"So can we talk about {insert current racial event}? You know you're my only black friend," she exclaimed, tossing her curly brown hair over her shoulder as she laughed.

And I used to join in. I used to laugh right along with statements like these because I thought they were saying something about me. I thought it indicated I was doing a great job at this racial reconciliation thing. I thought it meant others considered me to be a safe person. I thought it meant my perspective, thoughts, and opinions were valued on hot topics. So I laughed. At this and all the variations:

"I'm so glad to have a black friend." "What would I do if you weren't here to explain this to me?" "Thank you for being my one black friend." "You're going to be the diversity in the pictures."  Statements like these are (almost) always made sarcastically, and yet its usually true. Since I appreciate a bit of sarcasm, statements like these made me smile, roll my eyes and move on.

But I have been at this long enough to have made a decision. I don't want to be your one black friend (OBF). At some point I realized that being your OBF says a lot more about you than it does about me. It usually indicates a certain level of cultural immaturity that doesn't run deep enough for us to develop an equal friendship. Here is how it often feels to be the OBF:  

Its an extraordinarily taxing relationship. There will be many occasions when I'm expected to explain blackness… answer questions, talk about current events, teach history, etc. rather than experiencing and enjoying blackness. 

2. It usually indicates that you believe a relationship with me will teach you everything about black people. I cannot speak for all black people. My experiences in life are not representative of all black people. Looking to me to bridge you and a community containing millions of people is a recipe for disaster for our relationship. In this scenario I am not really an individual in your eyes, with personal thoughts, feelings, opinions, background and baggage. I am just a representative for all black folks. Thats not healthy.

3. It indicates a limit of how cross-cultural you really want your life to be. I cannot be your token into a progressive lifestyle. If you have an OBF, you have work to do. Most people of color (though I realize not all) have friends who are also people of color. To become friends with one, could easily lead to becoming friends with others. But comfort with referring to me as the OBF of your wedding, housewarming, baby shower, small group, or you know, life denotes a certain amount of control. Surely if you met my girlfriends, you'd fall in love with them, too, but you might have to be willing to be the OWF (only white friend) at the dinner table, wedding, shower, small group, etc!   

Once upon a time, I thought it was laughable to be the OBF. Now I realize its actually a red flag. It tells me that our relationship needs to move slowly. Sometimes I am the OBF because you're new to the area or just changed churches. There is some grace and understanding here. But if this continues to be the case year after year, don't be surprised if your OBF is not referring to you as friend, but rather an acquaintance. A friendship might just be too dangerous.  

#FaithFeminisms has been the slowest conversion of my life. There was no flipping of a switch, no church service revelation, no falling to my knees in wonder. The connection was borne slowly, tumbling and kicking inside, peeking out to see if it’s safe, grasping and begging for air. The midwives of friends, authors, sisterhoods, mentors and preachers it has taken to help her live would form quite an extensive list- crisscrossing the country, reaching from heaven to earth.

It almost never was. There was too much of “Eve is the reason sin entered the world” and “Ham’s curse is the reason Africans were enslaved.” What is a girl to do knowing she begins curses with one hand and embodies them with the other?  There was nothing redeeming about my womanhood or my race in Scripture. Eurocentric depictions of the Divine didn’t help either. Sunday school Bibles, archeological documentaries, feature length films all created a white, male God and white, male figures.

But then I grew up. With a great deal of encouragement from incredible role models, I learned to study The Word on my own and found myself. 

I found myself in an African princess who saved the life of Moses by defying the decree of her father Pharaoh. Yes, a princess only too happy to work across ethnicity, class and politics to form a sisterhood that would let Moses live. I found myself in an African woman who would lead a people to freedom alongside Moses (and once again save his life). And they weren’t the only women I found. Far from being naturally inferior beings, I discovered women who took risks.  I found myself between Ruth and Orpah, one who stayed the other who travelled- both making the best decision for her life. I found myself between Vashti and Esther- one who walked away from the palace to preserve her self-dignity and the other who risked her life for the sake of her community. I found myself in Deborah who would lead a battle, Jael who would finish it and Abigail who would stop one from occurring. I found myself in Eve who was not created as an inferior version of Adam but was formed purposefully by the hand of the Divine to be a good and accurate reflection of Truth and Love. I found that Ham wasn’t cursed at all.

My feminism began the moment I learned the Bible was not shaming me. If the Divine was not ashamed of me, I need not be shamed either. These women pointed the way toward a womanhood that was not dependent on male acceptance of who I am or what I want. In them I found courage to choose my own way, to defy social convention, to resist oppression, to.be.myself.

Before I knew it, I was maturing. My feminism was finding the intersection of race. It was exploring my own privileges while acknowledging the oppressions. It was expanding to include all women, all races, all classes, all forms of social injustice. It was expanding to seek equality, wholeness, rightness- shalom. It’s still expanding as I walk with friends down intersections unknown to me.

But there are some things I know for sure:

My feminism will always live at the intersection of race. It recognizes the Divine within all black women, all women of color, all women, all people. It doesn’t erase me from the Bible or make me the scourge of it. It proclaims the innate goodness of womanhood.

My feminism isn’t afraid of American history. Doesn’t erase my narrative from the American story. Doesn’t deny slavery, Jim Crow or their consequences for black women. Doesn’t diminish Jim Crow or its impact on black communities. Doesn’t ignore the social statistics of women of color and the ways our suffering lives on.

My feminism breaks through despite being afraid. It builds movements and pushes them forward, thriving on the edges and at the margins. It seeks new ways of being. It imagines beyond what it can see. It’s rooted and prophetic, often risking materialistic desires. It doesn’t need to step on others to rise.

My feminism loves as hard as it fights. It basks in the glow of sisterhood. It nurtures relationships. It gives generously, protects fiercely, laughs freely, weeps courageously, dances with child-like abandon. Like shared wine and chocolate cheesecake with her best friends at midnight, it drinks deeply.  It lives.

Read more blog posts from women across the country over at FaithFeminisms.com

Don't forget to check out the 30 second podcast, too! 

I used to think I was made for white people. I know that sounds a little crazy, but its true. When I discovered this thing called "racial reconciliation" I was attending a predominately white college where many people of color found themselves constantly teaching white folks about racial justice. Following my undergraduate experience, I got a brief reprieve in Detroit, MI at Marygrove College (the only school I've attended where I was in the majority- it was glorious). That experience has been followed by a succession of employment, projects, workshops and speaking engagements that revolve around helping white people "get it". 

With age comes clarity (sometimes), and for a couple years my thinking around my vocation has evolved. It is true that I've spent the majority of my life in PWI's (private, white, institutions). It is true that much of my teaching (and learning) has somehow managed to revolve around whiteness- white privilege, white ignorance, white shame, and what white folks "need" to get on the bus. Its amazing how white supremacy even invades racial reconciliation. Whiteness has a tendency to always put itself first, and I believed. I believed that white folks were at the center, the great hope, the linchpin, the key to racial justice and reconciliation. I knew that if this was the case, I was capable of bending and contorting myself to be the voice white folks could hear. And for the most part it worked reinforcing my belief that my vocation would always revolve around whiteness. 

And then. I am not entirely sure when the shift started to take place. I suspect it was a subtle turning, a series of conversations, confessions spoken in whispers. Maybe it was in Detroit. Somewhere along the way, I grew up. I dived deep into the complexity of vocation, spun it around, looked at it closely, then backed up so I could see it from afar. I looked in the nooks and crannies, hoping to find my contribution to racial justice and the Church but instead discovered myself. Stripping myself of a simplistic vocation and surface level observations of my journey allowed me to finally see my life and work without whiteness at the center. You know what I found instead? Women of Color.    

Shocking right? Not so much, I know. But this was a real awakening for me. And if you've spent any amount of time in an institution that was only too happy to allow it to define you, you know what kind of revelation I'm talking about here. When I looked beyond a simple checklist- attended PWI's (check), talked about race (check), had an impact (check)- I made a lot of new discoveries but almost all revolved around surviving white institutions as a woman of color.

Peeling back the layers revealed so much.  Secret conversations. Tears the institution never witnessed. Injustices leadership never acknowledged. The work of women of color- often behind the scenes, without titles or official positions. Doing the work. Daily doing the work with their lives.    

Now, I'd have to write a book to explain all the ways women of color have actually been at the center of my racial justice journey. It would take pages upon pages to discuss our hopes and dreams for justice. It would take chapters upon chapters to explain how we are ignored and invisible until its photo time. The terms "self care" have taken on an entirely new meaning- far from bubble baths and good music (both of which are important)- I have learned that self care is political and women of color have to learn how to play. It would take so much to drag the depth of our experiences within PWI's into the light. And thats exactly what I'm going to do.

Drag it into the light.

I am determined to write a book that explores the experiences of women of color who are navigating white, evangelical spaces- hoping that darkness will give way to light. 

Will you come along with me on this journey? Will you pray for me and talk with me? Will you share your stories, your questions, your observations? Will you beat back the darkness and enlarge the light, so I don't have to drag it quite so far? 

Let the journey begin. 

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.*