I’ve been at it since well before 2015, with the help of some of you. And now the proof is here. In fact, I just finished reading it one last time (I hope) for corrections to be made before it goes to print. Just for evidence, here are a couple of photos of receiving it during the pandemic, and a quick cheat of a photo. without the mask.
How beautiful it would have been to see our nation draw together with courage, cooperation, and compassion to defeat this coronavirus enemy. How proud we could have been to make our contribution to life-saving world leadership.
With sadness and regret I awake too early in the morning to mourn our missed opportunity.
I received my MA in Psychology in 1952. It was an especially large class – 45 as I remember it – because the GI bill had made it possible for veterans to go on to advanced education. This, of course, was a clear opportunity to proceed to professional, better paying, positions.
Including me there were 45 white students. I don’t remember even noticing the pale color of the class. I know now that blacks (Negroes at that time) were in many ways excluded from the benefits other veterans received. I don’t feel guilty for not being aware. Guilt is not a productive emotion. I do, though, feel impelled to support anything that can be done in the present to bring to awareness that injustice still affecting blacks today. What a majorly unfair way to prevent them from building wealth for themselves and their family’s future!
Add to that red-lining and all the other methods used to prevent blacks from financial success — even destroying successful communities — and all I can say is, I’d be pretty darn pissed, and that’s putting it mildly, if that were part of my famiy’s history. And I should feel guilty if I don’t now learn all I can and advocate however I can for correction, reparations, and restitution.
Sometimes when I wake up during the night I go right back to sleep. More often, though, thoughts catch me and I can’t let go of the pain of compassion. (Feeling with.) It’s in the DNA. You’ll see when you read My Father’s House.
The other night I couldn’t help imagining being a man living free in my homeland – just living my life. And then being chased down and captured, bound, and delivered as cargo to a slave ship. There being shackled head to toe to make maximum space for a profitable cargo. Left to lie in my own and others bodily excretions, becoming thereby filthy black cargo. Living with my own pain and the moans of my fellow “cargo.”
I imagined being brought ashore in the states and hosed down for presentation to those who would buy me as a piece of cargo. Being totally re-defined by others willing to torture me into accepting my new less-than-human status. Struggling with the agony of losing the life I had and who I was. How could PTSD not become a part of my DNA to be transmitted to my offspring?
How could I not respond with fear, rage, running, resistance, fighting back? Is it at all surprising that George Floyd pleaded for understanding of his claustrophobia? that Treyvon Martin fought back when he was being followed? That Rayshard Brooks grabbed a weapon when he was about to be constrained?
But what do I know? I’m just an aged white lady imagining things in the middle of the night.
Once one becomes aware, there is so much to learn, so much like solving a word scramble. Hidden words where we thought there were none; words that have meaning we never before recognized; words that call for unscrambling our comfortable lives; words that go straight to the soul; words we sometimes don’t want to hear; words that produce moments of relief and hope; words spoken or written; words exchanged with a degree of courage; words that take us back to a past we didn’t take time to see; words that take us to a future to be longed for.
Where have we been finding words? Daily we exchange discoveries with each other. Together we are reading and discussing White Fragility” by Robin Diangelo, always with an eye to discovering ourselves. Next in the pipeline is How to Be an Antiracist by Tiffany Jewel and then Austin Channing Brown’s I’m Still Here. We are, however, more than a book club. None of this reading means anything if we don’t use it for insight into our own knowing or unknowing support of a racist system.
Reading isn’t all we do. Constantly on the lookout for relevant daily news and activities, we are almost inundated with things we send to each other — forwarded inspirations, news stories, and suggested links to important presentations.
Most recently is one you might like to share – a right-on! sermon by Pastor Aaron Werner titled “The Day I Learned I was a White American.” Try this link oihttps://mountcalvary.org/digital/#fireside Don’t worry, you don’t have to attend the whole service. Just fast forward to 4:11 (four minutes and eleven seconds.) Don’t wait, though, because it will be gone after this weekend to make way for another service.
Remember the soap opera “As the World Turns?” Well, this one was “As my stomach turns.”
Those who know me are aware that I turn my brain off at 9:00 p.m. in the evening to turn on the idiot box, and maybe even watch it and do a crossword puzzle or something at the same time. I like hospital shows, but there’s not enough of them. And I like detective shows. But last evening I started watching one and felt my stomach turn as I yelled at the TV, “Shut up. I can’t take one more show where the bad guys are all black” and changed the channel. Hey, entertainment industry, isn’t it time for a change?!
And the truth is, those guys—the real ones – are hard working actors earning a living.
Get on the stick, theater industry. Change the story,
And by the way, why is the family on “Blue Bloods” always drinking? Oh, but stick to the topic, Mona. That’s another question. Just sayin’
Recently in a Zoom poetry class at the Waters of Excelsior the instructor, Sheila Augustine. asked us to create a work using the technique called model poetry. Basically it’s a series of questions. The class suggested I should submit mine to the Star Tribune but I discovered their word count limit is 250. The following comes in at a count of 279. So, instead of the Star Tribune I decided to publish it here. Enjoy, I hope!
WHAT WOULD THE WORLD BE LIKE IF EVERYONE FOLLOWED THE GOLDEN RULE?
Should everyone give everyone the things they want themselves?
Would everyone be thrilled, as I was, to be given a nice scotch tape holder when the other women received perfume?
Would everyone be thoroughly happy as I was to receive a packet of TuLpens for mother’s day?
Should everyone be happy to be appreciated as I was for being their own unique selves?
Doesn’t the golden rule really ask us to respect the essence and value of everyone?
And if we did?
Would everyone expect the sun to rise in the morning over a peaceful world like what they had fallen asleep in the night before?
Would everyone’s bed be free of rats and vermin?
Would everyone expect enough healthy food every day so they could focus on growing their essence and joy?
Could all children count on the constant, loving care of someone who appreciates and encourages their uniqueness?
Could all children go to a school as clean, stable, and fun as the one in the next town over? With teachers who exult in their successes?
Would house sales and mortgages be based on standard financial rules?
Would all gifts grow out of caring knowledge of the receiver, not TV commercials?
Would everyone feel others fear as their own and do something about it?
Would everyone feel others joy as their own and rejoice in it?
Would “African-American” or “Mexican-American” or “Asian-American” or Native-American” be received with as much respect as “Swedish-American” or “Norwegian-American” or ”Irish-American or Italian-American?”
Would I sleep better and live a longer healthier life if everyone followed the golden rule of respect?
Would you?
It seems to me there is a simple test of whether one of us white folks recognizes the truth of systemic racism. Have you ever said to yourself “Thank goodness I was born white?”
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