Part 1: When The Tears Don't Move You

It happens to all of us racial reconcilers. That one day when you think to yourself, "Its finally happened. This work has crushed me. I am a terrible person. I should quit." It's the moment when someone- your pastor, your supervisor, your friend, your coworker, your professor- bursts into tears for the umpteenth time in the middle of a conversation about justice and reconciliation. You almost know the words by heart, you've heard the speech so many times. At the end comes a series of "but I really want to"s and "if I could only make you believe how much this matters to me"s and "maybe if you could just"s. You sit. And stare. And for the first time, you are unmoved. 

When you began this work, you lived for these moments when the dam breaks and the emotions flow. You left the table emboldened. You left the table believing. Believing that they are in it with you. Believing in their ability to do better. Believing that if you just [fill in the blank], you can move this thing forward. It made you believe in time. 

But now you sit across from them, handing them a tissue. Trying desperately to determine why you aren't feeling anything, especially when you believe them. You believe in their sympathies for racial justice. You believe their heart is broken. You believe they want to do better. And yet, this performance before you deserves no applause. 

No, you are not becoming a terrible person. You have not just taken a small step toward hell. You are not suddenly an unfeeling person. You are a savvy one because you are learning. You are about to experience a great growth spurt. You about to discover the very real difference between someone who has sympathy for racial justice and someone who stands in solidity with you to accomplish racial justice. The difference is immense.

And its a lesson you have to learn if you are to stay healthy in this work. You cannot expect that everyone who is sympathetic will stand in solidarity. You will know the difference. This moment. The moment when emotions are erupting around you, and you are clear headed, unmoved, wondering whats next is the moment you know the difference. 

Sometimes the work of racial justice feels very much like a well. A constant digging deeper to see what lies below. There are some who though sympathetic, will never go deeper than this. Their bucket will go down into the well of emotions and always only come back twenty-five percent full. In it you will find some key phrases, a couple intense stories and very real tears for the muddiness, the racism, the injustice around them... in them. And you will watch them let down the bucket, and bring it up. And let it down, and bring it up. But always, it is filled only with sympathy. And you can believe them, sort of. Truthfully, it gets harder and harder to believe them. But initially you will. You will believe that the sympathy, the tears, the expressed desire to do better is real. But you will not invest. You will not invest any more than handing them a tissue. This will surprise you. Because you are used to doing much more when someone gets emotional about racial justice. And this time you won't. You will let them sit and talk and empty the bucket. And then you will move on with your day (hopefully not wondering how you became such a horrible person overnight!) 

Your reaction (or lack of one) is only because you know the difference now. The difference between sympathy and someone who is actively moving toward solidarity. Those who are moving toward solidarity just look different. There is not an emotional difference. People in solidarity are quite emotional. But the bucket is different. It is filled with more than just sympathies. It is filled with actions. It is filled with an ever growing list of books, articles, podcasts. It is filled with "stupid" questions (they will call them that; you never will). They will let down the bucket and when it comes back it will be filled with repentance and revelation. They will ask hard questions of people, of institutions, of groups they love, respect. They will risk both the love and the respect because they will expect more. Mostly, they will expect more of themselves.

Those in solidarity, or at least working toward it, will help you see that you've not become unfeeling. When they cry, you will hold them. When they have revelations, you will cheer. When they get angry (a very common emotion among those in solidarity) you will react- nod, explain, shed light, direct the anger. You will get to work. And you will love it. Its the work you've been called to. And part of the work is recognizing those who are moving and those who are sitting. 

So don't panic. You're okay. You're just seeing the difference. You're determining how much to give. When to give. You'll figure out what you can give to someone who is spinning in sympathy. So don't be alarmed when the first time, its nothing. It may not always be nothing. You might have a go to resource, or go to quote. You might have a standard question or perhaps even a suggestion. Sometimes, all you will have is tissue. Its okay. As long as you remain open to the move of the Holy Spirit. You never know when someone's bucket might go deeper than they realized. But trust that you'll know when its happened. 

So keep paying attention to these small changes within yourself. Because you, my friend, are growing. 

Photo by Anna J Yoder. Click Image to view her portfolio. 

I am learning to bring all of myself to my work. For a long time I thought I had to chop myself into pieces in order to be understood. I thought separating my womanhood from my blackness was the only way I could operate in the world- perhaps the only way to make sense of the world. By separating myself, I believed I could gain control. If I only brought my womanhood to women's conferences, and ignored my race, I could fill up one bucket while ignoring the other. Similarly, in social justice spaces that are dominated by patriarchy, I thought I could stuff my womanhood down, put it on hold, throw it on the back burner and focus on racial justice for a moment. While these are clear spaces where I am highly aware of the "need" to split myself in half, there is a sense that I am regularly doing this. 

I walk into a room and people aren't sure how to react to the black woman standing before them. Is that because I am black or because I am woman? If I was a black man would they respond the same way?  Or if I was a white woman would I have gotten the same treatment? If I am asked to speak about race, do I only tell stories that I am certain involved race only? If someone agrees with everything I think about racial justice but doesn't have a problem with patriarchy, do I get to address that? Or must I split them in half as well- cheering for the justice side but pretend the patriarchy isn't somehow at play in the moment? 

Splitting myself was both a way of survival and a way of believing in the world. Let me tell you, its so easy to find women who care about womanhood and activists who care about racial justice. Finding folks who are willing to take on multiple forms of oppression are significantly harder to come by. 

But this way of survival leaves much to be desired. I want more. I want more than survival. More than half truths. More than sort of allies. More than halfway on board institutions. I want more than dissection- of myself and of those around me. I want wholeness. 

I want to bring the complicated mess that I am to the table because I didn't create the complications. I didn't erect racial injustice, and I didn't build patriarchy. I didn't inform white supremacy, and I didn't write books on a woman's "rightful place". 

I see the world as a black woman. It is the perspective God gave me. It is the lens through which I see the world. Its how I understand the world- how I talk, how I walk, how I think, how I write, how I move in the world. 

Black and woman. This is a gift. Its so easy to forget what a gift this is because patriarchy and racism would have me believe otherwise, would have me believe that I am less than, that the weight of both is too much to carry all at once, that I must focus on just one if I am to be effective. Lies.

I believe in the legacy of black women who refused to be satisfied with lies. I believe that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I believe that I am created in the image of the Divine. I believe that I am at my best when I bring my wholeness to the table. I believe that the weight of racism and patriarchy cant drown me. I believe that I am perfectly made for resistance, for freedom, for community. 

If there are others out there, working to dismantle multiple oppressions, navigating multiple identities, I want you to know that I believe in us. I believe in our wholeness. I believe in our legacy and our future. I believe in our work, in our community, in our sense of self. 

Bring yourself. All of you. And I promise to bring myself, too. We'll practice. And we'll get better. We'll do it together. We'll cheer one another on. And in holding hands we'll find that we are stronger together. In holding hands we will find that oppressive systems don't stand a chance. In holding hands we will find ourselves. We will move closer to the whole being God created. We will live. 

Be brave. Being yourself is resistance.

I grew up immersed in white culture through private education. I attended predominately white schools from preschool through college. Though I successfully navigated the ins and outs of school, there, I was often too black.

My ponytail didn’t move like the other girls. My father was a step ahead of the hairstyle scene, so I was wearing cornrows the decade before they became super popular again. My hair choices regularly confounded those around me, and I quickly learned to dodge wandering fingers touching my hair without permission.

I was called a nigger and told I look like a monkey. My parents taught me to never place my hands in my pockets or in a purse after touching something on a store shelf and to always hold my receipt until I’ve made it safely to the parking lot. Along with driving lessons came a tutoring session in dealing with the police.

I was questioning what we learned in history class and used every opportunity I could (book report, art project, research paper) to study black history. I learned that I had a choice growing up, I could give the answers teachers were hoping to receive or I could risk the F and speak my truth (ie- Christopher Columbus discovered America? Nope.) Though I succeeded in school, that success was not indicative of sameness. I was regularly negotiating my identity and establishing demands for respect...

Read the rest of this post at SheLoves Magazine by clicking HERE   

Photo by Anna J Yoder. Click photo to view her portfolio. 

It amazes me that the small town of Ferguson, essentially unknown to most of the country just 10 weeks ago, is now a part of conversations happening all over America and around the world. Its story has so impacted us that we use Ferguson as a noun, not to describe the city, but to more concisely say “the black community whose legal protests and acts of civil disobedience showcased to America that distrust of police is often the result of a history of exaggerated responses of violence toward people of color.”

Ferguson has become synonymous with resistance.

As Ferguson marches on, they have become a great teacher. They taught us about military-grade weapons being used in small, suburban towns. They reminded us of the importance of journalism and its necessity to record police abuses. They taught us the power of social media to bypass traditional modes of broadcasting and still capture the attention of people around the world. They asked us to make the systemic connections between Eric Garner, John Crawford, and Michael Brown, refusing to consider these deaths isolated incidents of coincidence. (...)

Read the remainder of the article at Relevant Magazine by clicking HERE