June 17, 2020

I’ve finally come to a very important realization about something that’s been troubling me. It shouldn’t be surprising that I would have an epiphany every now and then. I’m sixty-five, and though I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in, I am very conscious that there are a lot more days behind me, than there are before me.

Generally speaking, I do tend to over think things. I’ve been thinking about racism, lately. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last several years, but especially during these last several weeks. I recall, as a teenager, watching the riots on television in 1968. I was very world aware for a rural Canadian girl my age. You see, my father had died when I was not even ten, and then later that same year, when I was nowhere near old enough to fully understand anything, President Kennedy was assassinated. I remember where I was when that happened, and I remember watching his funeral on the television with my mother. She told me that he was about the same age as my daddy had been when he had died.

And I think now, looking back, because of that, because she connected President Kennedy to my daddy at that time and in that way, that something clicked for me. By the time 1968 rolled around, I watched the news every day. And, I began to go through a phase where I believed the world was soon going to end. That year, 1968, was an horrific year. Dr. Martin Luther King, Junior was assassinated, as was Bobby Kennedy. And then there were the race riots. I had never been aware of race riots before. The concept shocked and confused me. And it angered me.

I didn’t understand. At that point in my life—I was fourteen—I had only ever met two black people. One had been a little boy my sister-in-law babysat for a day, when I was eleven. His name was Johnny and he was so sweet. The other had been a friend of one of my sister’s boyfriends. He wasn’t so sweet. I don’t recall how old I was then. So I asked my mother, because I knew that she had co-workers who were black and some who were brown. I asked her, when she looked at them, if she thought of them as being black or brown. And she told me, no, she thought of them as being nurses.

We know that kids usually take their cues from the adults around them. For me, from that moment on my mother’s explanation formed my base line. Skin color wasn’t a definition of any kind. People were people, period.

David and I have watched a lot of American news over the years. Likely, we’ve watched far more than is good for us. Especially if you’re someone like me, a neurotic author who internalizes too much, and feels everything, watching too much news probably isn’t healthy.

Every time we’ve seen reports of police anywhere killing an unarmed black person, I have been enraged. And over these last few weeks especially, I have internalized my sense of outrage, and yes, a sense of guilt, too. I’m white. I was born white and had lived most of my life with no black people in my community. The violence that I see being perpetrated upon black people is being done by white people.

I’ve believed that I wasn’t racist, but lately I wondered. Was I actually a part of the problem? I told a dear friend that I didn’t see color. She told me, of course I do. I didn’t realize until it was explained to me, that that had been a statement of white privilege. Saying “I don’t see color” aren’t the words I should have said. That upset me. So I came to understand that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I’ve since refined that comment, though the sentiment is unchanged. I don’t care about what color you are. You’re human, just like me. Period.

I have been wondering especially these last several weeks, how can I be better? What do I need to do to be better? What do I need to learn, that I don’t know? And lately, that worry has been kind of growing worse. I don’t want to be a part of the problem!

And then, I had that epiphany. There is one thing I can make sure that I continue to do that if done right, is enough. I still have much to learn, so I will learn. I will never truly understand what my black friend, or my brother-in-law who is also black, have experienced in their lives. I will never claim as my own those feelings of being marginalized for the color of my skin. But I can open my mind and my heart to hear and to increase my awareness.

But the answer of what else I can do can be found in words spoken long ago by Jesus, who commanded us: love thy neighbor as thyself. Five words, but more, really than just five words.

Love isn’t just a feeling. It’s not just a noun. Love is also a verb. And as we were taught in school, verbs are action words.

Those of us who are white must do all we can to end this horrendous discrimination. Just as it is up to men to end the sexual harassment of and discrimination against women, to end its normalization and its existence, it’s up to us, those of us who are white, to end racial discrimination.

So, enough, already. This is 2020. White supremacy has been our malignant disease for long enough.

Let’s just get that disease eradicated.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury