Two Black Kids: A Unitarian Universalist Story By Kenny Wiley Delivered February, 2013 at The First Parish in Cambridge, MA

Transcription

1 Two Black Kids: A Unitarian Universalist Story By Kenny Wiley Delivered February, 2013 at The First Parish in Cambridge, MA Unitarian Universalism is a story. It is the story of Emerson, of our principles, of religious education--but beyond that, Unitarian Universalism is the story of identity, of race, of Standing on the Side of Love, of discovery. It s your story, and it s mine. My UU story is a tale of race, identity, and self-loathing. It begins with a chat with my mom nearly a decade ago. Kenneth Wiley, we need to talk. I looked up and saw that rare-but-familiar determined gleam in my mother s eye. She usually had a sunny disposition, so this couldn t be good. Kenneth. Why are you not friends with Raziq Brown? His dad s a great man, you know. This AGAIN? Really, mom? We re just not friends, okay? We don t have anything in common. Nonsense. You re both educated black teenagers with--if I say so myself-- brilliant black parents. Next time we drive up to Dallas/Fort Worth, give him a call. Yeah, I said, maybe when the Saints win the Super Bowl.

2 This conversation happened in the summer of 2003, but it also happened in winter 2003, spring 2004, and so on. Every so often, my mom would needle me about Raziq George Brown. The other black guy. The UU community in the Southwest is close-knit. Why? There aren t that many of us. It s not like here, where I can get lost running and end up at the Unitarian church in Arlington. My family was always very involved, and there were never more than a handful of black folks at anything we went to. One of them was always Raziq. The last time I went back to Houston, I was going through pictures of the 1996 SWUUSI summer camp and sure enough, there he was, in the background on a photo of my mom and I, tongue stuck out, doing what youngsters these days call photobombing. As we came to our teenage years, Raziq and I were determined not to be friends. I loved the Southwest UU community. I despised Raziq Brown. Not really, of course. Who I hated was myself. It hurts to say this now, but I hated being black. I wanted out. In junior high school, I was an equal

3 opportunity verbal punching bag. Kids of all races, weirded out by the fact that I looked black but sounded white, made fun of me often. As I moved into high school, I dealt with race by being the exception. I was different. I was special. I was the nice, nonthreatening black guy. I was the Allstate guy. I put up with offensive comments from some white friends, because to challenge them meant risking losing them. Raziq messed that up. His presence at church rallies meant I couldn t hide. He never made any race-related comments to me, but he didn t have to, and it turned out he was going through much the same thing he was always black, like me, and he was always there. Seeing him made me admit to myself a terrible truth: I wanted out of this burden. I just knew I was going to get made fun of by other young black folks. I was most scared of being called a sellout. I was afraid of what my white friends would think if I had too many black friends. I feared that, if Raziq and I became friends, my white UU friends would suddenly notice that I was black.

4 But as I got older I realized that, despite my best efforts, the secret was out. I became aware that, even though I had grown up in this faith, I was having a different experience from my white peers which is not to suggest that all white folks have the same experience. It seemed that people couldn t really understand why things were hard about the small jokes people made, that people seemed to quote Dave Chappelle s Show lines to me a little too often, that I got called defensive whenever I started to question the racial makeup of our religion, or my mostly white high school or really, when I brought race up at all. I started to feel alone. Apparently, I wasn t. After years of avoiding each other and of painfully awkward small talk, Raziq and I finally broke the ice. After a youth rally in Forth Worth, TX in 2007, we all went to IHOP before heading home. It was our final UU youth rally. For some reason maybe it was that we were 18 instead of 15, or because our parents had pestered us for several years--as we all waited to be seated, Raziq and I actually stopped to talk. So why don t we ever hang? Raziq said.

5 I didn t think we should try to be friends just because we re both black. I thought the same thing. That seems like a pretty dumb reason to avoid each other, though, I said. That s what my Dad keeps telling me, Raziq replied. We ve been close friends ever since. This, friends, is a Unitarian Universalist story. My friendship with Raziq Brown has been so vital. He just gets it, and gets me we share a common experience. Is it just because we re black? Of course not. But we have a shared experience: we ve been two black males navigating mostly white churches and schools, sports teams and dating scenes. It s nice to talk with someone who shares your faith, your race, and your hopes. At First Parish, as with many UU churches across the country, there is something happening. There is a real push towards a more multicultural and multigenerational faith. That conversation is also happening in larger contexts. We need sermons and conversations about why it matters whether we have multicultural community--in our churches, in our schools, in our lives. We need to learn about privilege, and various forms of oppression.

6 We are doing that, and we need to do more. That s not why I m here this morning. Well, not quite. I m here to tell my Unitarian Universalist story and because I want to know yours, too. Part of why I ve phrased it this way is because I speak for myself, not black folks everywhere. I feel bad for black cable TV commentators who get called in to answer some variation of this question: Sheila, how do black people feel about oh, for example--hillary Clinton? I mean, what s she supposed to say? Oh, sorry, Brian, we didn t get to her on our weekly conference call, but she s on next week s agenda. However, I will say this: some people of color in UU churches, whatever our age, often battle a sense of double isolation : on the one hand, we recognize that we re somehow different from the white folks in our churches, despite our theological similarities. But as I ve outlined, we may feel cut-off from our racial identity group. Going to a mostly white church, a non-christian church, has, in the past, left me feeling out in the cold by some of my black peers. Being told, you re not really black, from folks black, white and other it adds up. It s like being told, You don t really count.

7 This is where Unitarian Universalism comes in, friends. Because I do count. Everybody counts. I bring this sense of double isolation because I believe that Unitarian Universalism can do something about it. And I don t just mean people of color identity or support groups, though that needs to be a part of it. I mean everybody. Opening the door wider means listening to whoever comes in. Friends, much is at stake here. This move towards a multicultural community can t just be about us. People are seeking our message that everyone has inherent worth and dignity. Not all of those people are white. Not all of those people are middle aged. Not all of those people listen to NPR, great as it is. People from all walks of life folks who have been hurt, been left behind, some are looking for a faith that says, You re not saved only if you do this, or believe that, or change this about yourself but you are of the Divine, and so you are loved beyond belief. My Unitarian Universalist story is about me, Raziq Brown, and overcoming that self-loathing. We all have our own stories, UU or not. Maybe your story is that your family wouldn t or won t fully accept your gender identity or your romantic partner. Maybe you ve been wounded by your religious upbringing. Maybe yours is a tale of grief, or abuse, or loneliness. Maybe your story is that

8 things are great, but you ve found a way to be an ally or want to be one. My Unitarian Universalist story, ever changing, took a drastic turn one warm night last summer. This past July, as I ran down Harvard Street near the yard, my faith was tested. If you had a Boston Globe subscription last summer or, really, an Internet connection you may know where this is going. As I ran to catch a bus that night, I passed a group of strangers just a bit younger than me. As I ran by, one of the guys, a white guy, yelled out, Bro, you running from the cops or something? A woman added, What d you steal this time? I briefly confronted them, and told them that their words were wrong. They told me to lighten up and learn to take a joke; I realized they weren t going to get my point. Filled with anger and humiliation, I went on. The incident was well documented. I wrote a Facebook note about it that was shared over 600 times; the Boston Globe version was shared over 5,000 times. My words can be found online, or on the church bulletin board in the hallway. Something I didn t mention in the piece, or very often since, is what happened between that night and when I sat down to write 36 hours later.

9 Frustrated and dejected, I texted a few close friends telling them what happened. Raziq called me almost right away. Whoa, man. Pause. Talk to me, he said. He listened and then, when I paused, he said, Yeah. Makes you feel just tired, right? And he was right. I felt tired. People of color, like women and LGBTQ folks and others, often feel tired tired of defending ourselves, tired of discrimination that comes out of nowhere, tired of trying to convince people that privilege and discrimination are real that, as Kanye West says, that racism still alive, they just be concealing it. We re tired of comments at the end of articles and underneath youtube videos. We re tired of agonizing over whether to post something online and watching our privileged friends not understand. We are, all of us, tired. And that July night, I was about as tired as I ve ever been. Raziq asked me if I was going to write anything about it. I told him no. And then I got two phone calls from two other Unitarian Universalists that changed my mind.

10 My close friends Bryce and Anna, who also got my lengthy text about the incident, called me up back-to-back. Anna is white, and Bryce is half-white, half-filipino. Both are trained in antioppression work, and sought to support--and that night, that made all the difference. My three Unitarian Universalist friends and later, many others they got it. You got it. Through them, I got a little hope. Through them, I got a little energy. I decided to speak up, to say something. I needed my faith that night, and I needed my religious community. That s what we re really talking about building a faith where people can heal and be healed, love and be loved, learn and teach, grow and feed others. We have the framework in our Unitarian Universalist principles, in our covenant, in our mission, in one another it s all there for the taking. It s all here for the taking. My friends and I different music might pump us up, or we might want to worship in different ways. Bryce listens to Jim Croce and the Mamas and the Papas. I didn t even know who they were until we went on a road trip in college. Anna gets down to Van Morrison and Tracy Chapman. I jam to Stevie Wonder. Wow, all that makes us sound 52, not 25. Anyway. Raziq can t get enough Mos Def. But we are, all of us, Unitarian Universalists, and figuring out a way to worship together to widen the net it

11 matters. That night in July, as strangers tested me, my faith saved me. My Unitarian Universalist belief that every person has worth and dignity, even if they re saying racist things, saved me. Not only that, my faith community saved me. Through them, I got a little energy. And now, I have a little energy. When it comes to being an ally for others after all, I do have a LOT of privilege I ve got a little energy. I think we ve all got a little energy to help our fellow human beings. When it comes to gender discrimination, I ve got some energy. When it comes to marriage equality, I ve got some energy. When it comes to LGBT rights, I ve got some energy! When it comes to immigration justice, I ve got some energy! When it comes to ableism, I ve got some energy! When it comes to ageism, I ve got some energy. Standing on the side of love, I ve got some energy. When it comes to peace, I ve got some energy. And when it comes to you to us I ve got some energy. I know I m not alone. The stakes are high, First Parish. We must tell our stories. We must listen to others. With listening comes understanding, and with understanding comes help and hope. The poet Mary Oliver

12 wrote, Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Let s do that, and then some. Tell me about hope, yours, and I will tell you mine. Tell me about love, yours, and I will tell you mine. Tell me about faith, yours, and I will tell you mine. We ve got some energy. Let s tell our story. Amen, and blessed be.