I am in Birmingham for the beginning of what promises to be a very rewarding journey. As I waited for the time to gather, I couldn’t help but think about the people we will meet and the places we will see. And, I couldn’t help but think about what I know and what I know I don’t know.
I grew up in Chicago, born in 1952. Chicago surely had it’s manifestations of racism, but for whatever reasons, I am not sure how much I was aware of them. My first awareness, where I could verbalize the injustice of racism, was in 1963 at an exhibit of the centennial anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. I don’t remember photographs of slaves working the fields, in revolt, in chains or dressed well and in church. I do remember reading about Lincoln, and the document that made freedom a law, and that it pertained to me. And I do remember being surprised that we were celebrating this freedom. My family didn’t have much money, but I didn’t equate that with being poor because all the people around me seemed to be on the same economic level. I didn’t know or understand about racism because all those around me were positive, supportive, and trying to do the best for their families. I was protected by my mother and father and taught education was essential. That was my world. At the age of 11, I was just like any other 11 year old.
I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t know how I learned about racism. I think while growing up I had a dim awareness of riots in the south, water hoses and dogs turned on protesters, names like “Bull” Connor, and even the NAACP. Chicago had Jessie Jackson and a Saturday morning breakfast on the radio that was called Operation Breadbasket, which later became Operation PUSH (People United to Save Humanity – Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition). But I was much more aware of my own little world, with a father who was an alcoholic (though we didn’t acknowledge it then, at least not openly), a big brother who was being recruited by a gang, and that my teeth protruded so much I was going to need braces. And so as our group gathered, and people who are about the same age I am talked about their lack of knowledge of the activities surrounding the fight for Civil Rights, I felt a big weight lift from my shoulders. Most of the people in the group were as ignorant as I am. I didn’t need to carry the mantle for being the resident expert on racism, or even on being Black. I didn’t need to be the one to process other peoples’ feelings of ignorance, guilt, shame, or whatever they were feeling, and not acknowledge my own.
We were encouraged to let go of things that might get in the way of our entering into the experiences being offered to us this week. And so already, I am glad I came. I am hopeful that I’ll not only learn some of this tragic, necessary and valorous history, but be able to claim this history as an important and integral piece of who I am. Instead of feeling like one who has never quite fit, in a society where it seems lines have been drawn and I’m either a radical, an uppity nigger or someone who has sold out to the other side (what ever that other side is). I am hoping this week will begin to help me understand, internally, the cost of the freedom I value to simply be me. I want to cherish, in fact, the strength, the hope, the resilience and the pride of people, whether Black or other, who have fought the battles and made it possible for me to be who I am.
And as I bare my ignorance, I hope you can see, hear, feel, and understand that this quest for wholeness for myself and for the people whose skin color I share, is simply that: the need for wholeness, rightness, and to use a theological concept, the need for Shalom – peace and unity of spirit. There is so much more to us than what we see and project to the world. And as I type this I will be honest with my feelings. At this moment I am crying and I want to say I don’t know where that is coming from, but I think that maybe I’ve worn a mask for so long, that I’ve assumed a certain character to fit in and be successful, and that like many other Black people, there are hurts so deep, I am only now acknowledging them and allowing them to surface. And at the age of 67!
Thanks for being with me on this journey.
Laura, Nicky, Sister, Pastor, Friend, or however you know and call me. Me.
I grew up in Chicago, born in 1952. Chicago surely had it’s manifestations of racism, but for whatever reasons, I am not sure how much I was aware of them. My first awareness, where I could verbalize the injustice of racism, was in 1963 at an exhibit of the centennial anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation. I don’t remember photographs of slaves working the fields, in revolt, in chains or dressed well and in church. I do remember reading about Lincoln, and the document that made freedom a law, and that it pertained to me. And I do remember being surprised that we were celebrating this freedom. My family didn’t have much money, but I didn’t equate that with being poor because all the people around me seemed to be on the same economic level. I didn’t know or understand about racism because all those around me were positive, supportive, and trying to do the best for their families. I was protected by my mother and father and taught education was essential. That was my world. At the age of 11, I was just like any other 11 year old.
I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t know how I learned about racism. I think while growing up I had a dim awareness of riots in the south, water hoses and dogs turned on protesters, names like “Bull” Connor, and even the NAACP. Chicago had Jessie Jackson and a Saturday morning breakfast on the radio that was called Operation Breadbasket, which later became Operation PUSH (People United to Save Humanity – Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition). But I was much more aware of my own little world, with a father who was an alcoholic (though we didn’t acknowledge it then, at least not openly), a big brother who was being recruited by a gang, and that my teeth protruded so much I was going to need braces. And so as our group gathered, and people who are about the same age I am talked about their lack of knowledge of the activities surrounding the fight for Civil Rights, I felt a big weight lift from my shoulders. Most of the people in the group were as ignorant as I am. I didn’t need to carry the mantle for being the resident expert on racism, or even on being Black. I didn’t need to be the one to process other peoples’ feelings of ignorance, guilt, shame, or whatever they were feeling, and not acknowledge my own.
We were encouraged to let go of things that might get in the way of our entering into the experiences being offered to us this week. And so already, I am glad I came. I am hopeful that I’ll not only learn some of this tragic, necessary and valorous history, but be able to claim this history as an important and integral piece of who I am. Instead of feeling like one who has never quite fit, in a society where it seems lines have been drawn and I’m either a radical, an uppity nigger or someone who has sold out to the other side (what ever that other side is). I am hoping this week will begin to help me understand, internally, the cost of the freedom I value to simply be me. I want to cherish, in fact, the strength, the hope, the resilience and the pride of people, whether Black or other, who have fought the battles and made it possible for me to be who I am.
And as I bare my ignorance, I hope you can see, hear, feel, and understand that this quest for wholeness for myself and for the people whose skin color I share, is simply that: the need for wholeness, rightness, and to use a theological concept, the need for Shalom – peace and unity of spirit. There is so much more to us than what we see and project to the world. And as I type this I will be honest with my feelings. At this moment I am crying and I want to say I don’t know where that is coming from, but I think that maybe I’ve worn a mask for so long, that I’ve assumed a certain character to fit in and be successful, and that like many other Black people, there are hurts so deep, I am only now acknowledging them and allowing them to surface. And at the age of 67!
Thanks for being with me on this journey.
Laura, Nicky, Sister, Pastor, Friend, or however you know and call me. Me.
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