"Any religion that professes to be concerned about the souls of [people] and is not concerned about the slums that damn them, the economic conditions that strangle them and the social conditions that cripple them is a spiritually moribund religion awaiting burial."
-Martin Luther King, Jr.
When I was in 8th grade, I went on a mission trip to Tunica, Mississippi with my youth group. By that point in school, I had already sat through several Black History Month assemblies where I had learned about segregation and the civil rights movement. I had been assigned projects on civil rights leaders and had watched dramatic interpretations of the feel-good parts of MLK’s “I Have a Dream Speech.” But like most of the other middle-class white kids in my youth group, I had easily accepted the idea that though segregation and racism had been a big problem in our nation’s past, racial equality was no longer really a problem. As I understood it, the signing of the Civil Rights Act had legally ended Jim Crow laws and barred segregation, therefore the problem of racial injustice had been solved.
That summer in Mississippi, as we drove our church van from the perfectly manicured, white-picket-fenced side of Tunica, across a literal set of railroad tracks, and into the black slums of the same southern town, I was rocked to discover the chasm that still gaped wide in our country, even this many years after civil rights.
On Sunday, the trip leaders divided us into small groups and sent each group to attend a different church in town. Like any other institution we encountered in Tunica, the churches we visited were staunchly divided along racial lines. I remember my initial disappointment that my group had been assigned to attend a predominantly white church, mostly because I was more interested in gospel music than stuffy hymns. By the end of the service, though, my disappointment about worship styles had quickly shifted to indignation, as it dawned on me that all of these people who claimed to be Christians were worshipping Jesus and thanking “God from whom all blessings flow,” while less than two miles away, in their own community, people of color were facing economic struggles like nothing my sheltered 13 year old eyes had ever seen before. While there may have been people within the church who were serving in the community in other ways during the week, there certainly was no crossing of racial lines within the church that sunday morning.
That short trip planted a seed in my heart that would one day bloom into a real desire to build relationships and work for equality across racial lines. Long before white privilege was a thing we talked about, I got a glimpse into how much of my education and access to opportunity was a result of the circumstances, family, and race into which I had been born. Yet, as often happens with middle school missions trips, once I returned home to my comfortable and mostly-white community, I became absorbed in the busyness and angst of teenage life and didn’t think much about race or racial inequality until years later.
One thing I’ve since learned about privilege is that racial inequality is not something that white people have to think or deal with if they don’t want to. Once the struggles of the black community I’d visited in Mississippi were out of sight, it was easy to put them out of mind. I attended a predominantly white high school, then went to a predominantly white university, then moved to the predominantly white Pacific Northwest. Along the way, I was able to comfortably explore and discuss race from an academic and artistic standpoint, but rarely did I dialogue about race in mixed company and hardly ever in a way that intentionally opened doors for reconciliation or social change.
But moving back to the south five years ago, and to the Church Hill neighborhood of Richmond just over a year ago, the topic has come up with more frequency than ever before in my life, and I have chosen to open myself up and learn what it means to be a friend and ally for my black friends, students, and neighbors who even today are still reeling from the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow, and the subsequent political and economic injustices that have plagued their communities.
For me, this means initiating more conversations about social justice, and using my unique platform as a theatre educator to tell diverse stories and empower students of color. Unfortunately, as I’ve become more comfortable exploring this topic, I’ve experienced pushback from white friends who don’t understand why “black lives matter” is a movement that matters to me.
It is certainly easier for many of us to avoid talking and thinking about these things. The conversations that exist around the issue of race and racism are often not easy and can lead to uncomfortable feelings on both sides. Friendships can be lost. Toes can get stepped on. But the only way that things will ever change is if we step into the mess that exists and get our hands and hearts dirty.
I read a Martin Luther King Jr. quote today that, woefully, can apply as much to our current political climate now as it did to his over 50 years ago:
"Whenever I am asked my opinion of the current state of the civil rights movement, I am forced to pause; it is not easy to describe a crisis so profound that it has caused the most powerful nation in the world to stagger in confusion and bewilderment. Today’s problems are so acute because the tragic evasions and defaults of several centuries have accumulated to disaster proportions. The luxury of a leisurely approach to urgent solutions—the ease of gradualism—was forfeited by ignoring the issues for too long. The nation waited until the black man was explosive with fury before stirring itself even to partial concern. Confronted now with the interrelated problems of war, inflation, urban decay, white backlash and a climate of violence, it is now forced to address itself to race relations and poverty, and it is tragically unprepared. What might once have been a series of separate problems now merge into a social crisis of almost stupefying complexity."
So today, on the birthday of this man who fought so diligently and spoke out so poetically for a dream that has yet to be achieved, I want to urge more of my white brothers and sisters to open their eyes and hearts to the injustice that still exists in our country and become a part of this conversation. At the very least, learn what the conversation is about.
It’s easy to accept the textbook answer about civil rights. To see a black president elected and to think that the problem of equality has been solved. But there is a deeper history that exists, injustices that still need to be rectified, economic problems with roots in slavery and the Jim Crow era that have continued to shackle much of the black community to a cycle of poverty. And until people in power begin to recognize and deal with these problems, change cannot happen.
If you have grown up with any degree of privilege, as I have, this is not an easy thing to step into. You will probably experience guilt, anger, and frustration. You may find yourself offended or heavily burdened. None of these are good feelings. But especially for those of us who call ourselves Christians, we cannot turn a blind eye to the legacy of racism in our country. We cannot be the last ones to come to the table on this issue.
As MLK himself said in his very last speech, as he preached the parable of the good Samaritan:
“the first question that the priest asked -- the first question that the Levite asked was, "If I stop to help this man, what will happen to me?" But then the Good Samaritan came by. And he reversed the question: "If I do not stop to help this man, what will happen to him?"
So how do we help? As a white woman, I have a lot of insecurity about “helping” people of color. I know the white savior mentality can strip power from communities and people of color. But simply educating myself to understand and be able to talk about the complexity of race, power and what it has meant in our nation and in my community has at least been a starting step in that direction for me. The young people call it “getting woke.”
If you need some help getting started on your journey of wokeness, here are a few ideas:
Read lots of things. Start with this silly article about the 7 stages of white people getting woke. Click all the links. Let it be your gateway drug. Don’t understand white privilege? Look it up. The internet is chock full of articles that will break it down for you. Like and share essays and articles on the subject that your woke friends are posting on Facebook. I even have a friend with a facebook group called “White Folk Get Woke.” Request to join. Tell her I sent you.
Discover black art and stories. For starters, watch Roots if you’ve never seen it. Then the Color Purple. Do the Right Thing. 12 Years a Slave. Fences. Thirteenth. (Maybe pace yourself a bit, unless you want crawl into a hole and cry for three weeks straight.) Go to an African American art exhibit somewhere. If a Kehinde Wiley exhibit rolls through your town like it did mine, go look at those beautiful paintings. Read novels and poems by black writers. See a play by August Wilson.
Feel your feelings. As I said before, you may find yourself burdened, angry, even broken by the things you learn as you begin to go down this rabbit hole. That pain means you’re starting to feel a fragment of what black people in this country have felt. If you’re a Christian, that pain is also something that Jesus understands. Cry out to God with that pain. Lament for the sins of our nation. Pray that doors will be opened for you to speak truth into darkness.
Build authentic relationships with people of color. This is a difficult step as it can be easy for white people to objectify black friends during their journey of “getting woke.” Many of us have that one black friend or co-worker, and chances are your one black friend is the one black friend for even more white people, so she may be sick of helping her white friends understand racism. Don’t be afraid to open up conversations about the topic, but be sensitive to the burden of educating white people that many people of color feel. That said, maybe try to have more than one black friend. For me, being a part of a church that was committed to diversity has allowed me to begin building relationships with people who come from different cultural backgrounds than me. Being involved in the arts community has also connected me to a more diverse group of people, not just in terms of race, but in terms of sexuality and gender identity as well.
Find a safe place to have hard conversations. If you live in or are close to Richmond, there is a non-profit named Arrabon that is committed to opening up this dialogue. They are hosting a conference in March with just this agenda. Sign up to attend with friends who are also interested in being a part of this conversation. Maybe I’ll see you there ;)
Speak up. Admittedly, this has been the hardest part for me. Most of the time, I don’t feel like I know enough, have experienced enough, or that this is even my story to tell. And I worry about the ways in which speaking out might invite negative commentary into my life. But sadly, we live in a world where white voices are more often listened to than black voices. So when the time comes, speak. If the length of this post is any indication, you may find you have more to say than you realized.
