I view the world through the eyes of a Black woman. A woman born in the South during the time of segregation. One who grew up during desegregation. Much like everyone else, my life’s path has been directed in many ways by the race into which I was born.
My life began in black and white with only a hint of others in between. We had one black and white television. And on it I saw mostly white shows about white families, white culture. There was a sprinkling of faces that were not white, mostly in the background, supporting characters, easily overlooked. Much like people of color in the real world.
I lived in an all-black neighborhood. I went to an all-black church. I was taught in an all-black elementary school. When I finished 6th grade, I was sent to another school, just outside my neighborhood in response to the call for integration. I finally experienced white people up close and personal. At least during those six hours of the school day. I made no white friends. I visited no white homes, and they did not visit mine.
My first experience of others outside that paradigm was in high school. We had two Filipino students, cousins, I think. A family of Koreans. A Chinese girl. They were not exactly bullied, but they always seemed to me to be unwelcome. They had names that sounded funny. They ate food that smelled funny. They had faces that looked funny. Their English was often pronounced funny. I made no Asian friends. I visited no Asian homes, and they did not visit mine.
Perhaps I should state at this point, that I had few friends of any kind. Making friends was difficult for me. I was always interested in people; I just didn’t know how to approach them. Back in the eighties, I attended my first anti-racism meeting at a local church. And I remember one older woman who said, “You can’t just walk up to strangers and say I’d like to get to know you”. If people who are different from you are not in your circle, how do you bring them in? I didn’t have a good answer.
When my youngest daughter was old enough to explore the neighborhood alone, she introduced herself to total strangers. It seems crazy today to think of her wandering about talking to anyone who answered the door. But she would knock on doors and ask if they had kids and could they come out to play. Neighbors I didn’t know, knew me through my daughter. She was a welcome wagon of one.
My circle of acquaintances, if not actual friends, was broadened because of my children. Moms of their friends, moms on the PTA board, Scout moms, and Sunday school moms. And it was a diverse array of people. My children’s circle of friends is Black, White, and everyone in between.
And lately I’ve been thinking more about those in between. Before the Atlanta shootings, my daughter had mentioned to me that she was concerned about her Korean-American friend who lives in New York and returns home frequently, my daughter thinks, because of what is happening in the Asian American community. In our private conversations around racial justice and social equity, I have often referred to Asian Americans as White-Adjacent; those not white but who aspire to the same rights and privileges as whites by way of assimilation. In my off-hand designation, I was erasing the humanity of an entire group of people. My daughter finally called me out on it. Told me to stop. I told her that they were not treated as black. They could move through the world seemingly unimpeded because of their skin color or ethnicity. Or so I thought. But she was right and Atlanta did just happen and suddenly I was them and they were me.
Still in broader discussions of diversity, equity, and inclusion, we mostly frame it around Black and White. The problem, however, is broader than that. Some white people try to define who is in and who is out. It seems to me that their definition of who is in is very narrow, seeming to be white cisgendered, heterosexual men. White women are sort of in, because at least they can birth more white men. Indigenous people are out because they were savages living on land that white people wanted. Black people are out because they came from a land of savages that were only good for doing work that whites demanded they do. Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, Hindus, and Buddhists are out because they aren’t Christians. LGBTQIA people are out because, well they just aren’t cisgendered heterosexual men. Hispanics and Asians? I don’t even know why. The reasons seem contradictory, convoluted, and just plain ridiculous. If I left anybody out, I’m sure these whites did too.
I grew up in the Christian faith. From my earliest memories it has been a faith of inclusion, not exclusion. It was built on the idea of bringing people in, not pushing people out. A thing I try to remember, but sometimes forget or maybe I choose to overlook. It is a faith that for me boils down to this: Love the God that created me and love all the people that God created. I can do the former, I struggle with the latter. And it is in that struggle that I have come to understand that although we are part of different groups, we are ultimately just a single group - living breathing creations bound to each other by the mere fact that we are on this earth together. And even as I write these words a song is playing in the back of mind. A song I learned as a child. I changed the words slightly, and I share it with you.
No one is an island
No one stands alone
Everyone’s joy is joy to me
Everyone’s grief is my own
We need one another
So I will defend
Everyone as my sibling
Everyone as my friend
