Tag: racism

Lucky Spot

“Privilege is being born on third base. Ignorant privilege is thinking you are there because you hit a triple. Malicious privilege is complaining that those staring outside the ballpark aren’t waiting patiently enough.” – Glennon Doyle

I have been doing a lot of reading lately. Reading is one of my most favorite activities in the world and one of the silver linings to this whole social distancing thing, is that it gives me an excuse to do a lot more reading. I honestly consider reading to be an enormous part of writing. You get a level of intimacy with writers that you wouldn’t get with the average Joe who you meet on the street. Writers and other artists give you deep intimacy, outside of your own intimate circles. Creatives share their fragile, bared souls with strangers.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m not a particularly political person. I really want this blog to mostly be a sharing of what it is like for me to be in this “cocoon” stage of life, in between Act I and Act II of my adulthood. Hopefully, by writing this blog, I selfishly bring some outpouring and validation for myself, which also hopefully, resonates with others. Still, there were a couple of interesting Comments yesterday about the George Floyd death and the implications that it has had on all of us in society, that makes me feel the need to touch on this subject a little bit more. I can’t ignore what is going on in our world, no matter how many times I quickly flip past the news, to numb out, on a silly “reality” show. The blog’s starting quote is from Glennon Doyle’s new book UNTAMED. (excellent read, by the way, and I must give a shout out to James Madison University in Virginia. Glennon and I share the same alma mater!!!)

I am white. I was raised in an upper middle class neighborhood in Pittsburgh, PA. My public high school had graduating class sizes of over 600 kids. In my graduating class, three of my fellow students were black. Interestingly, our principal was a black man. At James Madison University, I belonged to a large, popular sorority. One of my sorority sisters was black, in all of the four years that I belonged to my sorority. My husband and I have raised our four children in Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Florida. We have always chosen suburban neighborhoods to live in, that had excellent public schools, frankly, because we didn’t want to pay for private school for four children. My kids’ experience with minorities in any of these schools, has been limited. This was not by design. This is not a fact which I am proud of. In fact, I often thought that my children’s limited contact with people different than us, was a major disservice to my children. Their schooling experience has been limited to white, suburban America. That is not representative of the real world. And yet, my kids will most likely be living and working and raising their own families with people who have come from all over the world, from every kind of experience which one can imagine. But if you haven’t been exposed to much different than yourself in your life, how well can you really empathize with other people’s viewpoints? How do you really know where other people are coming from, when your experiences have been very limited to “people just like you”?

What I am learning about myself, through this pain that our country is experiencing, is that I shouldn’t be so defensive about the label “racist.” I don’t hate anybody because of their background or the color of their skin. I know from every inch of my heart, how wrong that is, but it is also wrong to pretend that I understand other people’s feelings and experiences. It is wrong to assume that everyone comes from the same worldview I have, largely because my worldview has been created from my own limited experiences. Everyone has different experiences in life, and a lot of these experiences come from factors that are uncontrollable. None of us got to choose the color of our skin, our parents and siblings, the country we were born in, the financial status of our family of origin, the religion we were raised in (or not), our height, our genes etc. etc. Nobody gets to pick these things. Yet all of these factors have a whole to do with who we end up being as individuals. All of these factors have a whole lot to do with our perspectives of the world. All of these factors influence our views, our ideas, our morality, our emotions, and the stories we tell ourselves about our own lives and other people.

Now to be clear, it is not healthy to live a resigned life, feeling victim of all of the factors that you could not control. Each of us has an ability to better our own personal experiences with factors that we can control. We can control our own efforts, our own attitudes, our own perspectives, our own choices and our own actions. And that is what each of us must keep a focus on, the factors that we, individually, can control, with the idea that what we say and what we do and what we think, not only has a major impact on our own lives, but also on the lives of others. No matter what our race is, we must all own the power of what we can control, the personal viewpoints and choices which are helping to influence the overall creation of our own lives, our families’ lives, and the experiences of our communities, our countries and our world.

For me, I think that the labels that get thrown around a lot, like “racist”, “racism”, “privilege”, are such loaded, hateful words that it puts me in a defensive mode. And when I’m feeling defensive, I’m not open. My ears are shut down to other viewpoints because I’m feeling shame that feels unfair and unjustified. I have a good heart. I know that and I know that most people in the world have good hearts, too. I have decided to use this horribly sad time in our history to stay open and to try to learn. I am trying to move past the labels to a deeper understanding. Defensiveness keeps me closed and limited. Understanding and connection comes from an open heart. I hope that soon after the raging anger and hurt, which we all have been experiencing, dissipates, all of us can come together with open hearts and elevate our united experience together, so that all our descendants don’t have to deal with the rehashing of these same problems over and over, again. These societal problems can be solved. We have that power. And if we truly open our hearts to new ideas, and perspectives, and a unified vision of a more peaceful, beautiful world for all of us, we will be shown the path to make it so.

Hard to Hate

“No matter who the threat is, no matter what the threat is, you look them in the eye so that they know you’re human.” (a Black Lives Matter demonstrator in Whitefish, Montana, who stood up to an angry man who was inches away from her face, talking about the advice her late father had given to her)

“There is no law that we can pass that will change an individual’s heart. We must create spaces for open communication between law enforcement officials and the communities they serve. These serious conversations will lead us to better outcomes. It’s hard to hate up close!” – Senator Tim Scott, South Carolina

dont be racist pin, anti-racism pin, anti-racist button, black lives matter pin, BLM pin, feminist pin, protest pin, gifts for feminists

In a tensely angry moment, I purchased the above pin. The purchase came after a day of running errands with my daughter, last week. As we all know, last week was very tumultuous and emotionally charged. My purchase came from a moment of helplessness at my very core, where I wanted to hug every person of color whom I came in contact with, in order to show that I truly care about George Floyd’s needless death. I wanted to show that in my deepest humanity, I felt sick and sad and scared and yet even hopeful about the whole situation, but in reality, I also felt entirely uncomfortable, too. I didn’t know what to say to anybody, and I felt very ill at ease and anxious to get home. I remained silent and awkward in every store, although I did try to convey my heart, through my eyes, the only part of my face that was showing, above my mask. In the car, my daughter mentioned that she had felt the same level of agitation and helplessness that I had felt. We both noticed the races of the other people who we had come in contact with, more than we ever had before. It was a strange awakening. So, in my anger and in my sadness, and in a mix of shame and righteousness, I purchased the above pin.

I proudly showed my new piece of attire to my sons. They winced. “Wow” and “Okay” is all that they said. I was surprised by their reaction. In my emotional moment, I honestly thought that I would probably get some “cool mom points” for my purchase. I imagined that by me wearing that pin – me, a middle-aged, well-heeled white woman, with nice clothes, a designer handbag and coming out of a snazzy car, would be making a statement, everywhere I went, without having to say one word.

But then I calmed down. That choice didn’t seem particularly brave. It seemed sort of defensive and it lacked self reflection. It pushed the problems of society away from me.

In my settled-down self awareness, I decided that no child, no matter what the color of their skin, needed to see me adorned with “the f-word”, no matter how many pretty flowers were surrounding it. Instead, I started researching racism on-line. I downloaded the book How to Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi. I am currently reading this book, slowly and carefully, watching for any signs of defensiveness I may have, that could cloud the open mind, which I have always prided myself for having. I am currently scouring my own beliefs, and the hidden, subconscious aspects of my own character that do not, in any way, reflect what I want for me, and for my family and friends, for my country and for humanity.

I don’t wear the pin that I purchased. Instead, the above pictured pin, has a rightful place on my cork board next to my desk, where I keep pictures of my family, our dogs, trips that we have been on, and other images that are inspirational to me. The pin still serves as an excellent reminder . . . . a lovely, forceful reminder to me.

Love, Spirit, Life.

I experienced a situation this weekend that I have to write about it. I’ve pondered it and ruminated on it, since it happened. I’m still trying to wrap my head around what lessons I have gleaned.

There is a beautiful old theater that was built in the 1920s in the city that I live in. It’s in the National Register of Historic Places. It has been on my bucket list to see a movie at this theater, known for it’s ornate beauty and Wurlitzer organ, for a long time, but we have never gotten around to it. My friends brought it up recently, talking about it’s amazing antique features, and so, on a whim, with nothing else going on this past Saturday night, I looked up the movie that was playing at this particular venue. (this theater typically shows indie films or old classics or the Rocky Horror Picture Show) The movie showing on Saturday night was The Shiny Shrimps, a comedic French film about a homophobic man who after using homophobic slurs, is ordered to coach a gay water polo team for The Gay Games, in order to still stay qualified as a national swimmer for France. My husband, who was curious about the theater, as well, agreed to drive the 45 minutes into town and to look around forever and ever for parking, because we really didn’t have any other plans for the night and we are always seeking out novelty (we are both adventurous fire signs).

Now, having seen Moonlight at the theaters, we both understood that there would likely be a larger than usual gay population at the theater. That doesn’t phase us. We have gay friends and gay family members and we don’t consider ourselves homophobic, whatsoever. However, as we got closer to the mob sitting outside, waiting to get into the theater, it became obvious that the crowd was 90 percent gay men and maybe 9 percent lesbians and we helped make up the possibly 1 percent or less of straight people, who were going into the theater. The theater holds 1200. We were clearly in the minority.

I immediately felt uncomfortable, not just for myself, but also for my husband, who is a good looking, charming, outgoing man. I stammered something about just exploring the theater quickly and then just leaving. I found myself wanting to get to and to sit into our seats, quickly and discreetly. I found myself trying to almost shrink into myself, as to not bring any attention to our traditional, conventional long-married, totally straight couple status. I sensed and understood my husband’s acute uncomfortableness, as well and I felt guilty for the whole situation, all the way around.

Obviously, after ending up exploring the theater and ending up staying and watching what was a fun and enjoyable movie, my husband and I discussed our experience.

“I felt like everyone was thinking, why are YOU here?” is what I said to my husband.

“I think that you have that all wrong. I don’t think that anyone cared. I don’t think that they were thinking about us at all,” my husband said.

Yes, he was probably right. It could be kind of narcissistic to think that I was any kind of focus, for the night. I compared it to an experience I had long ago when I was still in high school. One of my best friends was of Chinese descent and she invited me to an event at her Asian Cultural Center. It ended up that I was the only Caucasian person at the festival. Again, I had that same feeling of wanting to disappear, so matters got worse, when we were playing dodge ball and I got knocked in the head and my contact lens popped out. Everyone stopped the game and started searching the gym for my contact lens and I had another great, sore thumb moment. I can still make my face turn red and heat up over the moment, over thirty years later.

For me, the most important lesson, I got from my experience on Saturday night (and from the high school experience that I can still remember clearly) is empathy. It is a very strange, self conscious feeling to be “the different one.” Even if the whole population is being kind and considerate and supposedly ambivalent to your being different, you can still feel it. It is a lonely, apologetic, uncomfortable, maybe even a tad scary, defiant and defensive, yet tinged with shame feeling. I’m not saying that those feelings are the “correct” feelings to have, but to deny them would be a lie. Empathy for those who have to go through their whole lives feeling like the “different” ones, is probably the best reminder/gift that I received over the weekend. Those complicated, mixed bag, stirred up emotions would be a lot to face for anyone, on a daily basis, every single day of your life.

Recently I watched a very interesting reality show called Couples Therapy. One of the married couples, DeSean and Elaine, a black man and a Puerto Rican woman, were disagreeing over wanting to go to upscale restaurants. DeSean was trying to get across to Elaine that he didn’t enjoy spending their hard-earned money in places that made him feel “less than.” Elaine’s response to that is “Who cares?” She says that it is the other people’s problems if they are racist or bigoted or just plain snooty. While that is the truth, it is also not reasonable nor fair to discount DeSean’s internal and external experiences, and the confusing feelings that arise from those experiences of being a black man, in a predominantly white culture.

I always tell my children that we are never going to solve any of the world’s problems until we change the way people think. We cannot change how anyone thinks, until we really go about trying to understand the other person’s point of view and the feelings and experiences that have created that point of view. This is really what empathy is all about. I like that the younger generations are less focused on differences. They do a better job of “I’m okay, You’re okay.” My husband and I both agreed that our weekend’s theater experience would have most likely been much less uncomfortable (or even less of anything notable to talk about, at all) for our children, three sons, who are all young men and our daughter, a teenager. Our children have only experienced that it is okay for two people of the same sex to love one another, and for two people of different races to love one another. They know that is normal for women to be CEOs and Airforce pilots. They were children when a black man was voted President of the United States. Our children know that it is only the extreme, vicious, simple-minded and ugly-hearted people who hurt people or minimize people who have different religions, sexual preferences, political stances, or racial backgrounds than they do. They know this, not because it has been preached in esoteric theory and righteous platitudes, but because it is the experience that they have mostly lived and seen, on a daily basis, since they were young.

My experience this weekend was a very introspective, compelling lesson in empathy. I hope that someday soon in the future, we can bridge the gap of our differences and see them just as that and nothing more – differences in perspectives and points of view, spawning from vastly different lifetime experiences. Differences are not personal affronts. They are nothing to be feared or to be ashamed about. Differences are nothing to create individual, protective, inclusive clubs about, and around. Because in the end, as much variety as there is this world, at all of our own very deepest cores, under all of the hurts, and the masks, and the fears, and the bravado, and the ego creations, we are all very much the same substance – Love, Spirit, Life.

The Lens of Love

I’m about to write a post that is touchy and that might get me some flack, but I’m going to write it and I welcome any comments and insights. Last night, I rented a movie called If Beale Street Could Talk. Although the movies is based on a story by James Baldwin, it was written and directed by Barry Jenkins, the same writer and director of Moonlight. I didn’t like the movie. I found it slow moving and I found it hard to connect emotionally with the characters. I found the characters to be extreme, unbalanced, unrealistic and less than believable. But here’s the rub, I went into watching the movie, really wanting to like it. Why? Honestly, because I am a white woman and the movie is played by a mostly black cast. The movie depicts the unfair treatment one man faced when being wrongly accused of a crime, due to the vengeance of a racist police officer. The movie takes place in a city neighborhood mostly inhabited by black people.

I don’t believe that I am racist. Everything in my heart, soul and mind knows that racism is wrong. So, I have to ask myself, is it racist to want to like a movie, before even seeing it, because it is telling the story of the struggles many African-Americans face (struggles, that as a white woman who has always lived in upper-middle-class, mostly white neighborhoods can’t even begin to understand)? I don’t go into movies with mostly white casts, thinking, “I really hope that I like this movie.” I either like the movie or I don’t. But even at this point, I struggle to admit that I didn’t like If Beale Street Could Talk. I feel like I should like the film. I feel like by admitting that I didn’t like it, that I am perhaps not cultured enough to truly understand the greatness of the film. I feel like I am thinking way too much about this one movie. And all of the above statements, make me question my own personal views. If I am truly not racist, than every movie I watch would be judged the same way. I shouldn’t give any more thought to one movie or another. I either like the movie, I don’t – end of story.

I have these same struggles with my views on sexism. I am woman, for goodness sake! Of course I am not sexist! So why is it that I feel guilty about our choice of companies for our renovation project? We had three sales people give us quotes. Two of the sales people were women, and one was a man. We went with the man’s company. I am a woman who wants to support other women, but we honestly liked what the man’s company offered and designed, versus what the women’s companies offered. If I were truly not a sexist person, though, this thought wouldn’t even cross my mind, correct? If there is no sexism involved, whoever’s offer is best is what you go with, right? My husband and I both felt most comfortable with the man and his company. Did my husband relate more to the man? If he did, would that make him sexist?

I hope that my honesty hasn’t offended anyone. That is not my intention. I like to learn and grow and see things from all different perspectives. Perhaps the bigger issue here, is that I think and analyze just too damn much. I don’t know.

When my youngest son was a little boy and we lived in a different state, his best friend was black. His best friend’s parents were two older white people.

“Does J. ever talk about being adopted?” I asked him.

My son was aghast. His mouth dropped open. “J. is adopted?!?!” he asked.

My son then told his other friend in our car that J. was adopted.

His friend was aghast. “What?!? How do you know?!?”

“My mom told me,” my son said.

Maybe if we told our children less, we could be as wise as they are, without definitions, fears, intellectual arguments and smugness. Maybe we could learn again to just see the world through the unfiltered lens of childrens’ eyes. That lens is the only lens that matters – that lens is the lens of Love.