Us and Them

Us and them.

I think that maybe the majority of people do tend to think in terms of 'themselves' (and their people, or people just like them) and 'others', unless they have made a conscious effort not to.

This is fostered in us from an early age. Take our love of team sports, our faithfulness to our schools. Our national pride. But it translates to state-vs-state rivalry, to genders, to political parties, to races...

It's been a number of years now since I saw the movie "Bowling for Columbine", but the part that always stuck with me was the cartoon section (A Brief History of America), where they talk about fear and guns going hand in hand. That cartoon section highlights the tendency to separate into groups of us and them.

Probably since prehistoric times, the 'us vs them' mentality has been a means of survival, one tribe versus another, one country versus another. Ignorance of who 'they' are, what 'they' are like, translated into fear and hatred of 'them'.

But ignorance CAN be conquered.

Minds CAN change. People can change. Who we are now does not have to limit who we can become.

Twelve years ago, my church called a female to be our pastor. In a survey beforehand, only one person checked 'female' when asked whether they preferred a male or female pastor. One. But a woman candidated at the church and absolutely blew us away. We realized that God had led her to us, so we called her. And after a short time, maybe a few months, basically everyone wondered why they had said they'd prefer a male. It was simply the unknown that they were afraid of. It was like a switch was turned in their minds, saying, "this is okay. better than okay. this is GOOD."

I realize that the opposition toward women in ministry is significantly different than racial prejudices, even though both run deep. It's not a perfect comparison. I don't have a lot of hope for the hardcore haters. But I do think that lots of people who are unsure about the efficacy of any person of color in the presidency, whatever their reasoning, who will be able to realize the unfounded nature of their fears, once they are continuing to live their lives as usual under his presidency.

I have been overflowing with excitement for what I hope President-elect Obama's administration will do to turn that switch in lots of people's minds that it IS possible for people of color to have authority, to have power. And it will be a GOOD thing, not something to fear, hate, or a cause of suspicion.

There's so much "us-and-themming" going around, whether you're talking race, politics, religion, gender... I really liked what he said in his acceptance speech, about no red states and no blue states, just united states.

But a long time ago another public speech was given, which said that there is no more us and them. We are all one.

Still gazing in wonder.

Women's Right to Vote

Yes, I realize I've posted this photo of my grandmother before. I've got it up again because today, Sunday, November 2, celebrates two anniversaries. It is my grandparents' (88th!) wedding anniversary. They were married in 1920.

November 2, 1920 is also the anniversary of the first time women in the United States voted. The Nineteenth Amendment to the Constitution was passed August 26th, giving the right to vote to women. The first election this affected was two months later, when Warren G Harding won by a landslide, replacing the by-then unpopular Woodrow Wilson.

Some other interesting dates in US voting history:

February 3, 1870: 15th Amendment passed:

The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.

August 18, 1920: 19th Amendment passed:

The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex.

August 6, 1965: Voting Rights Act passed.
The Constitution alone apparently not enough to guarantee all citizens the right to vote, this act was passed to outlaw discriminatory practices which prevented many people of color from voting. The odd thing about this, though, is that it is not permanent - it has to get re-ratified every 25 years. The last time it was renewed was July 27, 2006, when G W Bush signed a 25 year extension.

July 1, 1971: 26th Amendment passed: lowered the US voting age to 18.

The right of citizens of the United States, who are eighteen years of age or older, to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of age.

November 4, 2008: The first time a person of color is elected as President of the United States. Okay, so it's positive thinking. See me about it in two days!

In the meantime, my women friends (and men friends, for that matter), if you haven't voted early for the historic election, GET OUT AND VOTE on Tuesday. Women suffered and even died so that we would have this privilege; let's honor their sacrifice, do our civic responsibility, take advantage of our ability to participate in our government.

Piece of the Past

Last year, after Mom died, my siblings and I went through my parents' home, dividing and distributing many of their possessions - Mom's jewelry, framed art, old photos, etc.

One of my sisters went through the strong box Dad used to keep under the bed. She found a couple of Dad's old wallets. Dad had only been in the nursing home under a year at this point, so my sister was surprised to see slips of paper that looked old - years, even decades old.

One of the documents was a 50 year old receipt. Only for a small amount, less than $2.00, I think. But Dad had held onto this particular receipt from when they had lived in Texas. It was for the poll tax. That small amount of money he paid in order to cast his vote. That tax, that for years was used to erect one more barrier for people of color to be able to participate fully in our country's democratic system.

Here's an example of a poll tax receipt - I don't have a copy of my Dad's. This one is also from Texas, a few years after my family had moved back north.


We were somewhat astonished that Dad had kept this little piece of history, and proud of him that he had recognized it for what it was.

On Tuesday, I'm going to the polls to cast my vote. I won't have to take a made up 'citizenship quiz'; I won't be threatened and bullied; I won't have to pay a tax. I'll just go in and vote.

And like many other of my fellow Americans, I will be proud and excited to cast my vote for president, for the first time in US history, for a person of color. For free. For free.

The Democratic Process

Can a cynic also be an idealist? I think so.

I still get inspired listening to audio of JFK's speeches, even though we all found out years after his death what a womanizer he was. Same goes for Clinton, although the reveal came much sooner! I believe even as good and Christian as Jimmy Carter was painted, he had to be just a little bit crooked or compromised to make it all the way to the Oval Office.

I think there's good and evil in most of us. The proportions might be different, and some of us might hide the evil (or the good) better than others.

All this to explain why we see so many examples of people spewing ignorance and hate. Videos show rampant name calling, rumor spreading, and lying at political rallies. Internet searches for political posters for my candidate yielded anti-propaganda results that are disgusting and immoral, not to mention untrue. I'm almost afraid to read articles or view videos anymore because it's so nauseating to witness the naked hate expressed by women, men and even children. (I could link to examples, but won't because they were just so offensive.)

I know my candidate is not perfect. Neither is the other candidate. Both of them have good and evil inside them, because they are human.

In the midst of all this negativity and cynicism about our country and our fallen nature, I still hold on to (cling to, even) the following ideals:
* my vote matters
* there is hope for this country
* things can get better
* we can unite to help bring about change

I'm going to vote first thing next Tuesday, and stay up late waiting for the returns to come in. If my candidate wins, I'm sure tears will be shed. (Probably the same would be true if the other candidate were to win, God forbid!)

God Bless America. God bless our democratic process.

DWLL Victory!

I've heard of (and blogged about, kinda) DWB (driving while Black). DWLL was a new one for me. My son came up with it while he was telling the story of how he lost his license.

He said he got pulled over on the West Side for no good reason. "DWB," I interjected, "you know, driving while Black."

"No, Mom, not on the West Side. Over there, they get me for Driving While Looking Latino. Everyone thinks I'm Puerto Rican," clarified my son.

Back to the story, the cop who pulled him over said nothing about his speed, a burned out light bulb, failure to signal, nothing. Instead, he just looked at my son and said, "you got any sh** on you?"

My son said no, but the cop asked for his registration and insurance. He did have insurance, but not with him, and the cop took his license and gave him a citation. He couldn't get it back because he owed money on parking tickets. But meanwhile, the citation only said that he didn't have insurance - in other words, he was stopped simply because the cops were profiling him.

So today, my brave, strong, sh**less son went downtown and fought to get his license back, based on the cop racially profiling him, and WON!! HA HA!! Take that, you LWR (living while racist) cop!!

(Disclaimer: The photo here is just something I found on the internet - my son says he can't remember what the cop looked like who stopped him, including what race he was. Hooray for my colorblind son!)

Sankofa Processing #4

So, Sankofa stills keeps coming to mind almost every day.

A couple of days ago, I was going to blog about how the upstairs neighbors' daughter plays the same song over and over again; that it's not loud, just annoying, and compare it to some old upstairs neighbors who must have had a Mr. Microphone. At this point, being the eager blogger that I am, I wanted to link in a reference to Mr. Microphone. Lo and behold, there's an old ad for it on YouTube!

The only thing is, I was so horrified when I watched it, I couldn't post the blog after all. At one point there's an African American man dancing down the street waving his radio around, singing on his Mr. Microphone. *shudder* Watch this ad at your own risk of being offended.

Granted, the white guy who hollers out of the car ("Hey, good lookin'! We'll be back to pick you up later!") makes me shudder, too, but not in a offensive-race-stereotype kind of way (more like a you're-such-an-incredible-dweeb kind of way).

At least this has the excuse of being about 25 years old, and thankfully isn't being aired anymore. Kind of reminds me of the old I Love Lucy shows, where she calls Ricky "sir", or he actually spanks her. They thought that kind of offensive 'humor' was funny, too, rather than simply misogynistic.

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.

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.

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.

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?