"Bridges Go Both Ways" Rev. Dr. Kristen Harper I was five years old when I learned I wasn't white. I was in Kindergarten. It was fall in Massachusetts and the leaves had begun to turn. I was wearing a red, green and black, plaid polyflinders dress and playing with a friend in the Sandbox. A little boy a couple of grades ahead of me called me "a little nibbard," at least that is what I thought he said. I ran home crying and told my mom that I had been called a bad name. I didn't know why it was bad. What I remember most was that my older sister Rachel, the only other black person in my family, who was eight at the time, kicked the boy. I began to cry because she was so angry. She grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the sand box and we ran home. At five I didn't understand the history or even the psychology behind the word and yet from that moment on I knew I was different, some how unlike everyone else, excluded. In Learning to be White: Money, Race, and God in America, Unitarian Universalist professor and theologian Thandeka shares this story, "When Jack was five, his parents gave him a birthday party and invited his relatives with their children. He remembers going to the gate of his backyard and calling his friends over to join them. His friends, black, entered the yard. Jack became aware of how uncomfortable his parents were with the presence of his friends among them. He knew he had somehow done something wrong and was sorry." Jack did not know what he had done that was bad but he didn't want to make his parents mad to be excluded from their love. Bridges go both ways. So often when we speak about racism or race relations it is as if only one person, only one group is hurt, one group responsible, only one way to solve it. I begin my doctoral dissertation "Being Black in America is not easy...," and yet I know that being White in America is not all joy and light. The amalgamation of cultures and traditions in this country is often negated by the lumping of everyone into the white box. As a college student I watched in sympathy as my classmates, young white men and women fought to find a piece of culture for themselves. They would buy African, Asian, Native and Latino/Latina clothes, books, and music and show them off to proclaim their OK-ness, their coolness. And, we Unitarian Universalists of color call this cultural appropriation, or Lost Soul Syndrome. They called it a search to find a place to belong, a space of individuality. "White Americans" are responsible for purchasing 75% of black music. As much as past centuries honored milky white skin un touched by the sun, many in my generation and others before have spent hours in the sun trying to burn the color they were not born with in order to be more beautiful. And although the Black Power movement in the 70's chastised black women for processing their hair, claiming we were trying to be white, I have seen many white young people dred, cornrow, and perm their hair perhaps they're trying to be Black.
I have seen many of our teenagers talk and walk and imitate black rappers and musicians, basketball players and other athletes. They seem not to want to be who they are, who they feel they have to be White. They have lost their Scottish, English, Irish, Ukrainian cultures in order to fit in, to become American. These young people know that it isn't only the black living in the projects. They know that it isn't only the latinos who suffer from poverty and poor education. They know that Native Americans aren't the only ones who feel displaced. What does being identified as white do for their soul, for their dreams of happiness and friendship. Bridges of Pain go both ways. Daytona Beach Police Chaplain Larry Edwards tells a story about going to a woman's home whose son had been killed. He and another officer went up to the door of her house and she refused to let him in. She told Reverend Edwards that the other officer, the white officer, could come in but he had to wait outside. Rev. Edwards refused. He told her that he was there to tell her that her son had died. At first she didn't want to believe him. And she looked to the other office for confirmation. When it finally hit her Chaplain Edwards put his arms around her to keep her from falling and to hold her. He says that at first she struggled and then collapsed crying. Over the years he would stop in to visit her and see how she was doing. She explained one day that she had been mugged by some black men and were afraid of them. That it took his persistence to do his job, to be there for her, to comfort her for her to let go of some of her fear. One day after church this winter I was driving west on Granada Blvdin Ormond Beach, FL to visit Wanda Cassidy, a member of the congregation I serve. A truck with a confederate flag and four young men was driving east bound. As the light turned green the truck, that appeared to be turning in front of me changed directions and headed towards me. The driver honked and when I looked up he gave me the finger and the group of them yelled ethnic slurs at me. I sat for a long time at that light and for the first time in my life I was terrified. When I got to Wanda's home I sat for a little while still feeling that terror and when it was apparent to me I could not be present I told her what had happened. We talked, I don't really remember what was said, she just listened mostly and after a while the terror left and we were able to move on to why I was really there. The bridge of fear goes both ways. As does the bridge of healing. Although I have been a Unitarian Universalist (UU) all my life, I have only been involved on a national level for about seven years. I watched as we as an association have struggled with how to define and redefine the race issue. It seems as if every year we push ourselves harder and harder to understand the ultimate causes of racism and to discover solutions to those causes. In spite of my own experiences, many very painful, with the racism in this association and in our churches I wonder about the spiritual damage this push has caused. It is not that I am not angry. I am angry that I am called a Nigger when I am taking a walk down the street or driving in my car. I am more angry that I care. I am angry that people of color are used and abused by the media, by political parties, by some in the white community. And I am angry that some white people seem not to believe or notice or care enough to try to change that. I am also afraid. Afraid of white people's anger
towards me and what some have done and tried to do. I am afraid that by being honest I might change how people in my congregation see me. I am afraid of losing my ability to minister with them. But I have listened to white people in the congregations I have served, in those with which I have worshipped. I have listened in ministers groups, and in seminary. You too are angry. Angry that we are still dealing with the race question, angry that you feel forced to address an issue over and over again that seems never ending; angry that you are blamed for a system you did not create and oppression you did not participate in; and angry that you are told that something in your childhood made you white. And you too are afriad: afraid to say the wrong thing, afraid to be called a racist, afraid to be honest and perhaps lose the community of faith you hold dear. Bridges alyways go both ways. I do not deny the steps we have already made to be a welcoming place, a religious comunity where people irregardless of who they are, can feel welcome. I do not wish to belittle the work that has been done to raise people's awareness of the racism within society and within our churches. As one of the few people of color serving a predominately white congregation I know the reality is that few churches in the world, few association with predominately white members have called a minister of color to serve them. This may not seem like much, but as The Rev. Dr. Mark Morrison-Reed, As Rev. Abhi Janamanchi, Rev. Dr. Diann Arakawa, as I can tell you the fact that our members choose not only to return most weeks to listen to what we might say and they call us to be with them, to talk with them, to help them, that they ask for our advice and sometimes listen, this alone is unique. The fact that our members expect that we will speak to the issues of their lives, that we can speak to the issues of their lives, is overwhelming, certainly a moment of grace. And I know that the social justice piece that is for some of you a part of your spirituality impels you to want to fix the problem of racism in our society. And I know that many of you want to plan an action, make a change, go out and make thing right again. I know many people are tired of the talk, want results, now I do too. I am not saying do not challenge your legislators on issues of justice. I am not saying don't push to get equal educational opportunities, equal economic opportunities for all. I'm not encouraging that we as an Association should not continue to try to address the issues of race relations, racial identity, and cultural bias. What ever we decide to do as a course of faith, I will try my best to support that. What I am saying is I do not believe that racism will end in my lifetime or even this go round of the Universe. I say this because it is a part of our nature to divide people, it is part of our society to have those who have and those who do not. It is part of who we are to find escape goats, to be comfortable with those who look like, and live as we do. In Croatia it is religion, in Afghanistan it is sex, in Ruwanda it is ethnicity. Because in the United States skin color is the most obvious characteristic by which to separate until we are all the exact same color, or we find different ways of relating with one another racism will always be a part of who we are. Perhaps interracial procreation is what we need to be pushing.
But we can still build bridges and I believe that we must build the bridge of relationships first. That the bridge that must go both ways is one of friendship and trust. You must know that I am going to stick around even if you say something I think is racist. You must know that I will be there when you're sick or hurting or confused even if we talk about race. You must know that even if we fall short of our promise, I will not walk out. And I must know, that even if I am angry. Even if I am hurt. Even if you don't understand or we don't agree, that you will still trust me to be there and that you will still listen to my guidance and respect me as a minister, as a fellow journeyer in faith. There must be people who are willing to remain at the table, share their stories, but more importantly share their friendship. During a recent Black and White Dialogue held in our church, we were asked to talk about racial incidents that happened, what did we do, and whether we thought we should confront them or back off. I said that for me, I had been taught to confront head on injustice. But over the years I have realized that saying something to the person who calls me an ethnic slur, or who follows me around in a store because they think I might steal, who makes assumptions about who I am or how I feel because of my color or who roles up their window because they are afraid I will car jack them saying something to these people is often futile. Although silence is a form of collusion, sometimes walking away, staring, turning you back can be a form of protest or at least protection. I do not believe that there can be a bridge built between strangers. The power in the story about Joe and his neighbor is that they were friends. They had a relationship built over decades. They knew one another, had raised children together, had probably comforted one another when their spouses died. Like Wanda Cassidy and I who had already begun to build a relationship and share with one another our lives of joy, challenge and pain, Joe and his best friend were committed to one another and that bond was stronger than this calf that could divide them. My father-in-law, Jim, has been best friends with a white man, Bob, for over sixty-years. Jim and Bob grew up in Culver Indiana, where they now both live again. As youth they often hunted and fished together and Jim, who is a morning person, would arrive at the crack of dawn to get Bob up. Bob however is not a morning person and at times would want to sleep just a little while longer. So Jim would jump into bed with him and go to sleep. This is friendship. This is a friendship that has lasted through Jim Crow, Northern Indiana segregation, War, Civil Rights and Black Power. You and I don't know one another and we have not yet formed the bond of trust I believe needs to be present in order to sustain relationships through the honesty that needs to be in order to really dialogue about racism. I believe we must get to the point where maintaining our relationship is more important than the hurt or fear or anger that is involved in true exchange. This for me is what is missing in a workshop, a worship service, a program on anti-racism or white privilege or the socialization of white America.
The first thing we have so often failed to do is build bridges that go both ways, bridges of friendship, bridges of relationships, of trust and honesty. This is what is so hard. People of Color and white people learning to trust one another, be with one another, care for one another. I don't mean the person in your building you say hello to. I don't mean your cleaning woman, your gardener, the member of your American Association of University Women or Retired Persons or your children's teacher or the newspaper guy you say hello to every morning. I mean me. I mean someone who you have over to dinner and don't clean your home or wear your shoes with even when your feet don't smell to fresh. Someone who you complained with about your aches and pains, someone you called when the pain of life has left you in a fetal ball. Someone who when you find yourself stuck in the bathroom with out any tissue you can call in to get you some. Someone who you've argued with about politics and religion and then invited you to their fourth of July celebration and you went. Some one you would fight for and you know would fight for you. Tell me that then pain and fear and hurt couldn't end. Tell me then that we couldn't find a viable solution. Tell me that then we couldn't wipe out racism. That is the bridge I wish to build. Amen My closing words are from Judy Chicago. And then compassion will be wedded to power. And then softness will come to a world that is harsh and unkind. And the both men and women will be gentle. And then both women and men will be strong. And then no person will be subject to another's will. And then all will be rich and free and varied. And then the greed of some will give way to the needs of many. And then all will share equally in the Earth's abundance. And then all will care for the sick and the weak and the old. And the all will cherish life's creatures. And then all will live in harmony with each other and the Earth. And then everywhere will be called Eden once again. Go in peace, in love, and in truth.