Journey On: My White Privilege

The gift of life was handed to me in a nice box. An invitation to enjoy the trees (which I do), to be cared for, and to love. Sure, the givers weren’t perfect: my parents and society. Rumor has it that every family is dysfunctional in their own way, and we know that “corrupt” and “politics” are usually paired like brownies and ice cream. More like velcro and every material it touches, actually.

As I’ve grown up, I’ve come to recognize my family’s dysfunction and deal with it as I can. This has felt like a journey into a black hole where most experiences lack language and leave me as if I haven’t made any progress. These same descriptions can be applied to the process of learning the injustice of society for the first (or third or fourtieth) time. Would you join me in a part of my journey to seeing my white privilege?

My quaint hometown in Iowa, cornfield U.S.A., is a lovely place to raise a family. It’s not only safe, but it also has a family fun three-day heritage festival every year to celebrate our Dutch Christian Reformed heritage.

When I was 9 or 10 I visited my friend’s home and was shocked. The house was not neatly organized, her grandma lived there, and their clothes were mismatched. I knew she was Asian, but I also knew that underneath she was actually white like the rest of us. So I took my role as the good friend and didn’t tell a single person about the differences I saw in that house. I had to protect her from people thinking she wasn’t actually normal.

When I was 16 my world started to expand beyond my hometown. A friend and I visited a mosque in DesMoines out of curiosity to understand and know how to pray for these people. That same year I started to learn about Burma. It took me by surprise how quickly the stories and culture came to find a place in my heart. I was learning that this box of life I was given could grow. This is beautiful. Truly.

And then at 18 it all got shaken.

“Band-aids come in your skin tone, not everyone else’s.”

Yeah. I’d never thought about that, but it didn’t seem to matter too much. Just interesting.

“I am never asked to speak for all the people of my racial group.”

Right...but, “my racial group”? Why would I have to? That’s a weird statement.

And I read through the rest of Peggy McIntosh’s “Invisible Knapsack”.

Reading the list of markers for privilege felt disorienting. Starting to see myself as white was uncomfortable. And listening to stories other than my own was guilt-inducing. Maybe it was a combination of shock factor and my perfectionism that let me sit in the discomfort. And a lot of grace.

Friends, when life is turned upside-down, it is not easy. It means change, and usually it feels forced upon us. Maybe even suffocating a bit. Change, as Rob Bell puts it well, is a loss. And loss calls for grieving.

When I learned that I was white (not just “normal”), when I learned the complementary stories to the histories I studied, and when I learned the privilege I carry in my skin, I felt loss. And that’s okay.

The loss I experienced (and try to continually experience) is not oppression. It is not something to be fearful of. Not something to get up in arms about (I mean that literally). The loss of an easy life because of a new understanding of injustice is real. And it also needs to be put in the perspective of the hundreds of years worth of our country’s narratives where anyone not white was continually in a state of loss. This loss is called oppression.

And today the oppression continues in the seemingly cleaned-up version of oppression called systemic racism. We can watch cellphone videos of this: black man after black man losing their life at the hands of civil servants. The policeman probably does not think he is a bad person. But he is undoubtedly a part of a bad social system. That society is what helps give us our box of life. And maybe this is where the metaphor breaks down because what really happens is society and culture-- the good and the bad-- become somehow ingrained in our life. Until the box is shaken from its hold and able to be analyzed.

White friends, let your life be shaken. Listen to the chants repeating again and again “Black Lives Matter”. Join or continue the work of ungripping systemic racism’s hold on you. And realize that you’re not going to “finish” this work. It isn’t something you can master. For me, even (especially) as a white foreigner abroad, this is daily work of acknowledging my privilege and seeking to understand situations in the wholeness of context.

The end point with systemic racism is not when I, as a white person, see my privilege. It will be when I stand next to (behind, or in front of, when asked) black and brown brothers and sisters and systemic racism no longer has its suffocating grip around anyone’s life. May this day come to pass and may it come quickly.

Journey on! Keep listening, learning, and growing:

• "7 Stages of White Identity"
• "Listening Well As a Person of Privilege"
• "'That's Racist Against White People!' A Discussion on Power and Privilege"
• "29 Harmful Things White People Do and What We Can Do Instead"
• "Please Stop Telling Me That All Lives Matter"

My Dreams of Loving Neighbor

Let’s learn another language. And be real with ourselves that neither time nor age are valid excuses.

Let’s allow the history of the soil we walk on to become a part of us, too. Always giving trust to the storyteller when their words contradict comfortable textbooks niceties.

Let’s study a religion other than our own. And do this without trying to find holes and without giving sighs of pity.

Let’s eliminate this word “effective” and stop counting conversions.

Let’s try it. 

Let’s see what beautiful things happen in ourselves and those around us. 

stone

We demand assimilation. We demand this of them.  And I confess, that left to my own understandings, I fall into living out the dichotomy. Today, this is what I mourn. 

My daily practice of empathy is just that: a practice. A practice that goes against my long-laden history of "English only", proselytization, and the labeling of others to keep ours safe. To keep myself safe. 

If they speak their language and I don't understand, where will my power be? (and if it has been lost, then mustn't I acknowledge that my power is merely a privilege?)

If they share their theology and it contracts what I know, will mine fall apart? (and if it does, would that not be evidence that our understandings are so deeply intertwined?)

If their label doesn't actually separate us, does the label have a say anymore? (and if it doesn't, from whom or what will our belonging come from?)

If these ifs transform out of questions and into realities, will my life be safe? Will it ever be the same? [No! Praise God, no!]

More and more I'm allowing questions to become realities so that truth can be the answer instead of fear-driven predictions. 

I open my heart and I live the truth that hearts of stone can be changed. 

And as I open my heart, I also watch borders close, stones be thrown, and walls built up.

And I mourn. 

But, perhaps these tears are a part of the work. They quicken the process. 

Stones turned into life. 

movement

With each plane that flies overhead I giggle a little: "I'm just the luckiest girl!" A plane. Pretending to be a bird. Carrying people. People! Movement. 

This is how my days begin, with the roar of an engine. I keep my eyes closed and imagine children returning to sleep, businessmen turning off mobile devices, and perhaps one or two giddy souls with their eyes locked to the window, prepared to see the sun rise and new lands. I try to time it so my eyes open right to the plane as it crosses the sky out my balcony door. I've practiced this for two years, wherever I'm lucky enough to live near an airport. Another one of my little games that makes boredom nearly impossible. 

Washing of the face. Feeding the dog. Teaching clothes packed. Pedal. Pedal. Pedal.

The salutes of security guards superfluous. It's another guessing game: which language will they greet me in, how long will their eyes follow me, and whatever do they do all day? My white skin is what men and women here labor for. In America, I'm pasty. But here I'm beautiful. Coupled with blue eyes? Sometimes I wonder if it is this combination that has gotten me so many friends. 

Eyes quickly return back to phones. Always back to the phones. Let's add filters to this time we have together. Let's enter into a more expansive world called "Online". Meanwhile, another airplane's engine roars and the joys of life-- the joys of now--pass over the heads of those around me. 

in this dry land

This is my first rainy season. My first time of packing ponchos and plastic bags "just in case". A season where all previous plans can be put on hold when the rains come. And, they do come. Before we even know it, the clouds have moved over the mountains and are upon us, in this valley. 

Many of these seasons have come and gone. It's the rhythm of the land and of life here. I'm joining into the rhythm late, but still joining nonetheless. I bring with me foreign eyes, which allow me to see more than I want to, at times. 

I see the rains, but I also see that I am living in a dry, dry land. 

A country where fear and politics are intertwined; where obeying authority is a core value in the country's education system. 

All behind smiles. 

The welcoming smiles world-renowned to bring in tourists and feed the economy. Yet smiles from behind which speak words of xenephobia and the need to protect from "otherness". 

This is one of the most well-off nations in the region, attracting migrants from surrounding countries, and even refugees from as far as Pakistan and northern China. Yet the government refuses to see refugees as such and a whole sector of economy is maintained by those who have been deemed unwelcome. Those who work under a shadow of fear cast from an unstable military [government]. 

There's a tricky dance happening between modernity and the preservation of tradition. I watch this dance every day. The more I learn the language, the more I'm able to speak this dance, as well. A dance to the tune of the monks' chants, revered songs of respect, and imported Karaoke songs which carry through the night. 

Tonight I lay in bed as the wind brings the music through my windows. I wonder, will the rain come like it does here? Sometimes quite suddenly. Or, perhaps, the clouds have already begun forming. Transformation is a slow work, and one that requires many ingredients. So I close my eyes, pray, and hold onto the hope that the rains, indeed, will come.