Dear
friend,
It has been an eerie thing for me these past few years: sort of
a déjà vu experience to watch the news and read about Ferguson, Eric Garner,
Baltimore riots, McKinney and, most recently, the horrific shooting in
Charleston. I've been watching #blacklivesmatter trend on Twitter: grief and
outrage and opinions from every corner. And, as someone who grew up in
Apartheid South Africa, this all feels eerily familiar. I listen to people talk
and think I remember, and I recognize that.
America
did away with legislated racism a few decades before South Africa did (I
remember reading many of the early U.S. cases in my constitutional law classes
in SA), but institutional racism is still alive and well, and people are
hurting.
I recognize the fear, the blaming, the use of "they"
and "them" in people's language. I remember hearing the voices of
brave voices in the black community appealing to people to listen, to learn, to please,
please acknowledge that there are hurts I don't see or understand.
I remember the talk of white privilege, and feeling unjustly accused by the
term. I remember grappling with what it meant to be regarded as an oppressor,
even though I was too young to have done any wrong myself.
I know
there are many differences between America and South Africa's histories: they
are complex narratives, woven in blood and ink. I do not write this as an
expert analyst, or as a political pundit -- but as one confessing there is so
much I don't know and understand. But, I offer the little I've learned living
in a country which shed tears and blood over race, and now living in another
doing the same:
That, even though I was raised as a "liberal" white
person, I was still a beneficiary of privilege. I still had more opportunities
than people with more melanin in their skin, just because of being born white.
I had not yet learned that we are all blind to our own privileges until we hear the stories
of those who have lived without. Just as we don't know what a
privilege it is to be able-bodied until we, or someone close to us, loses
significant body function, we don't know what white privilege is until we, or
someone close to us, experiences significant discrimination on the basis of
their skin color. For example, I didn't know until recently that even the color
of band aids reflected privilege: the "norm" is a skin-tone suited
for caucasians, not people of color.
That, just because I wasn't a hate-mongering "racist"
and even though I had friends of other races (I was one of the few who went to
a private, multiracial school in the 80s), didn't mean I knew what it was like
to be black. I had not yet learned to listen to people's stories.
That, even
though my mom did much to try and teach us not to use racial slurs (for
example, black men are not "boys"), there were still other
presumptions and prejudices and blind spots I carried because of the culture I
was born into.
That, even
though I believed in a gospel where "there is no male and female, slave
nor free, but we are all one in Christ Jesus" (Galatians 3:28), that there
was still a significant need for reconciliation and restoration within the
church. The denomination of which I was a part (REACH-SA) held a number of
meetings in the mid-nineties, seeking to discuss this very thing: what needed to
be done so that predominantly "white" churches" and
predominantly "black churches" within the same denomination could
have healed and whole relationships with each other. At first, I scoffed at the
need for such talks (Why do we need that? Haven't we all been forgiven by Jesus
and so we just forgive each other and move on?), to later on a deep and dawning
realization that just offering to have that conversation showed a humility, and
offered an olive branch, which had been sorely lacking. As it turned out, we
needed to say I'm sorry, even thought I hadn't realized there was an offense.
To you, beloved Americans, I offer this humble suggestion:
please learn something from South Africa's history in the current crisis. Read
Alan Paton's Cry, The Beloved Country. Read Nelson Mandela's Long Walk to Freedom.
Consider Desmond Tutu's words and example. Read Michael Cassidy. Read about the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission. Listen to what happened (and how the church responded) when a
group of terrorists walked into St. James Church and massacred the worshippers
there in 1993. South Africa is not a shining example in many respects, but
there are still so many lessons we can learn from each other.
Listen to the stories of the white families around you who are
adopting black children, and are learning in their own families about how their
darker skinned children are treated differently to their white ones (like Jen Hatmaker, Karen Yates,
and Kristen Howerton.
Listen to the words of writers like Austin Channing, and Osheta Moore,
who are seeking to be peacemakers (not trouble causers) by telling the stories
we need to hear about race. Acknowledge that if you are white, you have no idea what it's like to be not-white.
Can I also
gently say that you are not going to hear the stories that will move you
towards grace and better understanding if you are exclusively watching FOX
news. (Or reading Matt Walsh.) South Africa would never have been able to move
forward if we all just kept listening to the people we had always listened to.
We need to read and listen outside of our little circles. It was really only
when I had finished law school and was at seminary, side by side with South
Africans from every race group, and people were sharing their testimonies of growing
up that the penny really began to drop for me. I'm still trying to listen. It's
hard. God knows, I want to be a better listener than I've been.
I'm a long
time fan of Jodi Picoult's novels: I love the way she weaves together stories
about deeply divisive ethical issues, and places characters in her story who
represent various viewpoints on those issues. What amazes me about her writing
is how, as each chapter skips to a different character, their views make sense
to me when told from within their perspective. Her writing has made me realize
that everyone says and does things in accordance with their viewpoint, and that
differences of opinion are often less about who has the facts, and all about
where a person is coming from in viewing the facts.
I'm in my late 30s, and still learning how much my opinions have
been shaped by my being white and growing up in the predominantly white
communities and schools I did. Watching South Africa go through its painful
transition to democracy was the beginning of a lesson in needing to listen well
(and silently) to other's stories. The difference between a freedom fighter and terrorist is
really just a matter of perspective, isn't it?
I write
this with tears, prayer, and hopes that we can do better. Listen better. Love better.
Things are
not okay the way they are.
