Not My First Rodeo
I can so identify with those words.
As a white man currently in my sixties, living in the South, who believes that black lives actually do matter, I sometimes feel like I'm swimming a bit upstream. But, this is not something new for me.
It's not just the "flavor of the month." Not just the coolest trend to jump on board and quickly jump off when the newer cooler thing comes along. It's kind of in my blood and my history...
When I was about 10 years old, my father's best friend lived on the other side of Houston (which at that time seemed like the other side of the world). They and their wives would get together about four times a year. Twice at our house and twice at theirs. When it was at our house...no problem. When it was at theirs...big problem. Dad's friend's kids were grown and gone...so, it was just the five of us. Let me rephrase: It was the four of them and ME. Their job was to talk and drink coffee. My job was to stay out of the way, entertain myself ,and be neither seen nor heard.
Except for this once...
This was over 50 years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday. My dad's friend was a member of a Baptist Church in Houston. This was in the '60s. This was a period when the most segregated hour of the week was 11:00 am on Sunday morning. There were black churches, there were white churches, brown churches, etc. The lines were not visibly drawn...but, they were very much understood. These were also the days when an altar call would be given at the close of every service. If someone wanted to trust Christ or simply join that particular church they would come forward during the first, second, or fourth verse of "Just As I Am."
And then it happened...
My dad's friend said, "Do you know what happened Sunday? Some n--s walked down that aisle and tried to join our church! What in the heck were they thinking? Can you believe that?"
I inched closer to the doorway from the connecting room where I had been exiled towards the den where they sat. I waited for my dad's response. And waited... And waited... for what seemed like an eternity. He said nothing. His silence was deafening...at least for this boy it was.
His friend continued uninterrupted in his pontification about the arrogance of black people trying to join his church...
I'm not sure anyone even saw me there. I'm not sure how I managed to be both seen OR heard, much less both. But, somehow, my mouth wouldn't stay shut. "What's wrong with that?"
The friend only glanced at me. He glared at my dad. His mouth said nothing. His face said, "What kind of an insolent, imbecile are you raising here?"
Then he replied, "Well, that's just not right. They don't have any business in our church. You wouldn't understand."
He was wrong, I understood a lot more than my years allotted me.
I'm sure my dad's prayer life hit an all-time high right about then. Something along the lines of, "Oh, God, you who shut the mouths of the lions. Please shut the mouth of this scrawny kid. It shouldn't be a big challenge for you. Just please do it quick. If you will, I'll promise to take care of him later." But, to no avail, despite his silent but impassioned prayers, I continued...
"So, do you think there's a Black God and a White God and that's why we should worship in different places?"
"Of course not" he said. "There's just one God." He looked at my dad with a "Hey help me out here, buddy" look.
Yet, I continued...
"So, do you think there's two Heavens? A white one and a black one?"
"Well, no. Of course not!" he snorted back. But, I had just one more question for him...
"So, you plan to spend eternity with these people in Heaven worshiping God but you don't want to worship God with them right here and right now?"
And the silence...was...palpable...
I turned and returned to my room to which I had been exiled. The evening was pretty much ruined. We (meaning they) said their good-byes. And the death march (or in this case car ride) began. I was literally shaking. I didn't know what was going to be said. I didn't know when it was coming or how bad it was going to be. But, I knew I was in trouble...BIG trouble. So, I waited. And waited. And waited.... And, I'm still waiting.
Do you know that there was never a word spoken about that evening. Nothing. Not one word.
In retrospect, that may be the saddest part of the whole ordeal. No one talked about it. And 50 years down the road not much has changed. Oh, lots of speeches are being made but not many conversations are being held.
My dad died never telling me what he thought or how he felt... I have no idea if I embarrassed him deeply, made him proud beyond words, or made him think about something uncomfortable. Nothing.
I honestly think I would have preferred being disciplined to being ignored. I was left to just try to fill in the blanks that could not be filled in. It was as though for a time I just ceased to exist. The worst thing you can do to a kid is ignore him or pretend he doesn't exist.
It's exactly the same thing for adults...and for injustice. The absolute most powerful evil we can dabble in is a willingness to go deaf, dumb, and blind when the conversation that needs to be had is just a little too uncomfortable.
To just pretend it doesn't exist, it's not my problem, or simply be silent long enough in hopes it will just go away.
My dad was great in so many ways. He was and still is my hero. Just not that day. Not just that one long day...that obviously never ended.
It's still very fresh and very raw in my memory. It's a wound that was never given the opportunity to heal.
So, dads (and moms and sisters and brothers)...start the conversation. I know it's uncomfortable. It is for all of us. Jesus never intended us to be comfortable. He came to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted. Have the guts to open the subject and start the conversation.
Then LISTEN. RESPOND. ASK QUESTIONS. GUIDE. And LISTEN some more.
Stand up for the underdog. Speak up against racism and injustice, even if it means you're not the popular guy in the room.
Admit that things that you have believed for 30 or 40 or 50 or 60 years might...just might...not be completely right. Wear the fact that there is room for growth in your worldview like a badge of honor...GROW!
Join me, "With one foot in the grave and one foot on the pedal. WE were born to rebel!"
Amen! I was born a rebel as well! Well written and sincere. Thanks PT.
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