grace's words.  

*For more on participating in race conversations well, check out this post by Emily Maynard, this one by Esther Emery, and this one by Christena Cleveland. Can you tell I just keep adding? Okay, I'm done now.*  

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.