As a follow-up to last week’s post 4 Reasons White People Need to Talk about Race (which I’d strongly recommend reading in tandem with this post), I want to explore further the general silence surrounding race within white culture.

But before I go there, I need to confess that this is perhaps one of the hardest pieces I’ve ever written. It was one of those that I tried to avoid every time I sat down to write. I’d type three words and get up to make myself some tea, then remember I needed to change the laundry, then attend to some dirty dishes (which is significant if you know how much I hate to clean), finally returning to my screen to check Facebook, Twitter, and email before returning here to add just five more words and deciding I was far too tired to write and needed to go to bed.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say and more that it’s just really hard to say it. The likely reason that it’s hard to say is that all of these things below swirl around inside me to this day. I’m not only pointing out holes in everyone else; I’m also pointing them out in myself. Quite frankly, that’s not a whole lot of fun.

With that in mind, I walk carefully through this complex, loaded, and painful territory, terribly aware of the reluctant awakening this journey holds for many like me.

There’s clearly a frustrated-curiosity out there regarding white people’s racial understanding given some of the search terms that direct people to this blog:

“why do white people dismiss black suffering”
“culturally insensitive white church”
“don’t trust white people”
“no idea about white people”
“don’t like white people”
“white people think they’re experts”
“white people don’t acknowledge me”
“white people talk like they know everything”

When I see these phrases, I can’t help but wonder if part of this is in response to the silence that surrounds race in many white communities. Recent news stories illustrate this silence well.

Phil Robertson’s comments around race were just as provocative as his comments surrounding homosexuality, but this didn’t get near the coverage that it should have. The lack of speakers of color at many conferences passively removes the race conversation from such venues. Bring up race in a mixed room and watch as most of the white people morph into wallflowers. After the Zimmerman verdict last summer, I had white friends who hadn’t even heard of the case. Even though it was one of the most controversial racial cases in recent history, no one in their circles was talking about it at all.

As every person is an individual, there are likely a whole number of reasons for such silence. However, the tendencies that run within cultures are still beneficial to consider if we want to deepen our understanding of what shapes our views on and reactions toward racial conversations. While this won’t be a conclusive list, for the sake of conversation, I’d like to put a few reasons out there why white people don’t talk much about race for us to ponder together.

1. Fear of Conflict

Perhaps the most potent reason white people don’t talk about race is fear of conflict. This can be fear of both internal and external conflict. Jon, a commenter on this post, writes about the fear of conflict with others, “Yes, racism is real in the United States, as is privilege, but I think there has to be a way to deal with that problem without constantly having to take the posture of being apologetic so that everyone knows you’re not like those “other” culturally insensitive people.”

Jon’s comment summarizes well the fear that many white people of being wrong, looking ignorant, or saying the wrong thing in conversations about race.

Sarah Visser, a professor of leadership at Azusa Pacific University who studies diversity and white privilege, points out that this fear of conflict need not be only with others, “I think that often when we experience fear-triggers, we assume that it’s coming from someone or something,” she wrote in a recent email exchange we had on the topic, “when actually it springs from deep inside us and is evidence of our need to do some ‘personal work.'”

I learn this lesson time and again, not realizing the impact of a racialized society on my own thinking. Years ago, I was teaching at a very diverse high school. One of my best students was a tall African American male who faithfully submitted meticulous work, treated everyone with respect, and was well-known for his kind and gentle manner. One morning, I was walking into school and saw a tall black male dressed in saggy pants, an oversized jersey and a cock-eyed hat from afar. Instantly, I tensed because of the ‘gangsta’ image I perceived from afar. As I walked closer, I recognized him as my beloved student.

Coming face to face with my subconscious absorption of society’s microagressions* toward black male youth, I was both shocked and embarrassed by my reaction, and it forced me to face the fact that, regardless of what I thought I believed, I was not at all immune to subscribing to stereotypes. In order to deal with this stereotype I held, it was necessary for me to intentionally acknowledge it rather than remaining silent to save face, even if I was only acknowledging it to myself.

2. Guilt

“I am tired of this guilty conscience mentality that people are trying to push onto “white” people,” wrote Joseph, a commenter in this post. He is certainly not alone. I have heard many white people express frustration with feeling forced to ‘take responsibility’ for past actions that they had nothing to do with.

Tatum (1997) suggests that this stems in part from white society’s understanding of themselves first as individuals in a meritocracy (p. 103). In other words, we think we got where we are all by ourselves and that we deserve it. This contrasts significantly with the fact that many people of color come from cultures with more communal perspectives who view their individual success rooted in the experience of those around them.

My husband has made a similar observation about how this individualism influences the white evangelical church in America. From his perspective, this arm of the church disproportionately focuses on individual sins relating to sex like homosexuality, abortion, pre-marital sex while turning a blind eye to corporate sins like greed, lack of care for the poor, and preferential laws for the rich.

When we (white people) view ourselves as only individuals and not part of a whole, it’s easy for accusations of racism to induce guilt. It’s true – we didn’t do it individually. However, when we allow ourselves to learn from the perspective of communally oriented cultures, we’ll learn more about how the system was established to benefit us at the expense of others and how we continue to perpetrate this very system without intentional actions to change it.

As it stands, the system in which we quite comfortably live our lives tells our stories from our perspectives far more frequently than any others. Ponder a few of these stories with me:

How might the ‘Thanksgiving story’ be told from a Native American perspective? Could it be perceived differently than a peaceful dinner between the ‘Indian’ and the White Man?
Who frames the theological story we tell? How would that story be told differently from those of a non-dominant power?
Where are our theories rooted? If the research on which we base our understanding of ‘sound theory’ comes only from a white western perspective, what realities might we be missing?

While the white perspective shouldn’t be eliminated, for the overarching story to be accurate, it needs to include a wide array of perspectives that extends beyond the dominant group.

3. Ignorance

“Part of the problem, I think (in America, at least), is the willingness of the minorities to KEEP themselves segregated.” (Chris)

To put it bluntly, a lot of white people don’t talk about race because they don’t know how, or because they assume that just because they’ve had a few conversations or seen a few news programs, they know everything there is to know about the topic.

In college, I was on a committee to plan the Martin Luther King Jr. Day celebration on campus. Our (mostly white) committee came up with the slogan, “Racism: Been there, done that.” When we suggested our theme to the invited African-American speaker for the celebrations, she pushed back. “Oh no, you haven’t!” she countered, and she was quite right. We thought that our willingness to say the word race meant that we actually knew something about it. How wrong we were.

Chris’s comment above illustrates an ignorance that many white people continue to believe. We may believe it because 1) we operate on media driven sound bytes or stereotypes; 2) we don’t have actual friends of other races; 3) we rely on gut feelings rooted in our own experience and not fact; 4) we’re not listening to any experiences except those that reflect our own. Chris’s assumptions in the above statement are factually wrong, but his views will never change until he starts to dig deeper than the reasons above.

We can’t simply will ignorance away. If we want to increase our understanding, we have to do something about it. Watch documentaries. Read the resources listed at the end of this post. Volunteer. Listen without speaking. Attend an MLK Day celebration or a Black history event. Ask the hard questions not of others, but of ourselves.

4. Subconscious Superiority Complex

That revelation came later. In my youthful days though, I had concluded in my White-Christian mind that all those (passive-) aggressive Indonesians and blacks needed to repent from their anger and that me quietly ‘forgiving’ them was the way to balance out the evil in the world. I would look at my WWJD bracelet and smile, all self-indulged. (Jobke)

Finally, I think part of my fallen culture as a white privileged male person is to use my power to control and fix things, and people. It’s quite likely that that’s a bigger part of my draw to working with people from other cultures than I’d care to admit. But I need to confess this, continually, and claim my call as faithfulness, not fixing. I fail. Maybe we need a WPA (white privilege anonymous: “Hi, I’m Kevin, and I’m privileged”). Actually, doing my own “white work,” and engaging privilege directly, is much harder for me than “serving” folks from other cultures. (Kevin)

If I get really honest with myself, I kind of like the position of racial privilege that comes with my skin. This doesn’t mean that I cognitively believe I deserve it or that I’m better because of my race, but it is a reality in my thinking that I need to confront.

A good friend pointed out that another way this superiority complex shows up is when white people expect race conversations to be ‘fair’, as in “if I listen to your experience with racism, then you need to listen to mine and acknowledge that it’s equal.” Sometimes, we just need to listen humbly and keep our mouths shut. The honesty about arrogance and power in Jobke and Kevin’s comments is a great starting point toward humility for us all.

Gary Howard wrote an insightful book for teachers called We can’t teach what we don’t know : White teachers, multiracial schools. In the same vane of this title, we can’t talk about what we don’t know. Until we’ve spend some significant time understanding both our own attitudes and the perspectives of others in the racial conversation, we remain only observers of the conversation, not true participants in it.

In Why do all the Black Kids Sit Together in the Cafeteria, author Beverly Tatum discusses the necessity of courage to break the silence in the race conversation. “Silence feels safer,” she suggests, “but in the long run, I know it is not.” Tatum recognizes that nothing will happen if she acquiesces to her fear of confronting the reality she sees, and that silence is ultimately not a beneficial response for herself personally or society at large. Keeping quiet in the face of injustice has never hailed as a historical virtue.

With gentle steps and hopeful hearts, may this be our ever-present prayer:

Give us awareness to let down our guard and lean into the fear that keeps us silent in racial conversations.

Give us courage to face our guilt by learning about how our cultural values shape our internal definitions of what is valuable.

Give us a desire to increase our knowledge through listening and learning to voices of those whose stories and whose access to power differ from ours.

Help us acknowledge our propensity to hold tight to power by loosening our grip and looking always to understand before we are understood.

(If you’re not white, I’d ask that you pray this for us as you can. The painful history of race has also left us a broken people, even when we don’t acknowledge it, and your prayers for us are deeply needed.)

What’s your take? Have you experienced any of the above reasons for not talking about race? What did I miss?

More than a tourist: Living deeply across cultures

January 22, 2014April 24, 2015 between worlds

When I first started to cross cultures, there was a distinctly romantic quality to every adventure – fascination with food and language and buildings and transportation and landmarks. I would inhale the smells and sights and textures with wide eyes, captured by the difference they represented. I would wrap my tongue around the words and sounds, attempting to capture some small meaning with my own mouth. Culture captivated me, and I drank it in with every cup of tea I shared.

As time has passed, however, this romantic captivation slowed, and I found that crossing cultures no longer carried the same zing it once did. In fact, it required more energy with each new encounter for I no longer entered ignorant about my own assumptions and inadequacies. When I enter a new culture these days, it is slower, more observant, less enraptured. I walk carefully and quietly, curious but patient about the new realities I encounter. After nearly half a lifetime of loving across a culture, the exoticism of such differences is being slowly replaced by a simple expectation of normalcy and humanity.

Click here to read the rest of my guest post this week at Communicating.Across.Boundaries.

Culture & Race

4 reasons white people need to talk about race

January 16, 2014September 24, 2016 between worlds

Hi. My name is Jody, and I’m a white person.

Over the years, this single admission has often felt like an Alcoholics Anonymous confession, a fact about which I can do nothing and for which I am slightly ashamed. I have stood at bus stops on the south side of Chicago, desperately wishing for dreads and dark skin so I wouldn’t stand out so starkly. I have maneuvered the streets of the developing world, greeted with “I lofe you, babeee” and “Taxi, madam” solicitations because of the color of my skin. I have received unwanted but superior treatment to the locals because my skin defines me as a wealthy foreigner.

My whiteness is something I did not ask for, cannot change, and don’t always completely understand. While I haven’t always been aware of the full implications of this trait in a racialized society, living between worlds has pushed me to grapple with my race as a significant shaper of my identity. As I began this process, there was a time when I was ashamed of the privilege it carried, angry and saddened over the history of racial supremacy and discrimination. I hear this shame frequently from other white people, frustrated with feeling blamed, dismissed or responsible for actions-not-their-own. In response to this post, Jason summed up a sentiment I often hear from white people:

I feel frustrated that I somehow inherited qualities based on what my race did or didn’t do, and that I have “responsibilities” to be a certain way to other races therefore. I feel people want me to feel guilty for who I am based solely on my race.

I’m tired of being the bad guy, the boring guy, the rich guy, whatever. I’m tired of being told I have no right to feel that way because others have it worse. I’m tired of being singled out, having to be taught how to be “culturally sensitive” as if I’m the only one who isn’t–which incidentally reinforces privilege. I’m tired of being told I can’t have a voice, an opinion.

Joseph articulately shared a similar opinion:

All that to say that assuming someone’s whiteness or blackness marks their cultural makeup and place in society does not further the discussion nor lead to constructive debate. The issue in claiming that white people should burden the responsibility is that we again draw swords for the wrong reasons.

We entrench ourselves in our values and take sides to eliminate the burden of guilt and point to a symbol, which has no clear identity, as the root of the problem. Respect, faith and personal responsibility should be a driving force in how people conduct themselves with any and every person regardless of race. We should not be subject to some noble obligation for the sake of cultural semblance. I challenge your presumption that being white requires some intangible burden to be carried. You assume that my whiteness defines me simply because I am white. It does not.

Comments like these are great examples of why white people need to talk about race more than we do. Let me explain a little further:

1. We don’t know how to talk about race

It’s rare that I hear a white person use the word “black” in public settings to describe someone’s race without stuttering in the process. Most white people stumble nervously over themselves when using racial terms, “She’s a-um-a, well, she’s af-, bl-um, she’s blackImeanAfric-um, I mean, African-American?”

Yeah. Let’s just be honest…I know I’ve done it. And I know that chances are most of you white folks reading this have done it too. We’re uncomfortable using racial terms because we don’t have to think in racial terms on a regular basis.

People of color talk about race all the time – they have to in order to negotiate living in a world where the dominant power structure does not recognize cultural norms outside of their own. When race is a daily factor in human relations, people develop a language and ability to process it. However, because white people remain so silent on the issue, we often don’t have a clue how to talk about race with someone from a background different than our own.

2. We don’t know who we are

I (along with plenty of other scholars) would argue that one of the reasons we defend ourselves so vigorously is because we don’t fully understand ourselves and the racial dynamics that shape our perspectives. In her landmark book on racial identity development Why do all the black kids sit together in the cafeteria?, psychologist Beverly Daniel Tatum (1997) explores the development of white identity. She suggests that the silence on race in white communities stems from the fact that white people see race as something as a defining trait for other people, not themselves. As one white student commented, “I’m not white, I’m just normal.”

Tatum then goes on to explain the stages of white identity development, something I’d never even heard of until my college years. My first encounter with my whiteness was when I participated in an urban studies program on the south side of Chicago. We privileged and white college students lived in a rehab center with recovering drug addicts, all of whom were urban African Americans. Completely unaware of the cultural rules by which I operated, I dove into seeking relationship with the residents, eager to learn more about their lives. I asked all sorts of questions and listened eagerly as they shared their stories with me, a naive rural white girl.

I thought I was maneuvering just fine until the day, a woman named Pat approached me and said, “I need to apologize to you. I’ve been avoiding you the whole time you’ve been here.”

I froze inside, wondering what I’d done wrong. I thought I’d been so nice, listening, smiling, asking questions. People where I came from were rarely so blunt, and I wasn’t sure how to respond to her bluntness, so I just continued to listen.

“You asked so many questions, I felt like you were some journalist pelting me with questions,” she explained. “It didn’t feel like you really wanted to know me, just like you wanted to use me for my stories.”

I thought I might cry, both from her misinterpretation of my intentions and my lack of understanding about how my actions were perceived.

“So. I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance and just shut down on you instead. It wasn’t very nice of me.”

I stumbled through some sort of response, but mostly I was speechless because I really didn’t know what to say. It was the first time I’d come face-to-face with a person whose cultural rules dictated different values than mine, and I hadn’t even known I’d been operating by cultural rules. In my mind, I was just “being normal”.

Come to find out, “normal” isn’t the same for everyone. Gerald Pine and Asa Hilliard (1990) explain some of the underlying dynamics shaping our differing communication styles.:

Discussions and debates about racism create anxiety and conflict, which are handled differently by different cultural groups. For example, Whites tend to fear open discussion of racial problems because they believe that such discussion will stir up hard feelings and old hatreds. Whites tend to believe that heated arguments about racism lead to divisiveness, loss of control, bitter conflict, and even violence. Blacks, on the other hand, believe that discussion and debate about racism help to push racial problems to the surface – and perhaps, force society to deal with them.

When I hear whites portray themselves as ‘colorblind’, I think of myself in those days, unaware and shielded from the harsh realities surrounding race and privilege as well as the different values by which I operated. I think of the friend who said to me, “If you don’t see my color, you don’t see me.” I think of all the people like Jason and Joseph who feel silenced in the race conversation because they feel blamed or pigeon-holed. I think of the intense individualism by which white mainstream America unknowingly operates that conflicts with the communal value systems of other races and cultures.

And then I think it would do us all a whole-lot-of-good to talk about these things far more than we do.

3. We need healing, too

Oppression does not only hurt the oppressed, it leaves deep scars on the oppressor as well. Silence breeds shame, and the silence about our history as racial oppressors has allowed our shame to work its way so deep we don’t even see how it eats away at us. Some of us even find it funny when it shows up in our private-little-racial-jokes or shock jock personalities like Rush Limbaugh. Occasionally, it slips out to the public and there’s a collective gasp, a scurry to apologize, and red faces.

Quite frankly, sometimes it all feels like one big messy subject, a conflict too painful to solve, more divisive than uniting.

But Parker Palmer’s words linger in my heart, “We think the world apart, what would it be like to think the world together?” To me, this is where healing for everyone begins in this complex conversation; and to think the world together, there needs to be two participants in the conversation. If we truly want to see change (which I believe many of us do), it can’t just be the people of color who are vested in this issue. When white people “participate” in the conversation by smugly crossing our arms, silently observing from a distance, assuming we know better or arrogantly refusing to consider to other perspectives, we only perpetuate the system we’ve created.

4. We’re afraid of losing control

This conversation about being the majority race can certainly grow complicated, and sometimes we can be so caught up in subconsciously defending our long-standing position of power that we’re unable to actually discuss the issues in earnest.

If we do want to discuss the issues, we need to start with ourselves and the history that frames the reality of our lives. While I value his honesty, I’d challenge Joseph’s notion that our whiteness does not define us by suggesting that in order to effectively and compassionately participate in society today, we need to spend time first understanding ourselves in relation to others by contemplating questions like this:

Who do I know? Are my social circles made up of mostly people just like me? If so, have I ever really listened to someone’s story that does not reflect my own?
How do I respond when someone presents a perspective I don’t understand? If I am defensive, dismissive, or angry, what does their response trigger in me that makes me unable to hear their story? How might I learn to respond with more compassion?
In conversations about race, do I listen or do I preach? Do I assume first that I am right? Do I follow Stephen Covey’s model to listen first to understand, then to be understood or do I leave the conversation before I even consider the other participant’s perspective?
What do I know about my history? Where do I come from? What shapes my subconscious values and rules?
What do I know about the history of other races and cultures? How do I know this history? Was it told through the eyes of the culture itself or the dominant culture? Could there be another perspective than the one I’ve seen?
If race comes up in a conversation either positively or negatively, do I speak or remain silent? Why do I respond the way I do?
If I feel afraid or guilty in race conversations, how have I dealt with these emotions? Do I allow them to immobilize me or do I lean into them as opportunities for deeper growth?

This cannot be a discussion of tit-for-tat, of accusations and defensives, and as members of the dominant majority, we need to lead the conversation first with humility and compassion. We can not let go until we know what it is that we’re holding onto.

I’m Jody, and I’m a white person.

This is not my only identity, but it is certainly a piece of it. The more I understand how it shapes me and, in turn, how this affects those around me and in the world-at-large, the more I will become a peace-maker rather than a conflict-instigator.

Will you join me?

The road is long and the journey a bit bumpy at times, but the destination is one of vulnerability, hope and restoration. Let us not shut our eyes, our hearts or our mouths, but rather open them to those around us, creating space for everyone in our midst, not only those just like ourselves.

Comment Policy

This is a painfully loaded issue posted in a moderated public forum. Comments are welcome, but please be sure to carefully read the post first and then thoughtfully respond. Knee-jerk reactions and hasty accusations are rarely productive in potentially explosive conversations. It may also help to read this post before commenting. Comments that do not follow these guidelines will not be published, though it is highly likely that these commenters will receive a personal email from me so we can dialog in a more private arena. While it can be ironically cleansing for the shit to hit the fan, it’s not particularly helpful to fling it all over everyone else.

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Pine, G. & Hilliard, A. (1990). Rx for racism: Imperatives for America’s schools. Phi Delta Kappan, 593-600.

Tatum, B. D. (1997). Why are all the black kids sitting together in the cafeteria. New York, NY: Basic Books.

Books, Culture & Race, Families, Children & Marriage

9 ways to help children develop global awareness

January 6, 2014February 11, 2014 between worlds

Before our kids were even born, my husband and I knew we wanted to raise our children with an awareness of global reality. Once they actually arrived, however, we found this easier said than done – especially when living in either isolated or wealthy communities.

When our kids were old enough to process more than Cheerios and Elmo, we wanted to help them develop an understanding of concepts less prominent in American mainstream culture like community, respect for elders, simplicity and generosity that was shaped by something other than the Disney Channel and their peers. Since my husband spent half of his childhood in a developing country at war and the majority of his family still lives there, we were especially keen to help our children growing up amidst privilege understand these realities more deeply. We’ve made attempts at this in a variety of ways, hoping that a few of them will stick:

An early favorite was reading Beatrice’s Goat by Page McBrier, a true story about a girl in a village whose life changes all because of the gift of a single goat. There is a developing genre of children’s books telling stories of empowerment instead of pity that includes other titles like One Hen: How One Small Loan Made a Difference and The Good Garden: How One Family Went from Hunger to Having Enough. These books are all part of Citizen Kid, a book series designed to help children become better global citizens.

Providing a glimpse into a positive view of diversity, Norah Dooley and Peter Thornton have written an absolutely fabulous series about a child who explores the world in her neighborhood by sampling the variations of foods they each enjoy. Titles include Everybody Cooks Rice, Everybody Bakes Bread, Everybody Brings Noodles and Everybody Serves Soup. My other all-time favorite storybooks that showcase the world are How to Make an Apple Pie and See the World and Abuela.

Another genre of children’s books we’ve loved are illustrated non-fiction books about actual children around the world. Our favorites include A life like mine: How children live around the world, Children just like me: A unique celebration of how children live around the world, If the World were a Village, and The Usborne Book of People of the World.

Having grown weary of too many depictions of a white Jesus loving on only white children, I’ve also been in search of children’s bibles that reflect the whole world God created. My favorite is The Jesus Storybook Bible, and World Vision also recently published God’s Love for You Bible Storybook.

Videos can provide a more tangible reflection of global realities than books, and watching has helped our children get a better sense of how other children live around the world. Citizen Kid and World Vision both feature child-appropriate videos that explain concepts like the need for clean water, microenterprise and education. MamaHope also has an excellent series of short videos called “Stop the Pity” which portray those living in poverty with dignity and respect. Compassion International has a great site (that includes a downloadable study guide!) for kids to learn about poverty called Quest for Compassion. I’m also a fan of fun videos like Where the Hell is Matt which show the joy and humanity that span the globe.

While much more challenging when our kids were younger, we’re now in a stage where we can actively participate as a family in service projects. We’ve helped serve meals for the homeless, visited nursing homes and participated in a service learning trip to Ecuador together. (While taking toddlers to another continent was certainly a challenge, it has been helpful to embed a personal connection to other realities in their minds.) I know other families who help at food pantries or tutoring programs. Serving helps children see beyond themselves, and I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how much my kids genuinely enjoy it. I’m also a thrift store fan and enjoy talking with my kids about how this kind of shopping serves more than just our own purposes.

We eat at ethnic restaurants as frequently as possible, and have worked hard to help our kids learn about other cuisines. When we lived in an area where the closest thing to ethnic food was a Chinese/pizza buffet, I buckled down and learned a whole variety of Asian recipes to cook at home. As a result, we eat Sri Lankan food (check out my curry recipe here) at least twice a month and Asian food about half the time at home. While they still prefer pizza and chicken nuggets, they don’t scoff at Chinese food anymore and are willing to try a wide variety of foods. This wasn’t a simple process (there have been a lot of ‘eeewwws’), but our insistence to always try new food is starting to pay off. Here are some ethnic recipes to try with kids and some tips for introducing your kids to ethnic food.

jehan horn — Entertaining aunties and uncles

We’ve also made intentional efforts to help our kids experience a bigger world, whether it be exploring the town down the highway or crossing the globe to see family. Being an intercultural family, we wanted the world to be something that had always been a part of our children, not something new to which they would be suddenly introduced. While they don’t remember trips they made as babies, the family we visit remembers, and it has helped our kids develop a comfort with and attachment to another side of their background. They’ve wrestled with uncles, played cricket with cousins, and kissed aunties.

We also make it a point to visit lots of museums to help the kids can see worlds beyond their own. My favorite find is the Association of Science and Technology Centers Passport Program which allows free entrance to over 350 museums worldwide. We recently visited a science center in Kuala Lumpur on a layover for FREE! For those who travel around the US at all, it’s a quite economical way to visit a lot of different museums while only paying for membership to one.
While hosting guests was less possible during the PhD and toddler years, we’ve recently been enjoying welcoming others into our home. Whether it’s our neighbors who recently moved from China or international students I teach, hosting guests from a variety of places and backgrounds in our home helps our children put a face to the world. Whenever the news media about a particular country (particularly the Middle East) doesn’t match with the reality of the people they know, our kids notice the discrepancies and often make comments like, “But so-and-so wasn’t like that.”

My introduction to the world began in part because my mom’s family hosted an exchange student from Thailand when she was in high school. We hosted another student from Finland when I was a teenager, and building a sisterhood across cultures proved to be one of the most cherished and foundational experiences of my life.

We openly talk about giving with our kids, and two of the primary means we give are World Vision and Kiva. Both fund the empowerment of people living in poverty. I’ll often sit down with the kids and let them pick the microloans or projects we support. The World Vision site is great because it often includes videos that we can watch with the kids to help them understand just what it means to lack clean water or education. Watching these videos and then donating money to the projects have opened some great conversations.

Because children naturally love to play and imagine, stories of other worlds like Narnia and Harry Potter have been helpful allegories in our house. Such stories help children begin to understand how other lands may have differing customs and realities than their own. The power dynamics between good and evil also help us explain the comple dynamics of world politics in more kid friendly ways.

I am not naturally a simple person. I love shoes, ice cream, and soft beds. I like to shop and window browse and decorate. However, being married to a spouse from the developing world, I’ve had many occasions to grapple with what is necessity and what is luxury. Hence, I’ve spent a lot of time over the years sorting out my materialism, and looking for ways to simplify my life in light of how much of the world lives.

It has in now way been a perfect journey (I still have a weak spot for shoes), but as it turns out, pretty much most things are luxury past food and shelter. As a result, we do the best we can to live within our means – no credit card debt, used furniture (my favorite chair has a big hole in the arm), simple schedules and intentional budgets. While we live in a small house and drive old cars, we often discuss with our kids how wealthy we are because we have these things at all, regardless of whether or not they are new. In turn, our imperfect efforts toward simplicity remind us to be grateful for the abundance we do possess, and enable us to give generously as well.

What about you? What are ways you help your children learn about the world?

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Dealing with anger in race relations

December 9, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

As I’ve participated both publicly and privately in the race dialogue over the years, one of the most difficult aspects I’ve navigated is the role of anger in race relations. It’s not hard to see – the comments section of race-related articles demonstrate well the heated presence of anger in race relations. For those seeking to walk the path toward deeper cultural understanding, understanding the roots of racial anger is an area that we can’t afford to dismiss. As a white person, I’ve been surprised to encounter my own battles with anger and race, and I share from that experience here.

My first teaching job was in an historic black school in a Midwestern city, and it was a crash course in understanding dynamics of urban settings, race, and poverty. Being brand new to the professional world, it is highly probable that my youthfulness translated into a white-savioresque attitude à la Dangerous Minds, even though I didn’t consciously enter with this perspective. In spite of my intentions, I encountered two quite contrasting responses to my naïveté.

The first was from an African-American teacher next door who railed angrily into me one day for something I’d done that irked her. I don’t remember a word of what she actually said to me, but I clearly remember returning to my classroom in tears, feeling crushed by her anger and assumptions regarding my white ignorance. I’d tried to seek her insight out on previous (failed) attempts, and now she’d shut me down for good. From that point on, our relationship was one of icy glares and cold shoulders.

The other response was from another African-American teacher who kindly took me under her wing. She showered me with hugs as she gently taught me the basics of African-American history and urban culture. She took kids home with her when they needed a mama and brought them breakfast at school when they were hungry. All the kids knew that you went to her classroom first if you needed some extra love and I followed their lead frequently.

While Loving Teacher’s response felt better than Angry Teacher’s harshness toward me, both reactions taught me vital lessons in the world of race relations. Nearly fifteen years later, I cringe at my youthful self with a grateful nod to the lesson Angry Teacher taught me. After I got past the initial sting of the Angry Teacher’s reaction (which, I might sheepishly add, took years), I began to contemplate why she may have responded the way she did. She’d lived down the street from these kids and their parents and their pastors for longer than I’d been alive, and she knew a reality that I didn’t.

As I’ve reflected on it over the years, I’d guess that her anger spewed on me that day stemmed more from the continued systemic racial injustice that she navigated on a daily basis rather than from my specific actions. My young white skin and curiosity simply represented the cycle of systemic injustice that had reeked havoc on her home, and it (understandably) made her angry with me. For all the good I hoped to do in that context, it forced me to acknowledge that she was the one with the lasting influence and that I was simply an observer passing through.

I have often heard people of color express a similar anger toward the inequitable system that keeps racism alive and kicking, but living with my non-white family in a majority white setting made my experience with anger and race take a new turn. The longer we lived there, the harder it was for me to assume good-intentions when the bad-actions were so obvious. Over time, I grew angry with white-people myself.

I was angry that ‘my people’ wouldn’t embrace my family like they did people who fit into their pretty-little-cornfield-box. I was angry they didn’t care enough about the world-outside to understand people from it. I was angry they clammed up and smiled when they didn’t understand something rather than just admit it outright. I was angry they dismissed others’ perspectives with Christian platitudes just to ‘keep the peace’.

Over the years, I’ve asked people I hold in great esteem how they’ve managed to keep going through the anger that inevitably comes with interracial relationships. I’ve had more than one ~~day~~ year when I’ve shut down on the whole thing. The last bout nearly did me in completely. But then, the air came as we surfaced somewhere near Los Angeles gasping for breath. We sat quietly vibrating in the shadow of the mountains and on the edge of the sea for over a year.

Little by little, I leaned on the wisdom from people ahead of me on this path to sort out the pieces of my anger over our experience in a land that did not understand its impact on those who were different within its borders. Since everyone processes these things differently, I’ll recap a few things I’ve been learning about processing racial anger along the way.

It’s ok to be angry. The nice Christian Midwesterner in me would disagree with this statement, but I’ve learned that denying anger only makes it sink deeper. Bringing it to light it in an appropriate time and place helps to shed light on what’s my responsibility and what’s not. In the process of walking with my anger, I’m also learning to distinguish between a productive anger that produces fruit and a vomiting anger just explodes ickiness over everyone.

Expressing anger is both cultural and individual. Personally, I rarely yell and scream when I’m angry. Instead, I grow very quiet. This happens to work great in my home culture where many shut down and numb out upon screaming-and-yelling. You can imagine my shock, however, to encounter people who ‘yelled’ at each other only to start a hugfest and productive conversation a few moments later. Everyone subscribes to unspoken personal and cultural rules regarding the expression of anger, but few of us follow the same exact ones. Letting go of my need to apply my internal rules to the rest of the world helps me to listen better when I encounter an anger expressed differently from my own.

Jesus is not a band-aid. It’s human nature to want a quick fix, but also equally human for that fix to be complex and layered. Sticking Jesus on the massive history of racial and systemic injustice doesn’t heal anything, it only makes Jesus look inadequate and small. While I’m a firm believer that walking with Jesus in our moments can give us the ability to walk alongside one another’s pain, it’s not the same as understanding others’ stories by listening to them with our ears and our hearts and our lives. To say that ‘the only solution is Jesus‘ implies that we don’t need to do anything but piously open our bibles and sing hymns and everything will get better. One only need to read the history books to see that this isn’t true.

Injustice is painful. I’ve occasionally caught myself whining, “Why me?” in response to our difficulties. But when I live in light of a global reality, I find that the more appropriate question is, “Why not me?” What better lesson for the middle-class-white-girl-with-an-education to learn? My privilege sneaks up on me so subtly that I hardly notice it, and coming face-to-face with injustice gives me a stark reality check on what the majority of the world faces every day. The quicker I accept this pain, the more humbly I learn to walk in it.

Forgiveness takes time. A former African-American pastor of mine recommended that I walk in the way of Jesus by following His words, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” – even when “they” likely know what they’re doing because it still shows a better way. Another guide gave me permission to take time away to be imperfect and angry for awhile. When people hold those you love at arms’ length, it hurts, and I needed some private time and space to grieve this loss.

Savor the good moments. While the overarching flavor of our racial and cultural isolation was bitter, there were all sorts of sweet-and-holy moments, and plenty of individual people who, in spite of the prevailing environment, embraced us open-armed in their homes and their hearts. Pausing to sit with these gentle memories softens the anger and refocuses me toward grace and goodness.

These days, when I sit with a person of color, listening to them express the conflict of being the only one, wonder if they were chosen for their skill or their skin color, or sigh at the incredulous ignorance of a white leader’s words, what I hear first is pain, even when it sounds like anger. I hear sadness over what hasn’t changed and grief over the white majority’s lack of understanding of their inherent privilege and power. I hear weariness over walking the same path time and again, wondering if change will ever happen, if the majority will ever really care enough to understand.

I am, however, only one small voice and two small ears. What I say and hear is only a piece of the story. Like Loving Teacher and Angry Teacher, everyone processes the brokenness of our racial history differently, and each voice tells a story we need to hear – even the angry ones.

I’d love it if you shared your voice, too. We all have much to learn about this difficult topic. What does your story say? How do you walk along the path of anger in race relations?

Culture & Race, Restoration & Reconciliation

When even Jesus is white

December 5, 2013February 11, 2014 between worlds

“Mama,” she ran toward me through the sand, “something really funny just happened.”

We were relaxing at the local murky-pond-called-a-lake on a quiet summer day. “Really?” I grinned at her, eager for the humor of a five-year-old. “What was so funny?”

“Some kid just asked me if I was from China!!!” she sounded shocked. “Why would anyone think I was from China!? Isn’t that funny?!?”

“Yeah, honey,” I smiled, covering the ache inside. “That’s just crazy.”

She shrugged her shoulders and skipped back to the beach, oblivious to her mama’s sinking shoulders. We’d lived as one of the only biracial families in our small-town cornfield for several years at that point, and I was wearing thin on the lack of awareness we ran into around every corner. My margins to tolerate the monocultural masses were shrinking, and their ignorance had worn me thin.

I know, I know. But they’re just kids. They don’t mean any harm, right?

But what about the friend who whispered to me that no one would play with her black son at recess? What about the teachers who wouldn’t do a damn thing about his isolation, claiming he was just ‘quiet’? Or the time another friend’s daughter was called a ‘burnt hot dog’? What about the teenagers who had run my brown husband and white self off the road, sticking their heads out of the truck with angry shouts? Or the time my husband confronted another group of teenagers who were harassing an African American just walking down the street? What about the threatening phone call that woke us up in the dead of the night?

Maybe they didn’t mean harm, but maybe they did. All I knew for certain was that I had no ability to tell the difference, and I didn’t much like having to choose.

My sweet daughter climbed into the van after preschool later that year and dissolved into tears, “Why am I the only brown kid, mama?”

Unwisely, I attempted a rational explanation and she shut me down cold. “No, mama! Everyone is America is white! Everyone except me.”

It was clear she just needed to vent so I listened for awhile and then reattempted my explanation, “Not everyone is white, sweetie. Think of your uncle and your cousin and all of Thaatha’s family and-”

Furious, she interrupted me, “NO, mama! Everyone is white except me. I’m the only brown kid. Even Jesus is white!”

She might as well have stuck a knife through my heart. Those blasted colonialist publishers who had to go and make Jesus look just like them – they were fully responsible for my child feeling on the outs. I collected myself and told her that actually, Jesus wasn’t white, and that the people who painted the pictures of Him got a little too focused on themselves and didn’t think about how Jesus really looked. “He probably looked much more like you,” I told her in an attempt to soothe her angst.

Even at five, my intuitive daughter knew what it felt like to live at the margins. Sometimes she chuckled at it and called it silly; but other times it made her crumble to pieces.

Since we left the cornfields, I’ve had my own moments of chuckling and crumbling before God, asking why we had to endure cultural isolation for so long, why my daughter had to live those hard questions at such a young age, and why we felt so isolated in a place that so many (white) people loved to call home.

For now, there are no clear answers, other than knowing that Jesus lived in the margins, too. And when He asked my husband and I to walk this path of living between worlds, he promised to walk with us through it, threatening phone calls and all. That doesn’t mean we’ll always know how, or do it flawlessly, or be responsible to fix it; but it does mean that when the bitterness creeps in, we exhale, “Father, forgive them…” and await the slow restoration of our hearts from the breaking days of the cornfields.

What I’m learning from those marginal years is that if we don’t know healing in our own crumbled moments, we won’t ever see the beautiful sights of the healed ones. For racial healing to run deep in our stubbornly shallow world, it must be led by the wounded healers who love one another fiercely and forgivingly, willing to wade through the murky waters of the margins.

Culture & Race, Restoration & Reconciliation, Social & Political Issues

Call me hope

October 19, 2013October 19, 2013 between worlds

Stephanie posted this video in her reflective post The State of Western Missions, Talking Donkeys, and a Video and it was so good it warranted its very own post. This is a video produced by the organization MamaHope for their Stop the Pity: Unlock the Potential project. I love how their videos challenge the portrayal perceptions of Africans.

Seriously. You’ve gotta watch every single one.

They’ll capture your imagination and challenge your stereotypes. You’ll walk away a little more thoughtful.

When I spent a summer in Burkina Faso, I lived with a Burkinabe family and saw this very strength. Their home was full of such warmth, hospitality, generosity and relationship. Walking alongside their lives made me feel that if anyone should be pitied, it is the Westerners who live such disconnected, self-centered and fragmented lives. There, in one of the poorest countries in the world, I learned not how to barely survive, but how to really live.

Make time for each other.

Listen carefully.

Help out a neighbor.

Respect the elderly.

Don’t live life too quickly.

Dance your offering down the aisle.

Dance your head off to Michael Jackson.

(There was a lot of dancing, and even my frozen-chosen-little-former-baptist self couldn’t help but shake a hip every so often.)

But then again, no one is perfect.

Sometimes, there was too much chasing the wind, and the deep levels of poverty, colonization, and tribalism also created complex and difficult realities. It certainly wasn’t all pretty.

Maybe we all just have a lot to learn from each other.

Culture & Race, Restoration & Reconciliation

Dear white man:

October 7, 2013April 27, 2014 between worlds

I guess you and I have some difficult things to talk about.

Sometimes, I say things that might make you squirm a little. And other times, they seem to make you downright angry. Yours is a story of dominance, of disrespecting and denying others’ rights and conquering those who are inconvenient to you. I know you well, and imagine that it can’t be easy to carry such a heavy load on your shoulders. You are not alone in your burden. Indeed, others from a variety of cultures and races and histories have told this story sometimes even more brutally than you.

But sadly, you have told it too. Even if others have their faults, this fact does not shift the blame from your shoulders to theirs.

However, this story alone is far too simple a tale. I would be grossly mistaken to suggest you are all the same. You are as varied as the whole world wide, and you have also been very good.

You have been my brother and my father and my grandfather, loving me fiercely and caring for those around you with wisdom and gentleness. You have been Dietrich Bonhofer, William Wilberforce, and Abraham Lincoln, advocates and defenders of justice, fighting to right the world’s wrongs. You have been Dr. Paul Brand, Graham Staines, and Shane Claiborne, offering your lives as a sacrifice to pursue healing for the world’s brokenness. You have been Henri Nouwen, Phillip Yancey, G.K. Chesterton, C.S. Lewis, and N.T. Wright, thinkers and writers who have blown new life into my faith and kept me from walking away when so many others in it looked so damn crazy. You have been countless friends and colleagues and mentors who simply do not fit the stereotype that is portrayed of you.

I am so deeply sorry that you must carry this burden simply due to the color of your skin. Perhaps this experience will help you better understand the feelings of many who have suffered at your hands simply because of the color of their skin.

I do not say this because I hate you, or because I’m angry or arrogant or have a chip on my shoulder that needs fixed.

I say it because I need you, because the world needs you.

These days, things are growing ever more complex and we need every voice available to speak for what is heals and restores and unites. Even with all your historical baggage and brokenness, we need you. Even with your current tales of greed and violence and corruption and misuse of power, we need you. All the people who fall under tales of your oppression – the women, the people with skin colors and cultures different than yours – we still need you.

You are not useless.

You are not throw-away.

Your scars, prominent as they may be, do not leave you without hope.

But we need you to be something different than what the broad strokes that both history and modern culture paint. We don’t need you to deny your burden, or to be angry when we notice its impact on our lives. We don’t need you to be defensive, and try to shift the blame onto someone else. We don’t need you to pretend we don’t exist because you don’t know any other way to respond to our voices asking you to change your ways.

What we need is your voice, not to speak for us, but to speak with us.

We need your minds, not to override our thoughts, but to listen and collaborate with us.

We need your hearts, to love us deeply, and to care about the pain of the burden we must carry.

We need your confidence, not to overpower us, but to care with us, to work for goodness and fight for justice.

We need your courage, not because we don’t have it or yours is stronger, but because great courage in the hands of power changes the course of history.

We need your respect, to view us as more than mere bodies to satisfy your desires and your lusts.

We need your legs to stand with us as we pursue a world that is better for our children, one that loves peace and prevents violence.

We need your ears to listen for and include the voices of everyone, not just your cronies or the people you most easily understand.

We need your vulnerability, to walk through the guilt that overwhelms and into the understanding that gives us all life.

We are human, too, equal in every way to you. We are capable and competent, eager and interested. We need you to acknowledge this, to humbly loosen your grip on the power you hold and actively create ways to share it with us, too.

Please, walk with us – not ahead or over top of us – but simply and humbly alongside us, as partners and companions. We need each other. These burden are much too heavy for any of us to carry alone.

Much love,

Jody

For further reading

American Idols: 3 false beliefs that can blind white men to their privilege by Jeff Heidkamp
White privilege: Unpacking the invisible knapsack by Peggy McIntosh
When rich westerners don’t know they’re being rich westerners by Djibouti Jones

Culture & Race, Restoration & Reconciliation

That time when white people talked about being white

October 5, 2013October 7, 2013 between worlds

So my humble little post When white people don’t know they’re being white apparently hit quite a nerve. It had roughly 14,000 hits in 24 hours and became a space of rich discussion on a usually very-quiet-blog. At the publishing of this post, it’s had close to 40,000 views and almost 100 comments. What hit me by the post’s high response was the need that people have to discuss this issue, and the thirst many have to understand it better. (Well, there were a few trolls whose comments never saw the light of day who made me question this, but the vast majority of the comments were genuine, thoughtful and honest).

Emotions expressed in the comment section ranged from gratefulness to relief to anger to hopelessness. In my experience, there aren’t many safe places to discuss race and privilege for white people, especially if we’re in a place of feeling wounded, scared or threatened. Already in a protection mode, we tend to say things from this space that can be hurtful to others who may or may not have it any more figured out than us. Regardless of the emotion, what I heard echoing most strongly behind many people’s responses was an unnerving, hesitant question, “Can white people do anything right?”

I hear this, and I know it is a hard question to ask. We shuffle our collective guilt from blame to anger to defensiveness to silence. No one likes failure and our collective history of domination is a painful one for everyone – not just the people we have dominated. But it certainly is not the only picture in history. Sadly, the stories that often get the most airtime aren’t the ones of what actually works. We are far more intrigued to ooh and ahh as things fall apart than to cheer them on as they are being built.

Whenever I enter a cemetery in a Sri Lankan church, I am struck by how many British people are buried there – missionaries from the turn of the 20th century who gave up everything – even their own lives and the lives of their own families – for a call greater than their own. My father-in-law, a doctor, speaks gratefully for the many Christians who established hospitals and built schools in South Asia. Did these very missionaries impart colonial ideas upon the Sri Lankan peoples? Probably, but this was not their only story. My husband’s family speaks fondly of Reverend Good (his real name, I promise), an Irishman who pastored their church for many years. The first word they use to describe him is always humble, the second, appropriately, is good. They speak of how he listened when there was conflict, how he cared for others, and how he didn’t think more highly of himself than anyone else.

Where are more stories about such good people who come from majority backgrounds? How do we find them? How do tell them? How do we make them our own stories? Where do we look when we need hope and examples of people who have led the way toward a genuine posture of humility toward and respect for others?

Given that the focus of my initial post was on what white people do that doesn’t create positive race relations, I thought it may also be helpful to create a space for others to share what does work in race relations – from all sides. The Bible calls us, after all, to be rooted first in the good news of reconciliation, not division.

I urge people of all backgrounds to comment here – the more perspectives that contribute, the more we learn from each other. Please include descriptions of and/or links to projects you know of, historical role models, suggestions of books or movies, websites, TedTalks or even YouTube videos that offer insight to this conversation. Perhaps your stories are double edged – one side that worked, one side that failed. That’s reality too. I’d love to hear more hard-but-good kind of stories that show how we grow and learn together.

Comment policy: Ranting, rude, or ridiculous posts will be deleted, so don’t bother wasting your time here. Please proceed to someone else’s site, or better yet, take some time to think about what you want to express and how to say it in a respectful way. If you need it spelled out even more plainly, here you go: Don’t be an ass. This is a place for thoughtful, productive discussion, not hotheadedness and knee jerk reactions. While I will not filter out disagreement, I do insist that we offer it with respect for one another’s God-given humanity. And, please stick to the topic of this post. If you have general comments about race, feel free to share them on this post instead.

Belief, Culture & Race, Restoration & Reconciliation

When light shines on the ashes

October 3, 2013 between worlds

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There was a fire in the mountains close to our house last week. The smoke clouds billowed both beautiful and haunting overhead, and we all held our breaths as we watched the helicopters dash back and forth over our neighborhood. It’s an unnerving reality that comes along with copious blue skies and rare days of rain here in southern California.

I posted a heavy hearted passion here in this space several days ago, and it’s created all sorts of difficult and good conversation.

Like a wildfire, the charred remains that we’re fumbling through leave my soul a little bare. But the potential for new growth makes my mind run wild.

It was an unusual gloomy morning when I drove to work yesterday. I rounded a corner to look up and see that the only ray of sun boldly breaking through the clouds was beaming down on that burnt part of the mountain.

“That’s pretty,” I thought, and turned the corner.

This morning, burdened and deep in thought, I once again saw the same scene at the same corner.

Cloudy sky.

Burnt mountain.

Ray of sun shining down brightly on the ash-covered part of the mountain.

Apparently I hadn’t gotten the message the first time.

“Don’t forget: I see the ashes,” my heart heard that still, small voice. “I will shine my light on the burnt places too.”

My soul sighed, my grip loosened, and I grinned, grateful for the small reminder that it’s not my job to rebuild what has been destroyed, only to look for where the light shines.

Culture & Race, Families, Children & Marriage, Spiritual Formation

The quiet joy of healing

February 10, 2013October 9, 2013 between worlds

“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the creator calls a butterfly.”

-Judy Squier

When wounds begin to heal instead of just hurt, it’s sweet, tender process. There are moments – like when the sun shines, the palms blow, and the mountains stand – that I breathe it all in with a deep thank you – one that I could not have even begin to muster even a year ago.

When I left the Midwest, I gave up a lot of me – a thriving career, proximity to my family, cultural mobility. Yet I also saw clearly that the loss of my own personal benefits meant an entirely new reality for my family: an environment that would value my husband for his skill more than his skin, that would offer my children the opportunity to grow up in a more diverse environment, that would challenge me to see beyond the familiar. While I knew it was the right thing to do on so many levels, it still wasn’t the easiest pill to swallow with regards to my own personal gain. And yet, the path became so clear that I just kept walking (or perhaps more precisely, limping) all the way to California.

There are times since we arrived that I’ve felt like a popped balloon – blown into pieces from eight years of living in a place in which my most developed spiritual disciplines became speaking courageously, persevering, and hoping. To say the least, it was not an easy place to live even though it was my home. Most of those years were spent begging God to either deliver us or change our hearts about living there.

When my daughter was one, she had a severe staph infection which resulted in a two week hospital stay and surgery in children’s hospital. There were moments before her diagnosis when we didn’t know if she would live, or if she would have to fight a disease like cancer or rheumatoid arthritis. Thankfully, the whole thing was resolved with no long term ramifications, but the day we finally left the hospital, we felt numb and weary, as though we’d been through a war. Even in the midst of her illness, it hadn’t been hard to see the blessings in the whole situation. We had access to medical care. We had competent doctors. We had insurance. We had kind nurses whose shoulders I cried on. We had family to help. We had friends who prayed and brought food. Our daughter had been healed. We acknowledged all of those things, and were so deeply grateful for them.

But even though there was so much goodness, we were still exhausted. The hard parts had been just as real to us as the good ones.

Some experiences are difficult to share because the battered parts of our lives can sound so depressing. We look better when we share our triumphs rather than our defeats. Lest I sound like there was no goodness to our Midwestern years, let me share a bit. We loved our jobs and pouring into the lives of our students. There is nothing like watching young adults become flourishing, thoughtful people who care deeply about the world, themselves and other people. The strong spirits of the friends who loved and supported us through those years will long linger with me. My children know and dearly love their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. They have roots in my home and know what it is to trek across an empty cornfield and make angels in freshly fallen snow.

But, like having had a seriously ill child, the hard parts were just as real as the good ones. And, as I heal, sometimes those hard parts feel so very real that it’s difficult to imagine that I’ll ever fully understand God’s purpose to land us there for such a long time.

What I do grasp is the unexpected joy that sneaks up on me as I make a home here, in this place where God pulled us to. It comes when I stand in front of my students and quietly observe how we understand each others’ experiences of relocating, recovering, healing, and making a new home. Sometimes a tear sneaks into my eye as I watch them fight to learn English – a crazy-hard language – at age 60, and then brokenly explain to me how they pray to God to stop the war in their home. It comes when we go to a park and relax because there are no confederate flags threatening our existence as an interracial family. It comes when my children hear me speak Spanish and beg me to teach it to them, and when my daughter tells me how her best friend shared homemade sushi with her at lunch. It comes when my brother calls with plans to visit, and clearly shares my love for adventure as he plots his family’s trip West. It comes when we’re flying down the eight-lane freeway into a sunlit valley and I feel a freedom that I could not have ever created for myself*.

“It’s ok to be lonely as long as you’re free,” wrote the late Rich Mullins. I learned this first in the Midwest, and I’m learning it again here in the California foothills. We’re still new. We’re still learning and establishing (which brings plenty of awkward and lonely moments), but the wounds of the past are slowly healing, and God is providing for us in ways I would have never dared to dream. While I know not what tomorrow brings, I’m so very grateful for this quiet joy that today holds.

When I began this blog seven (!) years ago, it was my effort to connect with others in similar situations at a time when I felt very culturally isolated in my life. Given my new life change, life doesn’t feel nearly so isolating anymore, so I’m currently having an internal debate about the whole point putting of my words here. Consequently, I might not be around much here until I figure this out, but I did want to at least write an ‘end’ to the story that began here, both to give credit where it is due and to provide some closure on this part of my life.

—

*These moments occur nearly exclusively when my husband is driving. I am still slightly petrified behind the wheel on the freeways here and find it difficult to feel anything but fear when it’s my responsibility to keep us alive on the road…

Culture & Race, Spiritual Formation

What’s saving me right now

August 22, 2012August 28, 2012 between worlds

Catching up on beautiful blogger Fiona Lynn pointed me to Sarah Bessey’s synchroblog on what is, as she puts it, ‘saving my life right now’. I’m a little late to join the conversation, but since I’m looking for ways to process all the newness in my life, this seemed like good practice. So, here goes.

These days, the crossroads of my life meet in a city of nearly 18 million people, and I hardly know a soul here. It’s a funny juxtaposition, really. I just left a town of 2,000 where it was hard to go to the gas station without seeing someone you knew. I’m actually mostly excited about this change in reality, but let me tell you, it’s a big one.

When I hear people speak of community and relationship and authenticity, I am at a loss for words. This will not be my story for some time. On top of that, relationships don’t seem to be my strong suit. I can be honest, but I’m not very good at trusting people, especially when I don’t know them. I love my husband, my kids, but I even have to remind myself to pay attention to them. It just doesn’t come naturally to me.

Strangely enough, I find myself jealous of women who trust other women, who find a home in the arms of sisters. I do have them – sisters – they’re just never close enough to touch.

There’s my dear college roommate on the East coast, who walks her days out in honesty and brokenness. She leans fiercely into the hard stories that many of us would prefer to ignore. Continue reading “What’s saving me right now” →

Culture & Race, Families, Children & Marriage

Helping children process being biracial and bicultural

October 5, 2011October 5, 2011 between worlds

Over the years, my daughter has expressed a variety of feelings about being biracial. Her reality is compounded by the fact that we currently live in a very white town and until she went to school (in a more diverse setting about 30 minutes away), she was often the only child of color. She’s been processing again this week – this time about not being the only ‘brown kid’ because the new girl in class is Indian.

“I kind of liked being the only kid from another country, mama,” she told me last night. “Everybody asks [the Indian girl] about India and I want people to ask me about Sri Lanka. Now that she’s here, I don’t feel special anymore. I wish I were just from one place like she is.”

This was a sentiment I hadn’t yet heard from her. Most of our previous conversations about race have been bemoaning the fact that there is no one like her. Thankfully, our conversation got distracted, so I had some time to ponder how I would respond (I don’t particularly think quickly in these situations). In reflecting, I realized a few things:

My daughter was feeling insecure about not feeling ‘whole’. Her listening brother even made the comment, “You’re half and half – you’re not ‘whole’ anything!”

She needed her feelings of inadequacy to be heard. To clarify – I don’t view her biracial-ness as inadequate at all. I think it makes her strong, beautiful, and wise. However, even if they’re inaccurate, her feelings are her feelings. My interpretation of her reality is just that: my interpretation, not hers.

She needed to hear her questions about her identity are normal. “You have a great little mind at work in there, sweetie,” I told her as I tucked her in last night. “You ask such great questions. Some kids don’t ask these questions for a long time – it’s good you’re letting them out as they come up. Keep asking, it will help you understand who you are.” She grinned, looking relieved that she wasn’t crazy for the feelings she was having.

Working with college students, I see a variety of biracial young adults processing their identities. Every so often, I encounter students who have never thought about the fact that they come from two worlds – it never occured to them that they weren’t white. This causes a pretty significant level of angst and crisis in their lives. Who am I? is a question asked by all college students, but it’s even more acute from biracial students who’ve never grappled with this question.

The students I see with in-tact, healthy identities are usually those who grew up discussing the layers of their racial and cultural realities with people older than them. Of course our children might feel ‘inadequate’ if they are different from those around them, and so many parents try to just sweep that ugliness under the rug by not talking about it. In reality, our biracial children will never understand the beauty, strength, and perspective that forms their identity if we don’t talk with them about it. Playing it safe leaves kids feeling isolated and confused.

How do you talk with your children about race? What kinds of questions do they face about their identities?

Books, Culture & Race, Families, Children & Marriage

Integrating the world into nitty gritty family life

September 19, 2011September 12, 2011 between worlds

Several years ago, I did a presentation on how we integrate the world into our daily family life for our local mom’s group. Thought I’d share the presntation here as well: Integrating the World into family… Some of the toys/TV shows are a few years dated (I’m sure there are now new ones of which I’m not aware…), but I think you can get the picture.

Books, Culture & Race, Families, Children & Marriage, Miscellany

free is good

September 4, 2011August 31, 2011 between worlds

Just a friendly reminder that if you subscribe to Between Worlds, I’ll send you a link to Your Other Home, a book I wrote for my kids about growing up between worlds. See sidebar to subscribe. {I promise not to give your email address!}

1. Fear of Conflict

2. Guilt

4. Subconscious Superiority Complex

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Further reading

Silent racism: How well-meaning white people perpetuate the racial divide by Barbara Trepagnier. Here’s an article about the book as well.

White Privilege: Unpacking the invisible knapsack by Peggy McIntosh.

Silence is Golden’: The White Church and Race in America by Troy Jackson

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1. We don’t know how to talk about race

2. We don’t know who we are

3. We need healing, too

4. We’re afraid of losing control

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Further reading

Why are all the black kids sitting together in the cafeteria and other conversations about race? by Beverly Daniel Tatum

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What about you? What are ways you help your children learn about the world?

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Further Reading

Growing compassionate kids: Helping kids see beyond their backyard by Jan Johnson

Living simply with children: A voluntary simplicity guide for moms, dads, and kids who want to reclaim the bliss of childhood and the joy of parenting by Marie Sherlock

Just Family Night: Activities to keep your family together in a world falling apart by Susan Vogt

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For further reading

American Idols: 3 false beliefs that can blind white men to their privilege by Jeff Heidkamp

White privilege: Unpacking the invisible knapsack by Peggy McIntosh

When rich westerners don’t know they’re being rich westerners by Djibouti Jones

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Living simply with children : A voluntary simplicity guide for moms, dads, and kids who want to reclaim the bliss of childhood and the joy of parenting by Marie Sherlock