Being Colorblind

I used to say it. I used to think it. I never EVER ONCE, in all my growing-up years and even into adulthood, considered that I might be part of a mindset that unknowingly promotes racism. But I was. And I said it, and thought it.

What did I say? I said that I was colorblind. I said that I didn't see color.

But of course I did. I'd have to be blind not to see color. And what I thought and said about NOT seeing it only further alienated me from the very people I thought I was allying myself with. Because guess what... THEY see it. They see it when they get up in the morning and look at themselves in the mirror. They see it when they try to wait for a bus, reflected in the eyes of those who notice them standing there. They see it when they are outside taking a walk and decide to stand in a building's overhang and wait for a friend to come out.

And for me to say that I don't see color ... discounts and dismisses their experience of the world. It makes them invisible, and let's face it - everyone wants to be seen, to be acknowledged for their existence. The color of their skin is just as much a part of them as having fingers and toes. And their skin color dictates how the world treats them, what kinds of choices they make about everyday things, how they feel about their society, and how they interact with people who are outside of their circle. It is like an insult to them when I say I don't see color.

Photo courtesy of
Alec White at Pixabay

I have learned instead to say, "I see you." I have learned to say, "Teach me about your experience of your culture." I have learned to honestly ask people what it is like to BE them. I have learned to honor the existence and the history of those who are different from me, and to be curious about it, and to celebrate what is different and unique about each individual. I have learned not to assume that just because a person has a particular skin color, that all people who have that skin color feel this or that way, or think this or that way, or act this or that way. They don't. They don't in the same way that not all white people have similar beliefs or lifestyles or political leanings. It does a disservice to everyone to pigeon-hole people based on anything they might hold in common.

While it is true that we all bleed red, that we are all the same underneath, that every life matters, the reality of our society is that people of color are treated and viewed by so many in society as less-than. The reality is that racism is rampant and it runs amok in our world. The fact of the matter is that white people, like myself, have a societal privilege in our western culture that people of color do not. And it is for this reason that I join with thousands and millions of others in saying, "Black Lives Matter."  I don't say "All Lives Matter" because that silences those whose lives don't matter in today's society.

I saw an illustration of equality versus equity a few years ago that has stuck with me. It is a three-part cartoon depicting three people: a tall person, an average-sized person, and a little person, who are trying to watch a ball game from behind a five-foot wall. In the first illustration, the tall person can easily see over the wall. The average person can see but just barely. And the little person cannot see at all. Then there were two illustrations under that one. The one on the left put an equal-sized box under each person. In this illustration, the little person could just barely see over the fence, and the taller ones had an even better view from equally higher-up. This one was labelled "Equality." On the right, in the illustration labelled "Equity," the tall person who did not need a box, was not given one. The average-sized person was given a box tall enough so that he could reach the same height as the tall person, and the little person was also given an even taller box so he could enjoy the game from the same height of the tall person. In this way, each of them could enjoy the game to the same degree.

This is a wonderful illustration of why I believe that those in the dominant culture do not need to be stroked and given special consideration. They already have the privilege of seeing the world without assistance. Those who need help and recognition should get it to the degree that they have been disadvantaged. And the history of white culture has many, many examples of the oppression of other races, especially black people (and yes, this is documented!) throughout the history of our interactions with other people who don't look like us.

From the time I was a little girl of ten years old, when I met a black man for the first time, I have been intrigued by people of color. But what I didn't know then, and what I still didn't know even as recently as ten years ago, was how difficult it was (and is) for those who are not white. We don't even think about the same things as people of color when we think of everyday activities that most of us take for granted. Going for a walk in a quiet neighborhood after dark ... going into a store in broad daylight ... walking the dog ... driving a car with tinted windows ... paying for an item by check ... waiting in the park for a friend ... all of these things we take for granted and never once think that we might not make it home alive. But people of color, and especially black people, do. Every. Day.

If recent events have not highlighted these facts for you, then it might be time to honestly investigate how best to honor people who are targets of racism in your city, in your province or state, in your country. Look for stories told by the actual people themselves, and not by white people telling their story for them.

Listen. And say it with me. Black Lives Matter.

#BLM #ISeeYou

Never again

“Evil begins when you begin to treat people as things.”

– Terry Pratchett

When we think of the atrocities of WWII - the concentration camps, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the internment camps where Japanese North Americans were imprisoned - two words come to mind: NEVER AGAIN. I was reading yesterday of an atrocity that spanned several decades in our own country, in the words of those who had survived it: the First Nations people. In the residential school system, generations of First Nations children were ripped from their parents (some of them without the parents' knowledge or consent, some at the threat of their parents going to jail) and treated shamefully, in an effort to assimilate them ... to make them into white people.

What if some military or political power were to give police the authority to come into your home, take you and the things you hold dear from it, and give you to prison wardens who stripped you down, called you filthy, washed your hair with kerosene, shaved your head, took your clothes and gave you ill-fitting shoes, burned all of your sports equipment, took your phone, your musical instruments, your credit cards, your jewelry, everything that distinguished you as a person, gave you a number and called you by nothing but that number, fed you substandard food and made you eat it, and beat you if you spoke your mother tongue? What if this went on for years before you were allowed to return to your family? The equivalent of that is only the beginning of what happened to these wonderful, peaceful people.

Reading the accounts of what happened in the victims' own words powerfully reminded me of reading Viktor Frankl's book, Man's Search for Meaning (you can look it up and read it free online) where he described what he went through in the Nazi death camps upon arrival, and then on a daily basis.  He spoke for millions who could not, whose voices were silenced.  He helped to expose the atrocities motivated by fear and hatred.

Isn't that what racism is: fear and hatred gone wild?  That it happened here ... that the spirits of those children were sucked out of them - their way of life and even their own language called demonic - this is Canada's shame. 

I'm sorry, folks, but an official apology from the government, nearly a hundred years after the fact, just does not make up for the thousands of lives, families and communities that were destroyed, the very fabric of their way of life (family, connection with nature, traditions) unraveled.  It does not give the stolen spirits of those people back to them.  It does not restore their lost heritage, nor the way of life they were brainwashed into rejecting. 

 

Photo "Dreamcatcher" courtesy
of Serge Bertasius Photography at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The nightmare isn't over for First Nations people just because some white man in a three-piece suit said, "Sorry." The way we silence the monsters is to let people know how horrific those attitudes are: the ones that led to daily spiritual and cultural atrocities. The attitude that "white makes right." The attitude that "Christian values are the only ones worth espousing" and "these people are savages."  And oh, my favourite (not): "It's for their own good." It was wrong. It was wrong then and it's still wrong now.

There, I've said it.  I'm a white, Christian, "civilized" (whatever that means) person and I KNOW that what happened was wrong.  I KNOW that every day for multiple generations, there are adults who wake in cold sweats from nightmares about "that place." There are grown men who question every move they make: am I allowed to sit here, am I allowed to go to that place, am I allowed to talk to this person?

Knowledge is power.  I freely admit that I was ignorant.  I didn't know that I didn't know.  And although it was painful, I had to educate myself.  I went to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada website and I started reading one of the many documents available there  (link).  I confess that I was only able to get through half of it - it was very emotional for me.  The language is easy enough to understand, but the stories themselves - first of how life used to be, and then of how life changed forever - broke my heart. 

Perhaps the reason that some Canadians have a hard time with immigrants coming into our country is because our own ancestors carried out the very thing that they fear the newcomers will do: destroy our way of life, take over our land and make us into second-class citizens.  The difference is that we whites hold a position of privilege ... and we therefore have a responsibility to use our power for good.  Not evil.

Never again.

Plugged in and turned off. Or on.

My daughter's iPhone 4S took a hissy fit yesterday after almost three years of faithful service. The decline happened slowly. It kept less and less of a charge over time. Finally, she had to recharge it four times a day (or keep it plugged in), and there were other difficulties that made it kind of 'high maintenance' for her. But she loved her iPhone so much that when Apple went to a more bells-and-whistles and a less reliable-and-dependable iPhone a couple of years ago, she refused to upgrade. 

"It's my baby," she said. She didn't even upgrade the operating system on it. (I envied her after I made my software upgrade - but there was no going back; the deed was done). 

So she took it in to the dealer to avail herself of the extended warranty. After two to three hours of frustrating back-and-forth, the answer came in. Water damage from humidity (last time she dropped it, it was into a snowbank and was 2 years ago, and she got it out right away and dried it off before water could enter). Water damage. One of only two things the warranty didn't cover. 

Ouch. 

But - she needed a phone - and since Steve Jobs passed away, it appears that Apple hasn't come up with anything that even remotely compares to the 4 and 4S. So-o, she switched to a different (Android-type) phone. Some things she likes better, and she knows that she will eventually like this phone as much as the other one; others, she sits and pouts and says, "I miss my baby." 

I get that. 

But I also get when it is time to say goodbye. In electronics and with people.

When the other party needs constant recharging, constant checking, constant stroking, constant reassurances that things are okay - and punishes you when put on "standby" even for a short time ... perhaps it's not all that healthy. It's plugged in all the time - but that means you're tied down. And turned off. When only ONE person is being "fed" in a relationship, it's time to seriously take stock.

Not that relationships are anything like cell phones ... are they? Okay, SOME similarities. 

It's difficult. It's hard to let go of something that - for a while - has brought you some happiness. Even if that happiness was mixed with pain. When there is a growing sense of obligation rather than appreciation, it's time to re-evaluate. When you're constantly feeling "less than" (in other words, less important than) the other person - how is that healthy? 

Image "Low Battery" provided by
David Castillo Dominici at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Perhaps it's time to recharge your OWN battery. Perhaps that caring for that other person has kept you running on empty and it's time to take some time for yourself. You can't give away what you don't have; replenish the reserves. Getting your identity and strength from another human (who has limitations just like you) drains you in ways that you may not realize. Finding out who you are and feeding that person inside (getting plugged in and turned on) will go a long way toward figuring out where that other person fits into your life. If at all. 

Unplugging the other person from your battery might seem cruel, selfish, and un-giving - but until he or she finds out how to self-charge, that draining will keep on happening (if not with you then with the next person who pays attention). Plugging into your own energy resources will feel awkward at first - it always does - but you are the only you that you have, and it's important to look after you.

It's amazing how freeing that is. It might not feel like it at first, but there is an energy build-up that slowly makes itself known - and upon which you can rely.

I know because I've lived that. I've had to remove people from my life who were sapping me of strength. Sometimes I miss those people - but I don't miss the feeling of being constantly given the message "Low Battery." 

Food for thought, at the very least.

On Hold

"Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line and your call will be answered by the next available agent."

It's no secret that I hate waiting. In a sense, I guess that's why I think I do so much of it: the cosmos appears to try to neutralize negative pressure. ;)

In other words, "Get used to it."

The theme in the last couple of months for me has been to get used to waiting. I freely admit that this theme has been met with a lot of kicking and screaming. Waiting to get my old computer fixed. (and waiting). Waiting to see an answer to prayer for a friend. (As usual, God let us wait until the last possible moment before charging in and working a miracle!) 

I've even hated waiting for a diagnosis for our eldest whom we strongly suspect has torn at least one ligament in her knee and severely sprained her patellar tendon. Waiting for that appointment with the specialist, even though it was far sooner than we thought, has seemed interminable as I have watched her take with grace and aplomb the events of the last few days. 

Her attitude has been amazing. Mine? Not so much.

I know that in my relationship with God, if there is some lesson He wants to teach that I'm either just not getting or am unwilling to learn, He finds a way to get me to listen. Usually it's through circumstances that force me to do the thing He wants to teach me to do. When that doesn't work, there is that last resort ... sickness.

So you guessed it - I'm sick. It's "only a cold," but by the Mister Man, those little critters can sure pack a wallop! 

It started yesterday afternoon at work. I couldn't concentrate, and I caught myself "zoning out." Last night, it hit. I felt awful.

Suddenly, all around me, people are making ordinary plans, doing regular things, going on about their lives - and I can't join in. I'm too weak, my throat is too sore, and my body is too tired to do much more than sit at the computer and lurk on Facebook, bolstered by Advil, DayQuil, Vitamin C and coffee to stave off the drowsiness. Even then, I find myself drifting off to sleep.

A nap. A nap might really help. 

Life slows down to a snail's pace. And I spend a lot of time ... waiting. 

Waiting for others to finish doing what they're doing. Waiting for the medicines to kick in. Waiting for my body to fight the virus. Waiting for my throat to be well enough to eat the yummy - yet scratchy - foods that everyone is eating all around me: pizza, for example. 

Normal living - well, as "normal" as it gets for me - is "on hold." My definitions of what's important, what's essential, are being rewritten. Again. 

Okay God. I'm listening. This is me ... waiting.

Tears are a language

The double-standard is shocking.

Women feel overcome with emotion - and nobody thinks twice about them shedding tears.

But let a man do it and eyebrows raise. Some of the most insensitive, thoughtless comments have come out of people who saw a man cry in a situation in which it was entirely appropriate for him to do so.

"Straighten up."
"Be a man."
"Get a hold of yourself."

Personally I believe that (just as a woman is never more feminine than when she cries real tears) a man is never more masculine than when he dares brave the social norms of today's western culture and shows his emotions. He's demonstrating to those around him that he is comfortable enough in his own skin to be honest about how he feels inside of it.

I'm not talking about crocodile tears here. I'm talking about real, gut-wrenching emotion.

It's a powerful thing. Emotion is not wrong. In fact, it can be the most right thing in the world: a catalyst for change, even. Think how many people were moved with compassion when the earthquake hit Haïti in January 2010.

Emotions were designed to be transient, temporary states of mind. The feelings of fear and anger are warning flags that something is wrong - and expressing emotion (whether in joy, sadness, anger, pain, or fear) relieves stress and helps our bodies achieve equilibrium. They signal to us what things are the most important to us. They connect us with our dreams, with our passions, with our callings. They tell us when a boundary has been crossed - or if a wrong needs to be righted. They keep us stable - as long as they are allowed to touch us as they pass through our spirits.

Since God created us in His image - all of us - and He feels things deeply, it only stands to reason that we would do so as well. It is healthy and good to experience emotion and be able to express that.

It's what we do with our own emotions that can enrich or stifle our lives. Stuffing emotional pain down inside of us and not letting it out - or holding onto it long-term without dealing with why - only builds up internal pressure and leads to physical sickness: high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, kidney problems and so forth.

If those strong emotions are directed at God - and let's admit it: sometimes we get mad at Him - He can take it if we want to vent at Him. "He's got broad shoulders," my mom used to say of certain people when I was growing up. I think that applies to God too. He "desires truth in the innermost parts." And He loves us through all of it.

If the emotions are directed at someone else - that's okay too. We can take them to God and tell Him the truth - "Hey God, I can't deal with that $U^%$^ person who hurt me (or who hurt someone I love) - I want to forgive him/her because I want to do what You've asked me to do - but I can't. This is what he/she did ..." and then pour it all out, cry, scream, rant, rave - whatever it takes. He'll hold us in His arms and let us do all of that, and still love us. That's actually the beginning of the healing process, the first step toward forgiveness.

But until we are honest with Him and with ourselves, healing can never start to take place. The tears we shed are precious to Him - they speak volumes heavenward like spoken words could never do - and God understands that language.