I SEE COLOR

I don't know that I add anything new

Or that offering my voice, again, is remotely helpful. I really don't know. But here's what I do know; I am exhausted with grief and sadness. And if I am exhausted, I cannot begin to know how exhausted my black brothers and sisters are. I can't begin to experience the level of anxiety that affects their daily interactions, the level of strength it must take to sometimes silently endure ill-timed or ignorant remarks from well-meaning but misinformed white people like myself.

I cannot know because I am white.

Do I hate my skin? Not in the least, although I wish I now carried a bronze tan more like I did when I was a kid. But no, I do not hate my skin. I also do not hate the flag, or cops, or laws, or freedom. On the contrary, I love these a great deal. I am what the Enneagram calls a Reformer, which means I fight for justice and call out injustices when I see them. Here's a little snippet of the Reformer description from the Enneagram Institute website :

"We have named personality type One The Reformer because Ones have a “sense of mission” that leads them to want to improve the world in various ways, using whatever degree of influence they have. They strive to overcome adversity—particularly moral adversity—so that the human spirit can shine through and make a difference. They strive after “higher values,” even at the cost of great personal sacrifice."

Whatever the "great personal sacrifice" I am set to make, here's something else I know besides the fact that I am tired: I see color, and I'm pretty convinced we SHOULD. And this whole "I don't see color" or "I am color blind" business sounds a lot like a privilege to me and to a lot of my black friends and neighbors.

I'm writing this as a form of my own personal accountability, not to convince anyone of anything. Lord knows shouting at each other with WORDS WORDS WORDS and ANGER, VITRIOL, RAGE! doesn't seem to be moving things along very far. However, neither is quietly kneeling, apparently. So I'm not sure this is about finding the right way, the right time, or the winning argument so much as it is about saying I personally won't be, in the words of Dr. King,

"the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season."

Color is not a disease. Let me repeat that: COLOR IS NOT A DISEASE. There's no need to be color blind, and in fact that idea might just be contributing to the actual problem, which is that we have a GREAT country tangled up in and built on systems that treat, objectify, classify, and delineate with a bias toward white people. It just is, guys. So saying that we're color blind is kind of a way of sweeping all of those systems under a rug and holding none of us accountable for them. This is why movements and hashtags exist which, for the record, none of my black friends want for movements and hashtags to be necessary, just FYI. But they are necessary, if only to make us uncomfortable, and angry, and lots of other emotions that we don't fully even understand.

But color blind? Not necessary.

I see color because it carries a beauty that is enviable.

Two of my girlfriends, Tann and Amena, have some of the most beautiful skin I have seen, each with their own tones of chocolate and caramel and mahogany. And girrrrrrl, when light hits their cheekbones and they smile their electric smiles, I am often taken aback by their beauty. It's hard to be in pictures with them. Even when my face is beat for the gods, I cannot make my cheekbones reflect that shine like their skin does. I cannot overdraw my lips enough to match the lovely fullness in theirs; I cannot bronze enough to have that effortless glow they possess. This is not self-deprecation. I think I'm beautiful in my own right— have you seen these eyebrows that just grow this way or these brown eyes or this big curly mane of hair?!—but we are not the same beautiful. To say I'm colorblind robs me of the full appreciation of the rainbow of tones in this world.

I see color because it holds a culture in its pigment.

Sitting around a table in high school, making beats with a couple of drumsticks (I was the white cheerleader girl who played snare in the band) and enjoying laughter like it was a fountain to splash around in and play... this is an experience I generally do not have with my white friends. When I'm with just my white friends I've noticed we tend to keep things a little reserved, a little more "white bread" even when we're being silly and having our best times. And that's ok; these are experiences I love to have with my white friends and in our times together. But when I'm the minority in a group of my black friends, I feel SO full of life and warmth just watching the interactions that take place. There is a fullness to it, a palpable energy and joy that's just different than when I'm with predominately white people. And these distinctions are NOT to say one is better than another. The distinctions are to say "we have different cultures, different experiences, and we should share them with each other!" To pretend I don't see differences in family and friend cultures is to be naïve and, I believe, disrespectful of the unique vitality we all bring to the collective human table.

I see color because it has a history that demands I see.

This one is perhaps the most convicting and also the most important. Yep, I will talk about white privilege here. And nope, not because I want to shame white people for having it.

Here's a little background on me: I am a white girl from a SUPER southern farming community of around 300 people, complete with those dead end dirt roads and creeks and fields in the country songs that make me want to throw up a little in my mouth. My family was POOR when I was a kid. We were on food stamps. I bought white tennis shoes at the dollar store and drew blue rectangles on the backs of the soles so that they looked like Keds (because that's what was popular at my elementary school for some ungodly reason). We had yard sale Christmases; i.e. every gift we got came from a yard sale. We had hot dog links cut up and doused with ketchup as a complete dinner, or cereal with water/skim milk mixed together more than we should have. And you know what? I STILL have privilege.

I have been afforded opportunities that wouldn't have been as easy for someone else. You want to know how I know this? Because although I was poor growing up, I lived in the "good part of town," and that part of town was, of course, on "this side of the tracks." And you know who lived on "the other side of the tracks" by and large? Of course you do. Black people. That simple fact lets me look back at my childhood, one that I ADORED by the way—money alone is overrated—and know that I come from privilege, one that gave me the ability to go to this elementary school and not that one, to come home to this neighborhood and not that one, to have access to a car to go to this church with this youth group and not simply stay at home. And so on and so forth. You guys, the more I am willing to see, the more that's there hiding in plain site.

And the more responsible I am for saying something about it.

I have this Facebook friend named Lawrence who lives in my neighborhood but whom I have never met because I barely see my family these days, much less attend neighborhood functions where I get to meet actual people. SMH. Anyway, Lawrence is apparently always throwing these great parties and I've never been able to attend, so I have serious FOMO. He also has negative amounts of filters on his Facebook posts and, I assume, would say of himself that he likes to have a stick in hand to stoke the fire a bit, just to see what flames start up. Sometimes I can't handle it because I have exactly one brain cell and half a nerve left when I get online, which is probably a great reason NOT to get online. Other times—most of the time—I appreciate his stirring the pot because it is a constant mirror to my privilege. "This black man won't let me rest, dammit!"

And you know what? He shouldn't.

It's amazing to think I could just shake off a history of oppression and another life taken when I walk through the door and pour a glass of wine. That I would be able to NOT think about that reality for a moment is the very definition of white privilege. He posted on a comment of mine last night, one where I had mentioned not having words but not using that as an excuse to say nothing, with the hashtag #endwhitesilence. And isn't it just like a privileged white girl to immediately assume indictment? Of course after 5 seconds of actual thought, I reasoned it was more of a championing on of sorts, that this was one statement among only a few in my timeline honestly, and he was calling it out as such. I don't actually know what he meant, and I don't need to. I just know that it was good for me.

Among the throngs of things I see regarding Blue Lives (which do matter, by the way) and honoring a flag (which is important, by the way, and can be done while simultaneously kneeling), there is a noticeable lack of collective sadness and mourning and anger amongst white people for black lives being lost. I don't want to be a part of the noticeable silence.

So to Lawrence, Chinua, Carmen, Tann, Amena, Jamie, Joni, Emerson, Sam, Sherita, Justin, and a host of other beautiful, courageous black men and women who have been kind enough to speak into my life, to help me learn, to challenge me, to encourage me... thank you. Thank you for showing me grace I don't deserve. Thank you for showing me the importance of seeing color, and just how dynamic and beautiful these colors can be, especially when we're walking together.

*** Because I am a Reformer, I want to help people understand ways to be part of a solution. So here are a few tangible ways you can start that process:

• Actively engage in conversations with real people who do not look, act,think, speak, dress, or behave like you. Be friends with these people. Invite them over to your home. Do not suppose that online interactions are the same. They are not.
• Find a local black business to support: a restaurant, a clothing store,barbershop, an automotive service, a bank... anything. Find ways to invest in black neighborhoods by putting your money into their businesses.
• Join Campaign Zero and educate yourself on the policies this plan is introducing. It's incredibly thoughtful and thorough, and it addresses a wide array of issues in government and law enforcement. It is NOT anti-police; on the contrary, it is pro police training, fair contracts, mindfulness and rest, and lots of other important and healthy ideas.
• If you're in the Atlanta area, here's a GREAT step called Be The Bridge. Click the link to get all the information and do everything you can to attend.
• Get into situations that make you shut up. Even to the point of intense uncomfortability. Put yourself in scenarios that aren't for you and be a student of what you experience.
• Lead with humility and love. None of the other things will matter if they aren't clothed in these 2 things.