Sankofa Processing #3

Trying to encapsulate thoughts about Sankofa is like playing one of those video games, where just when you think you've gotten a handle on things, the game pieces start multiplying, and spill over the top again.

One thing that was reminded to me on the trip was the fact that I'm an external processor, and have to either talk things out or write things out a couple of times before I'm satisfied with them. It's been helpful to talk things out with a couple of friends the last few days.

In The Color of Fear, Victor tells David that he expects people of color to act like him, talk like him, be like him. David is continually coming at things from a one-sided viewpoint, never stopping to consider that other people, other people groups, come at things from a different viewpoint than his.

In her paper, White Privilege, Peggy McIntosh suggests that the people with the power, the advantage, the privilege, want to level things out by trying to raise others up to their level rather than giving up some of that privilege and power. Again, they're coming at it from the wrong direction.

Similarly, I've been wondering if instead of deciding, "I'll treat all the people of color I come across just like my White friends and acquaintances," one should decide, "I'll treat my White friends and acquaintances just like I treat people of color.

Can we do this? I don't know.

The fact that I have friends - good, trusted, loved, intimate friends - who are different ethnicities than me does not mean I've "gotten over" my ingrained prejudices. Now and then I am disgusted to realize that I'm profiling as I walk down the street. Who's a gangbanger? Who's just a thug? Who can I ask for directions/change/to take a picture with my camera? Who hates me because I'm White? Who is a working man/woman just like me? Who...

Notice none of those questions were directed at myself... Do I make more pay for doing the same job as him/her? Do I have a lower mortgage rate than him/her? Am I looking at a man coming home tired and dirty from a hard day of work and assuming he's homeless?

The thing with ingrained prejudices is that they're ... well, ingrained. Deep. Hard to dig up, hard to root out.

But we need to do the hard work. God help me. God help us.

Sankofa Processing #2

One reason why it's been difficult to process through Sankofa is that it seems like so much has happened since then that is also pertaining to race, or racial righteousness, or discrimination. Maybe it's that I'm looking at everything through a different lens. I don't know, but check this out:

• The very next day a dog-walking neighbor and I were talking, and she started railing on the people in her building (she's White - they're African American and southeast Asian) and I had nothing to say in response
• Our whole group got an email from Mona, one of the event co-leaders, about her son who was almost arrested for DWB (driving while Black)
• My son's and my less-than-fabulous (yet oh-too-common for many) experience at Cook County Hospital
• Seeing the homeless guy at 7-Eleven
• Reading Eugene Cho's blog entry about the Spanish basketball team taking a picture making slanty-eyes, and all the comments it's engendered (p.s. all of Eugene's blog is a worthy read, btw)
• Telling a friend that I don't think a joke is funny because it has racist undertones
• (From before I went) Refugee families from Burma (Myanmar) continuing to come to our church; council trying to figure out what we can do for them, as their needs are great
• Wondering why my son can't seem to get a full time job, and wondering if his race is working against him
• Listening to the advertisements for This American Life, where they were telling a story about BWB (biking while Black)

And just tonight I finally read a paper called White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Backpack. Man. It is deep. It says so much in a relatively short paper. We talked on the bus about a number of the points that Peggy McIntosh, the author, writes about.

Her list of privileges is incredible. This is the stuff we, I, White people, don't have to think about, and often refuse to think about. And many of us have no idea, no freaking idea, that we have it so well.

Enough with the non-point!

First of all, you gotta give Hillary props for her speech last night. That girl spoke her butt off! I realize I can be a sucker for political speeches, but I won't lie. I got teary-eyed. Partly because I was wondering how she was feeling, speaking on behalf of Barack and Joe, instead of herself. Partly because - hey! - she was inspiring! And she really came through. Like she said, she is a proud Democrat, and she proved herself to be a real team player.

There's only one thing. She kept doing the non-point. You know, that not-quite-pointing, kind-of-fist that someone makes when they want to point but don't want to seem like they're pointing at you.

It seems to me that this little gesture was made popular by none other than Hillary's husband, when he was running for president. And now not only politicians but a lot of other people have inexplicably embraced it as a nice non-offensive point-making... non-pointing... thing.

And I'm sorry, but it just looks weird. Point at me if you want. Or use your whole open hand. But the non-point looks like your almost fist is on an elastic band where your arm can't quite stretch out; it bounces back in and just looks awkward.

G'head! Uncle Sam did it - he inspired a whole nation to enlist by pointing at them! Be direct. I want YOU to make your point!

Sankofa Processing #1

What to say about Sankofa?

I could write about the schedule - almost 72 hours together, half of which was on board a bus, awestruck at the sites we visited, moved by the videos we watched, especially The Color of Fear, inspired and intimidated by the conversations we had.

Or I could focus on the sites we visited: the 16th Street Baptist Church, Kelly Ingram Park and the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute; the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma; the John Perkins Institute in Jackson, and the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, which has been converted into the National Civil Rights Museum.

In some ways, Sankofa now seems a world away - perhaps because of the very nature of it. We are separated off, cocooned into a bus that becomes our world for several days. Our sense of time gets a little goofy, because of the long hours we spend viewing films and discussing them or the places we have visited.

As much as possible, I tried to capture sights on film and impressions on paper, which I have yet to transfer into understandable notes. Overall, I still have an overwhelming feeling akin to despair. On one hand, Sankofa was a wonderful experience, one I intend to repeat. But it is not a feel good trip. It is not like going on a weekend retreat. You do not (hopefully) come out of it saying, "oh, God is so gooood, my eyes are ooopened, now I'm awaaare, praise the Lord, and life will be better from now on."

At the start of Sankofa, a couple of the women said that they were frankly tired of having to deal with these issues; they've lived them every day their whole lives. And I can't blame them.

No matter how awaaare (of self and/or society) I might become, the truth is, I can go on with my life, enjoying the benefits of not having to be aware of my race, not worrying about being profiled by the police while I'm driving, not being looked at suspiciously by people on the street or in shops. I don't have to think about the fact that I am White.

Freedom to be oblivious to matters of race. In The Color of Fear, one man asked another what it was like to be White. The White man really had no answer. He didn't have to know.

At the start, we were all asked how we thought of ourselves in terms of race. Several of the White people said White, or European American. I was the first person asked, and I didn't interpret the question as 'how do I label myself'; but rather what I thought about myself in terms of race. The first word that came to mind was privileged, but I was hesitant to speak that aloud until someone else did.

Another woman said that she felt no identity as 'White'. I agree. There is no feeling of common identity or of shared experience, whether it be good or bad.

No, this was not a feel good time. And lots more processing has to take place.

A Test for Sarah

My wonderful friend Sarah actually reads some of the stuff I write!! So I decided to let her know whenever anything new was posted. Yay!

:)

OMG My pastor said SUCK!!!!!!

My pastor said suck. In front of everyone. From the pulpit. During the sermon. Ohmigoo-oosh!

Here's a more-or-less quote: "How do we stay pure to relationships even when things suck?" It took my enough by surprise that I had to write it down in my notebook. [p.s. disclaimer at end]

Here's the thing. She gave a fabulous sermon (no surprise there, she pretty much always does). To put that quote in context, she was preaching on faithfulness, in a series on the fruit of the spirit. And she used this great term to describe our culture: A Culture of Impermanence (that's from the book Life on the Vine by Philip Kenneson). It's all about how everything is disposable, planned obsolescence, undependable, untrustworthy... and that extends to our relationships.

We are amazed when we hear about marriages lasting 20, 30, 40, 50 years. The idea of growing old together is a thing of the past. Therefore, what makes us value those relationships enough to honor them, to honor the vows we take that are meant to give those relationships a strong base? Being bound to anything (house, job, possession, person) is something our culture resists. So how do we stay pure to relationships even when things suck?

Oh. There's that word again. It reminded me of that famous Tony Campolo quote: "I have three things I'd like to say today. First, while you were sleeping last night, 30,000 kids died of starvation or diseases related to malnutrition. Second, most of you don't give a shit. What's worse is that you're more upset with the fact that I said shit than the fact that 30,000 kids died last night."

I leaned over to our sound guy and whispered, "pastor said suck!" He kinda cracked up and nodded.

Here's the thing. Our language, our vocabulary is also one of those victims of the culture of impermanence. When I was young, that word in particular was pretty nasty. It came about, of course, as a sexual reference.

I think using suck as a vulgarity started gaining popularity in the Sixties, and by the Seventies, was hugely widespread. But it was not something you said in front of parents, teachers, youth group friends. It was not something I said - it was dirty.

Okay, I'd better make a DISCLAIMER here. I've used it since. Sometimes to express myself, sometimes to shock people or make them laugh. But I have used it, and it doesn't seem as dirty as it used to when I was young. But it still feels like I'm saying a bad word.

Here's one result of my pastor saying suck from the pulpit. I REMEMBERED HER SERMON. Yes, I had to go back into my notes to get a few more details about it, but the point is, I remembered what she said.

County Blues

My son recently hurt his ankle. He couldn't put any weight on it, and he was even having a hard time not crying, the pain was so great. He had a totally useless visit to a physician, who told him to ice it, keep it raised and keep off it (really - not even an Ace Bandage). If the pain was still there after two days, go to the Adult Clinic at County Hospital. Thanks, doc.

So last Wednesday, we set off to Cook County Hospital (I refuse to call it the new name they've given it). We had been told to get there at 7:30; we actually arrived at 8:10 am.

Let's back up a bit. Wanting to be prepared, on Tuesday night, we tried looking up the clinic online, so we'd know right where to go, where I had to drop him off, etc. Right. Trying to get information from their website was about as helpful as the other doctor had been. So right off the bat, I'm pretty annoyed with them.

Okay, forward back to 8:00 Wednesday morning. We got up later than expected, so the day started off badly. Of course I had to stop for coffee, and my car cupholder is not very deep, so one sharp turn started spilling my scalding hot brew on his good leg.

After a stressful drive down to their campus, we were driving around, trying to find where in the world the front door was. The old building is still there, being taken down brick by brick apparently. I dropped Son off at the new main entrance and started circling back around to find the parking. After accidentally trying to go into the employee entrance, I turned the corner to find the visitor entrance, and was greeted by a man who shoved a paper into my hand, saying, "This lot's full - go park down at Juvenile Hall."

I don't think so. Screw it - I decided to park at Rush and not care about the price. As I walk over, Jazz called telling me that he wasn't in the place where I let him off; he was across the street from it, and he gave me the street address of the clinic. And told me he had to turn off his phone because he was inside the hospital building.

You'd think people should know a little about their workplace. Oh, well, you'd think a lot of things that never come true. Anyway, after asking around a while, I finally made it to the place where Son was waiting for me, in Fantus Clinic waiting room. He had already gone to the first counter and given them his name.

This place is way worse than the DMV. Everyone sits there waiting for their name to be hollered or broadcast over the PA. We waited for a while, and they finally called his name - hooray, finally get to see someone. Wrong. They took his temp and blood pressure.

So we wait again. This time, after an incredibly long time, they called his name. This time he came back to the seats with a registration card in his hand, good for one year. We wait... and wait... and wait... way longer than we've waited the first two times. Finally at about 2:30, Son went up to the front to see if he had missed his name being called. They said that, no, the doctor he needed to see wouldn't be at the hospital until 5:00 pm. And if he did want to leave - which they didn't advise - he'd have to be sure to be back by 4:30 at the latest. By now, we decide to just gut it out.

Okay, let's pause this for a second to take a little look around the Clinic. During the entire day I was there, I could count on one hand the number of White people there. That included me, and I wasn't there for services. Two of the other White women were speaking some eastern European language. Everyone else was Black or Hispanic.

The washrooms were just a tad scary. Garbage on the floor, dirty tiles. I had to wash my hands about three or four times just to take this picture while no one else was in there with me.

He got to see the doctor at 4:30, and had to run (hop) across to the main building for X-rays. We didn't make it back in time to be seen before the doc's meeting, so we waited another hour. By this time, the room was really thinning out. There was actually camaraderie building in little groups of people here and there, commiserating at having to wait all day. One man came out saying, "Now that just ain't right. I wait here 12 hours to see the doctor for four minutes. Something's wrong with this equation!"

Finally, Son actually got to see the doctor. He was told he had a second degree strain, and that it would likely be months healing. He was told to ice his ankle, keep it raised, and keep off it. And they gave him crutches. And an Ace Bandage.

We were not the last ones to be waited on. We left there at 7:45 pm.

Son was also told to come back for a check up in a week, but of course no appointment time. This time I left him at the door, it was only a half-day experience, and he was able to take the bus home, as his foot was much better.

During our day there, I couldn't help but think about the thousands and thousands of people (mostly of color) for whom this is a totally ordinary experience. And, God forgive me, I was thankful I was not one of them.

Are you my neighbor?

Yesterday on my way to work, I stopped off at my 7-Eleven. Instead of the usual homeless guy sitting on the window ledge, there was this (presumably drunk) guy, sleeping. How do we react to this? Call the police? ER? Try to get him taken to a shelter or something?

Seriously, what is the proper response? Pray for him? Surreptitiously take his picture, hoping no one will notice?

I saw a guy drunk out of his mind and trying to sleep on the sidewalk once years ago when I used to work in a different neighborhood (Belmont/Pulaski area, where unfortunately the sight of drunk Poles was all too common). The sidewalk he was on happened to belong to the bar where he most likely got trashed, and I notified the people inside, hoping that they'd do something for one of their patrons. (I don't think they did squat.)

Still freshly post-Sankofa-generally-thinking-about-righteousness mindset, this kind of thing keeps churning around. Wish I had me some answers.

Cicada Killer

These things won't hurt you. They don't sting people. In fact, we like them because they kill cicadas. Why, here's one of them now, hauling off a live cicada so that she can stun it, bury it alive, then lay her eggs in it, so they have some fresh food to feed on as they hatch. Appropriately, this picture was taken as she tromped along the picnic table out back at my job.

The fact that they look like hornets on steroids does nothing to ease one's fears. They nest in the ground, so if you walk past them in a dress, who's to say what their reaction would be if they fly up said dress and can't get out? Would I find myself being dragged around the wooden support of a picnic table somewhere, just waiting for the implantation of baby cicada killers to feed on my stunned flesh?

I don't really think I want to risk that.

Atlanta in August

Sankofa. What was I thinking, signing up to go to the Deep South in the middle of the hottest month of the year?

It's about 36 hours till the bus leaves, and I'm feeling anxiety for any number of reasons... the discomfort of spending so much time on the bus... wondering how we'll change clothes, wash up the first morning... will the others think I'm shallow... what will I dredge up from within that I don't want to face...

I really am eager, too. I figure the current state of busy-ness will work in my favor in that I won't have as much time to worry while I'm frantically trying to get a number of things done before we leave.

Sankofa. What will you bring?

Half-Blood Prince!

Well, I'm not as much a fan of the movies as I am of the books, but the new trailer for the Half-Blood Prince movie looks really good. (Even if the half-blood prince himself isn't in it!) Will the movie disappoint again? Who knows. I am still looking forward to it. I just hope they do justice to the scene where Harry is chasing Snape and Malfoy off the Hogwarts grounds at the end, and Snape screams at Harry, "Don't. Call. Me. Coward!" As I read, it was as if the movie was playing out in my head, it was so visual.

Here's the trailer, also available directly on youtube and moviefone.