This matter of race: A White Woman Reflects

If I had seen an article 20 years ago with ‘race’ or ‘racism’ in the title, I might have yawned and flipped past it.  I had the luxury to do so – if anything caught my eye with these words, internally I would wonder what the big deal was.  I’m thankful this is no longer the case.  These themes have popped up all over – not merely in print media or news outlets, but in tragic circumstances, and in grocery stores and tales are told of interactions with strangers in public.  That being the case, I have begun to pay closer attention – and it started just a few decades ago with conversations with my sister.

We had grown up together – fast friends and playmates – and I had, from the moment of my birth understood her to be the truest sister – even though her skin and appearance told me from the beginning that she was Chinese and I was a freckled red-head.  I don’t remember ever thinking of her as different, even though it was plainly obvious.  In fact, I lamented that I wasn’t like her, (as most younger sisters do), because an older sister is absolutely everything a younger sister wants to be – at times. 

She enjoyed social perks in ways I could not.  We lived in Hong Kong, where she looked like the majority of people there.  (She also naturally endeared herself to everyone by her sweet and compliant nature, which I also envied).  I, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb.  I knew there was no way for me to be Chinese, and I so desperately wanted to be.  I interpreted this as the basic channel of acceptance and normalcy.  I wonder if this is how it is for a person of colour to grow up in a majority-white culture.  Do they feel as I did?  That skin colour marks your acceptability in society?  I hope not – but I’m beginning to listen more than I ever did because I realize that walking around suburban U.S.A. as a white person is an entirely different experience than what people of colour experience.  As a white person, it is nearly impossible for me to detect just how pervasive racial bias extends, or how I have benefitted unknowingly from society’s gaze of approval. 

My sister, Cathy, transitioned from Hong Kong to the U.S. for college, and began to describe to me some of her experiences as an Asian student at a Christian college.  She once said, “You cannot call me Oriental; you should use the term ‘Asian’ instead.”  I guffawed.  Really?  I queried: “Surely they are synonyms – interchangeable terms – right?”  “No – not at all.  People refer to Oriental rugs and Oriental ornaments.  The term ‘Oriental’ has to do with things and applying it to a person is demeaning.”  Inwardly, I balked.  My sister was alerting me to things she encountered and I had no framework for dealing with it – I had no experience or understanding of these things.  My attitude was steeped in myth and a false view of reality – that racism was a minor nuisance in certain corners of society, and would quietly diminish by goodwill and societal growth and maturing.  Sadly, I bought into that line of thinking, while being hesitant to believe the experience of my only sister.  These attitudes, I am ashamed to admit, reveal just how clueless and unaware I truly was – and how hidden racism exists in resistance to accepting the experiences of others.

I didn’t want to believe her.  I thought she was being too sensitive – reading into things – projecting her perceptions upon reality.  These dismissive attitudes in me, she patiently (as always) put up with.  I have to say, looking back, the thing that strikes me as so dismal about all this is my own arrogance in thinking I knew or understood what society thought of her and her experience of society.  I had to wrestle within myself with my own misgivings and doubts.  
The conversation in my head went something like this:

“Your sister says people view her as exotic or foreign.  Are you willing to believe her?”

“Well, she says that, but maybe she’s just imagining things.”

“And maybe she’s not.  How would you know anyways?”

“Because I know people!  By and large, they are mostly accepting and nice, right?”

“Look at your arm.  What colour skin is it?”
“White – pasty white, with a smattering of freckles.”

“Ok then, do you think you are an authority on what your sister experiences?”

“No, yes…no.  Ok, what should I do then?”

“Hmmmm, how about just listening and accepting that what she is describing is actually her experience…”

“Ok, ok, I’ll give it a try…”

This was the beginning of me recognizing that by the colour of my skin I cannot totally grasp the kinds of encounters she has – or the nuance of how people look at her – the kinds of thoughts and suspicions and assumptions they might hold towards her.  It began my process of actually listening and believing what people of colour tell me. 

I have deep empathy for anyone who suffers injustice.  Maybe because I’ve felt, in my very flesh, the assault of such injustice.  I know what it is like to be told, “You don’t belong here! Go back to where you came from!” and have a brick hurled at my head while being cursed and yelled at (a few stitches and the E.R. staff patched me up, I was ok in the end).  I know what it is like to exist in a world where you are viewed as foreign, unacceptable, exotic and novel.  And yet, I live in a majority-white culture today, where I don’t face these kinds of verbal or physical threats.  And yet, when I engage with those who feel marginalized and exoticized, because of my skin colour, my empathy can feel invalidating and rude.  It can lead to hurt and a sense of dismissiveness on my part.  The colour of my skin can alienate me even from those I empathize with.  And this is a significant sorrow for me, and is yet another layer of racial tension that has no label because those of us with white skin who have walked my road are so few, no category needs to exist for the odd exception like me. 

What all this tells me – both my own experience of rejection based on my race (I didn’t choose to be born a freckled red-head in Hong Kong, any more than any person of colour chose to be born in a predominantly white America), and my own internal experience of failing to see the racial tensions pervasive in our society – is that the yearning for unity, acceptance, peace and love across racial boundaries is yet unfulfilled.  It tells me that the divisions of humanity remain in all of us – none of us has escaped the scourge of racially biased attitudes.  It may seem presumptive or audacious of me to say such a thing.  And my reader may resist hearing it.  But I’ll stick with that statement.  Because even those of us who have physical and emotional wounds of rejection, suspicion and scorn, based on superficial perspectives, still have soul-work to do to willingly and openly listen to, understand and validate the painful experiences of others.

I, who am a white-suburbanite woman, cannot bury my head and ignore that I benefit from whiteness.  And those of other shades cannot ignore that perceptions of white people also colour their outlook: not every white person is the same – there are those of us who have experienced racism too – yet we don’t parade it in front of society so much, because on some level it isn’t really important, necessary or helpful to do so.  I face no threat; I don’t exist in a realm where people assume negative things of me – oh, except for at times when I empathize and accidentally seem dismissive of another’s experience. 

Regardless, it is crucial that we keep these themes before us.  That our eyes begin to see people – truly see them.  Jesus looked at the crowds and had compassion on them because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a Shepherd.  Jesus saw the crowds.  Can we do less?  We, who claim to walk in the way He did – can we ignore the crowds that speak up, that raise the alarm, that tell us, “This is our experience!  And we suffer.”  Or shall we follow our un-sanctified instincts and shrug it off – ‘Another article on race…I think I’ll skip it.’

Christ’s call to His followers was bold and somewhat alarming – “Go and make disciples of all nations.”  He didn’t commission us because it would make us comfortable.  And when we interact with the nations, we’d better be ready to listen to them.