Let me first start off by saying that I am a former racist. I told my fair share of jokes that used the "n" word (on a similar note, I kept quite a few Mexican jokes in my repertoire as well). I laughed when friends of mine used racial slurs. I used some myself too. When the news was on, or when I watched COPS on tv and they were chasing some idiot, my first thought was based on their race. It was always my first assumption.
I've told many of you, and those blogs are all open record, that my house wasn't always politically correct. While we weren't mean-spirited about our racism, we treated it as a joke. Much of our ignorance was from our lack of knowledge. We really didn't have any black friends. We had classmates and co-workers, but when it came to who we hung out with on a weekend, we were always with family or people who had the same ethnic background as myself. I was raised with two images of black families, the one on The Cosby Show (how ironic does that sound now with all the allegations?) and the fractured families on Boyz N The Hood.
By the time I reached 5th grade, my two best friends, Jeff and Omari, represented the blackest I had ever been. It was a big deal that I had actually been in their homes, or had them over to my house for a sleepover. My mom didn't disinfect the house when they came over, nor did she treat them any different. Besides the fact that Jeff's mom drank a bit more than most other moms I knew, nothing was much different.
As I grew into junior high, my football teammates were black. We all joked about the color of our skin, the white boys too. They were allowed to use the "n" word amongst themselves and my white friends would tease them and ask them why they could use the word but they couldn't. We referred to all of our friends by color too. I didn't just hang out with Richard, it was my white friend Richard. My best friend in high school referred to me as a spic. I called him other words too. A joke among pals.
But race and color has always been on the peripheral. I remember my 9th grade football year, when the black guys on the team had running arguments and threats with the Mexican members of the team. When we had our helmets on we were a team, win or lose. The minute they came off, the colors blinded any common ground.
As I grew into high school and later in college, the jokes subsided. If it's possible to grow out of racism, then that's what happens. In elementary you are with the same neighborhood kids, but as junior high melted into high school, neighborhoods merge. The same friends moved onto other interests. You say something wrong to someone you don't know, it could end in disaster. The bus rides home in high school always seemed to end in some kind of verbal threat based on race. Every confrontation was a potential race war. You couldn't argue with anyone, white boys included, without having to fight their entire lineage.
While my misconceptions and biases had already been formed by the time I became an adult, it's socially unacceptable to spread garbage. Looking back, you realize that when you have an ignorant thought about another person that is based on the color of their skin, it feels wrong. Laughter can't always shake off that oddness of sin. Romans 2:15 reminds me that "our conscious also bears witness" in that even for unbelievers, the Holy Spirit resides in all of us. We have no excuse. Wrong is wrong. We can choose to follow the tug of our hearts and change our ways, or we can turn off that Holy Spirit-ometer and continue towards our deaths.
So I sit just as puzzled as I was the year of the Rodney King riots, and during the OJ trial too, as the city of Ferguson literally burned down around the protesters. There's more of an immediacy to today's events. Twitter brings a constant feed of thoughts and consciousness as the events unfold. Bloggers, journalists and tv crews camp out and write a narrative for the viewers to digest. News isn't even news any more. There are only agendas.
Another verse from Romans came to mind as I'm reading countless articles about the Ferguson case, trying to put myself into the shoes of the officer, into the shoes of Mike Brown too. "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn," says Romans 12:15. The loss of a child, even one with a criminal disposition (let's be honest, Mike Brown was probably no altar boy), is not to flippantly handled with the like button of a Facebook post. There's hurt going on in that community.
Apparently, other cities around the country are feeling the same thing. In Oakland, here in Columbus, New York and Houston, protesters have taken to the streets in a plea that their voices be heard. It's not just a coincidence. I began to view the incidents of injustice as a reflection on my own experiences with law enforcement, and more importantly with the factors that help support the ongoing myth (or reality in some cases) that of a broken system that continues to keep the poorest people poor.
While I learned that just saying "yes, sir" or "no, sir" to a cop kept me out of trouble (see the #CrimingWhileWhite tweets, they point to some of this) not everyone follows that same advice. The new wave of law enforcement aggression has now reached a perfect storm as it clashes against the disrespect of the people they serve. Do you expect those that did not grow up with meaningful role models, or positive male influences to submit to searches or to comply? Along with a flurry of movies that nail home the edict of bad cops and corruption, it's no wonder that these confrontations are occurring. Many people have reiterated that Michael Brown's actions got himself killed. Don't rob a store, they said. Who fights a cop for his gun, they say. When a cop asks you to move, why don't you just move out of the way? Aggression, male ego, pride and machismo. These cocktails don't make a good batch of anything.
I'm done blaming either side. The empathy of those in power, those that don't even live in the same environment in the Fergusons across the country add to this sentiment. Even as I sit among my peers, none of the teachers who work in my building live in the same district as the children they service. While the white teachers aren't to blame, they live even farther away than the many black students they teach.
Many teachers I know will probably find that last paragraph a bit disingenuous. Many years ago, our principal, an African-American, gave the staff a book to read. "Black Students, Middle Class Teachers," by Dr. Jawanza Kunjufu. You should have seen the faces in the staff meeting. White teachers were revolting! Many felt it as an insult. "I teach black kids," they basically were telling me. "That should count as enough."
And I think right there is where we have the problem. Just being a teacher doesn't absolve me from serving in other areas God is calling me, challenging me in which to act. But I've met teachers who basically checked the box on that issue. Teaching doesn't mean I have understood all there is about diversity. I still feel just as clueless about the everyday lives of African-Americans as I do aliens on Mars. But if my classroom is any indication, their parents lives aren't probably the posters of what we would call the American dream. Kids who rattle off the names of rated "R" movies, kids who make smoking weed gestures, kids who call one another bitches, kids without school supplies, clean clothes or the look of rest in their eyes. Parents are doing their best, and who are we to judge from afar? I'm not working nights, leaving my kids at home. My income is enough for our household, and my career is somewhat secure. I haven't worked fast food since I was 19. I have moms who work fast food as their primary source of income. You think they want to be pulled over by a cop, knowing their license plate is expired?
Lots of folks find it easy to tell me that they "worked" for everything they have, and I don't doubt their sincerity. Try finding those same jobs today. While I worked for what I had too, there was much more divine intervention and Godly coincidence than the sweat of my brow. The minority scholarship phone call to the academic advisor as I walked in for my appointment to enroll in college at OU. The close calls I had drinking and driving with friends in high school, two that involved cops that never reached more than a stern conversation. Mr. K, who in my eight grade year personally saw to it to see to my well being when my attitude kept me inside school suspension. You know who really worked during my non-belief years? The Holy Spirit. The ones who answered the nudges of their heart to assist me are the ones who were reaching for me from afar, pulling me out of my own abyss.
So where are those people in Ferguson? I believe they are there too. I find stories about teachers working in the library to catch students up with the lessons their missing. I hear of Oath Keepers who are guarding some of the business on the streets from looters. I hear of college students who are cleaning up their own streets during the day, the same ones being trashed by out of town protesters and the tear gas canisters of the police.
So why don't we hear more of their stories?
The Ferguson riots are not the last time America will see their streets burn. Electing a black president just seemed to separate us even more. That's not a knock on just whites. Because of our agenda-driven world, each people of color have their own goals to reach. Immigration. Health care. Etc. Etc. If each agenda gets "fixed" are we really helping everyone? All we have created is bubble majorities instead of helping the minorities. Majorities that live in their bubble world and see the problem with America as the other person's problem.
On a final note, many have asked, where are the churches? Where are the spiritual leaders? I believe they are there in Fergusons all over the nation. The problem is, the youth, perhaps some cops, the system have all turned off their Holy Spirit-o-meters to stun. We're too busy reading a twitter feed, too busy patting ourselves on the back for our simple good deeds, too busy looking outside the curtains of our suburban homes when we hear the sound of a helicopter overhead. We're locking all the doors and battening down the hatches. There's no one home. There's no one to help. I'll pray for you, I hear them mutter, as if they will save the world.
And the town continues to burn around us.
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