Anyone who knows me at all knows that I’m a moderate. I’ve yet to find a politician for whom I’m excited to vote, and I’m fairly confident that I frustrate my conservative and liberal friends alike with my extremely mixed views. I like nuance, dislike soundbites, and nearly always feel there are two sides to every story, both with truth in them. As such, I rarely enter the foray of politics on this blog or elsewhere in internet-land. I generally feel that the best discussions are not held in cyberspace, but in person, in relationship. This is still true. But I’ve come to realize that I live in a virtual age, and that the conversations I’d love to have don’t always come to fruition. More importantly, I’m moved to share some voices that are not always heard.
I want to start with a fact: I will never know with certainty exactly what happened in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014. Let me repeat: I will never know with certainty exactly what happened in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014. But regardless of what occurred that day, can we take a step back and look at the bigger picture? People are not reacting solely because of the lack of indictment of Officer Wilson. Yes, yes, that’s a part of it. But if we only focus on that, we’ve missed something vital. People are protesting because they see a pattern repeated over and over and over, not just in this generation, but over centuries. It may look different from slavery, than being considered part of a person when counting votes, than having different restaurants or drinking fountains or schools. People are mourning because interactions don’t reflect equal value. People are angry because their voices are belittled or dismissed.
I’m a white woman. I don’t pretend to understand an experience that is not my own. But what I do know, as a Christian, is that I am called to humility. I am called to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger. Can we quiet our hearts long enough to listen?
I started this blog post before Thanksgiving. I asked black friends if they’d be willing to write something for this blog. A few said they would. But in the meantime, I’ve read about Eric Garner. I sit here not even sure what to say. I’m sad. All I know is that my voice feels weak, but that maybe, just maybe, if all weak voices band together maybe we can be loud enough to help enact change. God, give us grace, courage, and your heart for justice and for the oppressed. May we reflect Your compassion.
As an introduction, here are a few Facebook posts from some black friends:
My head hurts. My heart hurts. Taking a FB break to get it together. Email, text or call if you need me.
If anyone is surprised this evening, you haven’t been paying attention.
Right about now I’d be penning an “Open Letter”, but I’m exhausted.
I’m allowed to be sad, I don’t care if he was wearing a hoodie and a mean mug. I don’t care what he did moments before his death. I’m allowed to be pissed off that he is gone. I’m allowed to be worried that my boyfriend doesn’t wear a hat when he drives to avoid the flashing lights, and that my dad avoids certain areas in his nice car because why would he be driving something that swaggy anyway?
I’m exhausted because my little cousins have so much more to fear if they choose to wear a hoodie one night over a button up and boat shoes.
Two years ago I was told I couldn’t be angry about Trayvon Martin and how dare I compare him to Emmett Till, but it’s still death by force and by fear.
I’m exhausted just wrapping my brain around it all.
*These are my friends. You are welcome to comment on this post, but only, and I repeat only, if you remain civil. Asking questions, wanting clarification, even disagreeing is fine, but remember that the whole point of this post is to pause and listen, so please consider that before you speak.*