It seems a lifetime since I sat down to write. Although this has to do with Spirit (which I had intended to write about somewhat differently next), my focus has shifted. So much happened that called me away. The protests and events in the news precipitated by the murder of George Floyd, and all that has followed took and held my attention. It brought me into a space of personal reflection, feeling through how to best support the Black Lives Matter movement in my own way. All this has been on my mind and in discussions with others.
A fairly political person all my life, still in High School in rural South Carolina, I remember well writing in 1970 a paper for my English Class titled “Black is Beautiful”. I received an “ A+” and supportive comments from one of the two best teachers of my educational career. Place this in time, where there was not full yet integration of schools in my county until my senior year. Black families were required to sit in the balcony w/ a separate outside entrance at the picture show, and were not allowed in the town pool. My Daddy’s (Dr Wise) waiting rooms were designated “white” and “colored”, though there were no doors and everyone could see each other. Working for him in the summer, I learned the protocol was equality based. People signed in, and you took each person back to one of the three examining rooms in that order, no preference to skin color. I pretty much lived a life of white privilege, though I did not know it then. But there were people, experiences, and moments that formed a different response to the culture in which I was born. I read “Life” and “Time” magazines, watched the news, and thought about it. Several black students came to the “White School” as a transition, when I started 6th grade. Some were athletes, and we were on the same teams.I considered all my fellow classmates, and friends.
But I was not allowed to have black team mates to my house, when I wanted to invite Everyone for a post season party. After an argument that I could not win, I chose no party. Yet, Dr Wise served the entire community’s health needs his whole working life, making housecalls to families, both black and white. I went with him often, sat on the porch or in the kitchen while he saw his patient. It was clear he was fair and committed to healing all equally. But even as I child, I witnessed his own personal struggle with racism and its conflict with the message of Christianity. They were following the social/cultural norms of their community and we had a certain status in that community. I witnessed that my parents understood there was something wrong in all of it, but were not able to take different stand. I never felt they encouraged hate at any time, and importantly, they absolutely promoted education and thinking for ourselves.
My family had a black woman begin working for us from my oldest sister’s birth on through when I went away to college. Rosa Lee was a huge influencer in my life. A special relationship of unconditional love, and physical affection existed between us, unlike what I had with my parents. I went to her little house on the ”other side of town” when my parents were gone occasionally and, played with the neighborhood children. I looked forward to it. When I was a child, she was always around, always caring. She was the archetypal nurturer, though she had no children of her own. Her sister worked for my cousins and Lucille, too, was a beloved figure, as was Rosa’s niece that worked for my parents off and on, then again in their last years after she returned to retire from Washington DC to her hometown. These women were all extraordinarily kind, giving people during times that must have been difficult for them. And there was also Levi in tattered overalls with his blue black skin who sometimes did heavy work in my mother’s yard and garden. He let me ride on the back of his mule…a thrill for this equine crazy tomboy. He ate in the kitchen, of course, and I loved listening to him and Rosa Lee talk and laugh. They treated me like family. I saw and felt the disparity when I was young, but rural feels different. Not until traveling to the nearest city to shop, and my mother getting lost, did I see urban poverty from the back seat of our thunderbird. That experience, among others around the same time, affected me deeply. Together they brought inequalities and injustice into better focus, made me question and talk to my pastor, and strongly pointed me toward a trajectory of different thinking.
In 1968, with the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr and Bobby Kennedy (both heroic in my eyes) the Viet Nam war, pronounced civil unrest, as black people continued their struggle for justice, and the Mexico City Olympics. In that moment on the podium of fists raised in black gloves and bare feet, something snapped inside and I walked away from the part of my cultural roots that loudly proclaimed and quietly allowed for and supported racism. I did not return to my 10th high school reunion, because it was only to be a party for the white members of our graduating class. But what is writing a letter, and taking a very small stand compared to those with the foot of racism always on their backs from government and the oppression of separate and NOT equal in their own communities? By the 25th reunion, all were welcomed, my eldest son accompanied me, and it felt right.
Many died before George Floyd. Known massacres…Tulsa OK (1921), Rosewood FL(1923), Colfax LA (1873), Wilmington NC(1898), Elaine AR (1919), and Atlanta GA(1906), lynchings, police brutality again and again. I will not go into the history we were not taught, or the whitewash we were sold, especially as southerners, but informing ourselves is crucial. I wonder if folks who cling to the more palatable version are under the influence of deep guilt, and therefore cognitive dissonance is at play. I do understand that. Ashamed of my own southern-ness for years, I had to make my own peace with it. Racism exists everywhere we go, and has no Mason-Dixon line. One of my Mama’s last spoken thoughts was a wish that she had been kinder to Rosa Lee, who passed before her. She had come to truth of deeper understanding. Being able to say those words allowed her to make the transition ahead without regret in her heart, and with the gift of forgiveness awareness offers.
Yet here we are 2020, where the dark underbelly is being forced into the light. I believe, the ugliness of the last three years was created by folks fearing the loss of the power they know their “whitness” provides, the vocal racists still clearly out there, and a reactionary response to having an erudite black man for president. Fear exists. We know it, and it holds up a heavy m, hard hand to change. Now, we are having a reaction to the reaction. All is out there to be seen. This is an awakening of spirit. All the elements come together in Spirit, creating storm. Storm that cleanses and clears. The Power of Air engages our thoughts, our knowing, and collective values. The Power of Fire ignites our will, reminds us to take action, and create anew. The Power of Water mandates the deep daring required to face our feelings. The Power of Earth tells us to listen, hold all firm within us, and gives us courage. Spirit/Storm is the call to Activism, to be , to trust, and to even surrender to it. At the center of the compass wheel, but spirit can not be explained in any scientific way, as can air, fire, water, and earth. Yet it is the connector, a balancer between stillness and silence and the action of transmutation… change not only of appearance but of form.
Being the best human we can be, requires us to dive into the inner work, and also work outside ourselves in this world we were born into. Service and/or activism can take us forward in everyday ways, in our family, friendships, community, or in much bigger ways. When we balance the gifts of the elements within, the stillness of spirit and the moving cleanser of storm, real healing occurs. This is the sacred space in which we feel, find, and experience love of all kinds. Acceptance, forgiveness, also, of self and others resides here. Let us work to heal our own wounds, the ones that need a holyfire light to see everything clearly, and the burning passion to act for good of all. There are many ways to bring the change. There is not just one way.
We can take to the streets. We can work in political organizations. We can live our lives and dare to speak truth to power, and to those we know well, that still hold fearful/ hateful views. We can live our lives as an example.
Let go of white privilege as we come to understand it better. Stop being complicit in our silence. Have conversations. Ask questions. Listen, because we have lots to learn.
We can make a difference. Spirit wants us to. Storm clears the way.
