A few days ago, a friend of mine commented on a picture I posted on Facebook. It captured one of those rare moments in the daily grind of stay-at-home parenting where — in the midst of the diaper changes, meltdowns, and mealtime madness — there is a moment of pure delight. In this case, my two sons were sitting together for the first time in the front of a race car-themed shopping cart. My 3-year-old son was thrilled to have his infant brother “driving” with him. I couldn’t resist snapping a photo and posting it immediately. Having two sons of his own, my friend commented, “2 boys! What a great idea!”
I thought of this comment last Monday night when I heard the painful news of the grand jury’s decision in the Michael Brown case, and later when I heard of the same conclusion in the Eric Garner case. Yes, it was a great idea to have boys. My husband and I love them more than anything. They’ve brought more joy into our lives than we could ever have imagined. But, I wondered, how different would our experience be if we were parents of black sons instead of white sons? How much more worry and heartache would we face knowing the cards were stacked against them from birth? What would it be like to have to figure out how and when to have the talk — the one about law enforcement, no second chances and the need to go above and beyond in every situation?
I wasn’t always aware of the vastly different realities for people of color living in this country. My conversion was slow. Not the Damascus Road type of experience where I was blind for three days and then instantly I could see. No, it was and continues to be a long, slow, sometimes painful process of listening and learning.
One of my earliest conversion experiences took place my first semester attending college in Chicago. I had befriended an African-American woman who lived down the hall. She was my only close African-American friend, and I thoroughly enjoyed her company. My roommate and I hung out with her often, and 13 years later I remember how her honesty and sarcasm made me laugh. I also remember how sad I was when learning she might not be able to return second semester because her family simply couldn’t afford private school tuition. I felt sad and angry. It wasn’t fair that though we both had hardworking parents, mine were able to afford four years of tuition and hers couldn’t cover the cost of one.
This experience heightened my sensitivity to the racial injustices all around me, and I began to realize that America was not the land of the free I once thought it was. I changed my major to sociology and started reading books like the Autobiography of Malcolm X. Over the years, I had conversations with patient and gracious friends of color who were willing to school me on what it felt like to grow up without the privileges I took for granted. Whether it was the experience of being followed around a store suspected of shoplifting or being accused of plagiarizing a term paper because of its excellent quality, my friends relayed hurtful experiences of discrimination I could barely comprehend given my white, middle-class, suburban upbringing.
Since my conversion began all those years ago, I have continued to hear stories almost too painful to bear (how many more unarmed black men need to be killed before something changes?!), but I have also been deeply moved by the resilience and grace of my brothers and sisters of color who haven’t let their anger or pain get in the way of their hoping and acting for a better day.
A few years ago, I participated in a mobile seminar that brought together Christians from different racial/ethnic backgrounds for a bus journey exploring issues of race in the Pacific Northwest. On the last night of the journey, the group conversation led to the topic of racial profiling. I will never forget how every one of the African-American participants with sons said that they had been pulled over by policemen for no apparent reason. For a few of them, their teenage sons had been experienced this form of racial profiling multiple times.
I felt sick to my stomach when I heard this and wondered why the people of color on our trip even bothered to stay in conversation with us white folks. How did they continue to act kindly and talk patiently with us after hearing our repeated confessions of blindness to the struggles they faced? When there was a lull in the conversation, I decided to ask that question.
I’ll never forget the response. An older African-American woman with dreads took a deep breath and said, “It isn’t easy. But I can do it because of my faith in Christ.” She proceeded to say that God loved her unconditionally and so she was called to love others unconditionally as well.
That was when I realized the power of the gospel. No other experience before or after has given me a stronger sense of the possibilities for redemption, even despite the unspeakable suffering.
In his recent blog post, “A Sad Night for America,” Jim Wallis reflects on how Ferguson has become a parable in America, for how black lives are less important in the ways our laws are enforced. In describing his hopes for peaceful actions moving forward, Jim references Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who once said: “a riot is the language of the unheard.”
If a riot is the language of the unheard, then it is our responsibility to listen, especially those of us who are white. The nationwide protests in response to Eric Garner and Michael Brown’s deaths suggest that there is a whole lot of anger, pain, and maybe even some hope begging to be heard.
I invite you to join me on my conversion journey of listening, learning, and acting. Listening is the first and most important step. For me, listening has been a powerful, eye-opening, and healing endeavor. It has taught me about the importance of laughter as a means of survival, the power of grace from unexpected sources and the possibility of hope even in the midst of the darkest circumstances.
My prayers are for the families of all affected by racial violence. May we learn to listen to and learn from one another, so that we may someday live in a world where all children are equal not only in the sight of God, but in the eyes of the law as well. Amen.
Christa Mazzone Palmberg has worked as an organizer for Sojourners in Washington, D.C., and Sound Alliance, a Puget Sound affiliate of the Industrial Areas Foundation. She received her M.Div. from Duke Divinity School in Durham, N.C., and is currently seeking ordination with the Evangelical Covenant Church. She currently lives in Seattle with her husband and two small boys.
Image: Krasimira Nevenova / Shutterstock.com
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