Some Thoughts on Racism
When I was in elementary school, there was a boy in my class whose name was Kahinde. I remember him because I loved his name: it was different, but I liked the way that it rolled off my tongue. Other people called him "K.K." but I usually called him Kahinde because I liked the name. Kahinde also fascinated me because he had a spot of hair on the crown of his head that was a lighter color than the rest of his dark, crinkly hair. I wondered for a long time how the spot grew so perfectly round, and what made his hair do that until one day when I learned that it was dyed to help people distinguish between him and his identical twin brother, whose name I think was Tyler. Tyler's name was normal, and he didn't have a spot on his head, so I don't remember him as well.
When I was a child, I remember watching the "Cosby Show". It was a cool show about family life. There was a mom and dad and kids, and they had problems, but they loved each other and they pulled through. Sometimes the show was funny, especially the character who played the dad. It was a great show.
At some point in my childhood, I heard that the church that I belong to had only allowed a certain group of people to hold the priesthood during my life time, after over a hundred years of denying it to them. I was confused as to why God - who I knew loved all his children, would do things that way, but I trusted that there was a reason for it. I imagined it was a test for us to see what we would do about it. Would we do all we could to reach out to them in love? Would we make sure that their needs were met as far as receiving priesthood blessings and the ordinances they were allowed to receive? I was confident that now that they could receive the priesthood, people could go to the temple and make sure that all those who had been denied it during their mortal lives would be able to receive it in the next life. Somehow God would make it up to them.
In my early 20s, I was called to serve a mission in Brazil, and I was thrilled! I quickly came to love the people that I met there. Occasionally I felt a bit conspicuous, like the week following the Christmas Day when I injured a finger and had to wear a cast. My companion and I would be walking down the street and folks we passed by would call out, "Did the poor American hurt her hand?" I always wondered why Brazilians would call people from the US Americans. They lived in South America. Weren't they Americans too?
One day on my mission, in a small town called Santo Amaro, my companion and I met a young woman from our branch in the street. She had a little girl I didn't recognize with her, and in curiosity, I asked the young woman if the little girl was her sister. (The young woman's family weren't members of the church and I didn't know them.) She explained that she was a nanny for the little girl. We talked a little more before going our separate ways. Later, I heard some rumors that people were calling me racist because of the question I had asked, and, although I apologized for what I said that caused offense, I have never completely understood why it offended.
Eight years ago, a man ran for president of the United States. His political views differed greatly from mine, and from what I could learn about his experience, in spite of his great charisma, I didn't believe that he was the person that I would choose to lead the country.
Four months ago today, an unarmed young man in Missouri (who coincidentally shares a name with my brother-in-law, who also lives in Missouri) was shot by a police officer. Details about the shooting are confusing and unclear. The young man had just robbed a convenience store and the police officer was looking for him. There was some conflict through the window of the police car. Several bullets were fired. The young man died. Was it because he was 6'4" and 292 lbs and the police officer felt threatened?
Yesterday, I came across a blog about what some mothers felt was important to teach their sons: Respect the police. Be humble. Talk to police respectfully, do whatever they ask - no matter how humiliating, and never, ever run from them. Whenever you drive a car, keep your license and registration out, so you don't have to reach for them if you are ever pulled over by a policeman. Don't walk in packs of three or more; they'll think you're a mob. Stay alive. Come home alive.
Do I remember Kahinde just because his family had emigrated from Africa and his skin was dark? Did I watch the Cosby Show just because the actors were African American? Did I assume that black members of the church were denied the priesthood just because of the color of their skin? Did I realize that the two girls in Brazil were not related just because the little girl's skin was several tones lighter than the older girl? Did I not vote for Barack Obama just because of the color of his skin? Can we assume Michael Brown was shot repeatedly by a police officer solely because of his ethnicity? Are the instructions of the mothers to their sons fair and and understandable when we learn their skin is black?
No! No! No! No! No! No! No!
Yes, ethnicity can be a factor. Kahinde's name was part of his heritage. The difference from what I was used to was what made him interesting to me.
The old cliche, "Variety is the spice of life" is true. Being an American means that we live in a melting pot, a place where people from many different cultures and backgrounds come together to create something varied and unique, although some neighborhoods haven't been mixed in quite as much as others. As we look outside ourselves at the other cultures and races in the mix, we learn that there is beauty in the shiny black tresses of an Asian person, just as there is beauty in the so-blonde-it's-almost-white hair of a Scandinavian. How many freckled women of Scottish descent appreciate the bronze skin of a Native American? How many people with limp, straight hair (like me) occasionally look longingly at the curls that come naturally to others? I'm grateful that there are tall people to reach the top shelves in the world as well as short people (like me).
In the end, we are all sons and daughters of a Heavenly Father who loves each one of us. That doesn't mean that He won't give us trials and temptations to overcome - because He will. It doesn't mean that we won't ever be scared. It doesn't mean that we won't be misunderstood for something we say or do in total innocence (or someone assumes we have said or done).
What it does mean is that no matter how different from us they look or act, they are still our brothers and sisters. It means we should show respect to people who are different from us. It means we should give people the benefit of the doubt. It means we should look for the similarities and the things that bring us together, rather than the things that drive us apart. That is the only way we can have peace on earth, and good will toward men.
When I was a child, I remember watching the "Cosby Show". It was a cool show about family life. There was a mom and dad and kids, and they had problems, but they loved each other and they pulled through. Sometimes the show was funny, especially the character who played the dad. It was a great show.
At some point in my childhood, I heard that the church that I belong to had only allowed a certain group of people to hold the priesthood during my life time, after over a hundred years of denying it to them. I was confused as to why God - who I knew loved all his children, would do things that way, but I trusted that there was a reason for it. I imagined it was a test for us to see what we would do about it. Would we do all we could to reach out to them in love? Would we make sure that their needs were met as far as receiving priesthood blessings and the ordinances they were allowed to receive? I was confident that now that they could receive the priesthood, people could go to the temple and make sure that all those who had been denied it during their mortal lives would be able to receive it in the next life. Somehow God would make it up to them.
In my early 20s, I was called to serve a mission in Brazil, and I was thrilled! I quickly came to love the people that I met there. Occasionally I felt a bit conspicuous, like the week following the Christmas Day when I injured a finger and had to wear a cast. My companion and I would be walking down the street and folks we passed by would call out, "Did the poor American hurt her hand?" I always wondered why Brazilians would call people from the US Americans. They lived in South America. Weren't they Americans too?
One day on my mission, in a small town called Santo Amaro, my companion and I met a young woman from our branch in the street. She had a little girl I didn't recognize with her, and in curiosity, I asked the young woman if the little girl was her sister. (The young woman's family weren't members of the church and I didn't know them.) She explained that she was a nanny for the little girl. We talked a little more before going our separate ways. Later, I heard some rumors that people were calling me racist because of the question I had asked, and, although I apologized for what I said that caused offense, I have never completely understood why it offended.
Eight years ago, a man ran for president of the United States. His political views differed greatly from mine, and from what I could learn about his experience, in spite of his great charisma, I didn't believe that he was the person that I would choose to lead the country.
Four months ago today, an unarmed young man in Missouri (who coincidentally shares a name with my brother-in-law, who also lives in Missouri) was shot by a police officer. Details about the shooting are confusing and unclear. The young man had just robbed a convenience store and the police officer was looking for him. There was some conflict through the window of the police car. Several bullets were fired. The young man died. Was it because he was 6'4" and 292 lbs and the police officer felt threatened?
Yesterday, I came across a blog about what some mothers felt was important to teach their sons: Respect the police. Be humble. Talk to police respectfully, do whatever they ask - no matter how humiliating, and never, ever run from them. Whenever you drive a car, keep your license and registration out, so you don't have to reach for them if you are ever pulled over by a policeman. Don't walk in packs of three or more; they'll think you're a mob. Stay alive. Come home alive.
******************
Do I remember Kahinde just because his family had emigrated from Africa and his skin was dark? Did I watch the Cosby Show just because the actors were African American? Did I assume that black members of the church were denied the priesthood just because of the color of their skin? Did I realize that the two girls in Brazil were not related just because the little girl's skin was several tones lighter than the older girl? Did I not vote for Barack Obama just because of the color of his skin? Can we assume Michael Brown was shot repeatedly by a police officer solely because of his ethnicity? Are the instructions of the mothers to their sons fair and and understandable when we learn their skin is black?
No! No! No! No! No! No! No!
Yes, ethnicity can be a factor. Kahinde's name was part of his heritage. The difference from what I was used to was what made him interesting to me.
The old cliche, "Variety is the spice of life" is true. Being an American means that we live in a melting pot, a place where people from many different cultures and backgrounds come together to create something varied and unique, although some neighborhoods haven't been mixed in quite as much as others. As we look outside ourselves at the other cultures and races in the mix, we learn that there is beauty in the shiny black tresses of an Asian person, just as there is beauty in the so-blonde-it's-almost-white hair of a Scandinavian. How many freckled women of Scottish descent appreciate the bronze skin of a Native American? How many people with limp, straight hair (like me) occasionally look longingly at the curls that come naturally to others? I'm grateful that there are tall people to reach the top shelves in the world as well as short people (like me).
In the end, we are all sons and daughters of a Heavenly Father who loves each one of us. That doesn't mean that He won't give us trials and temptations to overcome - because He will. It doesn't mean that we won't ever be scared. It doesn't mean that we won't be misunderstood for something we say or do in total innocence (or someone assumes we have said or done).
What it does mean is that no matter how different from us they look or act, they are still our brothers and sisters. It means we should show respect to people who are different from us. It means we should give people the benefit of the doubt. It means we should look for the similarities and the things that bring us together, rather than the things that drive us apart. That is the only way we can have peace on earth, and good will toward men.
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