The longest journally post ever. Ever. About my racism and sexuality. (you've been waiting for another "dear diary" post, haven't you?)

In our planning for creating a night service focused on our immediate community, we’ve had to think through a lot of issues.  We seek to build a service, within our primarily white, middle class church that is comfortable and inviting to a more diverse crowd—the crowd outside our doors.  Which is not primarily white and middle class.  For lack of a better term, this will be something of a…..hip hop service.  And the planning process is more of a theological discussion centering around our cultural biases, and how we can truly create a new kind of service; one that reaches the ethnically diverse area God placed us in without turning into a seeker church (see:  a bunch of white kids sagging our pants and throwing gang signs to passers by to get them to come in and listen to DC Talk), to re-invent thinking on a worship only consisting of 6 crappy Maranatha songs numbered 10,583 before and after sermons without doing the same thing with crappy hip hop song number $1,000, and how we can buck our cultural biases to truly love those around us, without the mentality that we’ve got to get them to come to us and change their crazy sinning ways.

(And wow, was that an un-thought-through mouthful)

Often our creational discussions over these things seem to come back to issues of race and culture.  Recently, one such discussion in my intern class turned to issues of racism.  As this term was being thrown around, a lot of vigilant nodding also went around about how it was such a terrible thing, and no, certainly none of us were racist in anyway, and yes, how awful that would be.

But then another term was dropped: latent racism.  This is thought to be more something that goes on with people who certainly don’t consider themselves racist, but yet, when walking down the street alone, and seeing a young African American male dressed in gang style clothing, a little fear rises up, and they choose to cross the street—just in case.  It’s not that you hate young black males, but you fear that everything you’ve heard just might be true;  they’re all gangsters, drug dealers, and killers---and you, little whitey, are their next target.

I thought this over, and decided, that no latent racism existed in me.  What I did come up with, however, is culturism.  If I see a young white thug coming down the street while I am walking alone, I feel myself getting a little nervous.  And I wondered why.  Well, I guess it shouldn’t really be any wonder when I don’t personally know too many of these kids, but I do know what I see on MTV (if, uh, of course, I watched it…ever…which I don’t..); that all of those thugs are shallow, greedy, drug dealers and killers that speak in rhymes and spank women too much.  And I don’t really like to get spanked by strangers.  It seems and unsafe and, really, a rather unsavory situation to be in (well, maybe some people like stranger spankings…).  

But what stood out to me the most was that no, I don’t really know any of them.  So, if were going to start a church service that is a ministry to precisely these types of people, how do I begin to get to know them in a meaningful way, one that will display the love of Christ to them?  How can I begin to get over my stereotypes, distrust, culturism, judgment, and in honestly reevaluating, probably some forms of latent racism that I struggle with?

Of course, I think one thing a lot of men don’t think about when having these sorts of public discourses is the female factor.  If you’ve never been a female that strange men try to spank on a regular basis, I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about the realm of what we deal with that is entirely outside of racism.  I am definitely struggling with where these two things meet.  I am trying to decide if maybe some latent racism does exist in me.  Or is it distrust, fear, and hatred of men, based out of my negative experiences with many of them?  And how do I learn to love these men?  Should I learn to love these men?  What does that look like—a white, Christian, female loving a large, visually threatening African American stranger like Christ would love him?  I struggle with this. I struggle to understand in general what it looks like to love men as brothers in Christ.

So in my journey to understand these thoughts within me, what follows are 2 incredibly openly vulnerable conversations between me, a black male, and my inner dialogue. I strive to be honest in these, whether or not they may get me seriously judged.  After all, this is my online diary, right?  Because if I can’t honestly come to terms with my thoughts and feelings, how can I strive to change them?


April, 2005:  

I went up to the U district to find a suitable skirt for my mission trip to India.  I went alone.  University Ave is filled with a diverse mixture of college students and homeless people.  It makes for an interesting culture up there.  On any given street corner, you might find a pair of frat boys in Abercrombie standing next to a guy with a mohawk and tremendous amount of spikes jutting out of him standing next to an extremely dirty homeless man in a wheelchair holding out a jar for coins standing next to a sorority girl---you get the picture.

In my mission-preparing thoughts on loving others and not judging, I began thinking about my response to all the homeless down there asking for my change.  I always bark “no!” and get irritated that they spot me coming, and prepare 50 feet in advance to try to veer me off the road until I answer their pleading question.  

And right then, I decided to change that.  “No!  I will no longer be mean to homeless people!  I will look them in the eye and smile!  I will tell them about God’s love and Grace!  I will dance on the street corner with them!” screamed my new found ideals.

And it was then that I spotted my new victim of love.  A 50 something homeless man, dirty and sunken, large dreadlocks shading his eyes.  As I passed by, and he looked up at me holding his cup out, pushing it toward me, I slowed my walk and gave him a great big smile and nod of my head.  “Hello!” I said as I passed (leaving his cup empty, of course).  He curiously smiled back.

“Hooray!  I’m so great!  What a difference I made!  I challenged myself, too, and came out a victor! Oh, wait—I missed my street—damn, that was my street, I’ve got to turn around—oh shit, I’ve got to go back by that homeless guy.  What if he thinks I’m coming back to give him money?  I don’t want to.  This is going to be a socially awkward situation.  Well, positive thinking, what can you do for me?  You know, this is a great chance to smile at him again…” I think as I’m just about to pass by again.  I smile and nod again, and this time a huge grin emerges from his dark mouth.  “oh!  I did make a difference!  I….”  

At this point of passing I feel a nice firm hand spank me, and then grab my ass, lingering as long as my stride would allow.

“What the F..”  I briefly slowed my step—halted—turned around, and see the man wink and me and chuckle, like he got away with something wonderful.  I stared him down, frozen in complete shock.  “Did that just really happen?  Was I really just trying to show Christ’s love, and I got my ass grabbed?  Are you serious?”  I wanted to hit him, lecture him, cuss at him—but, I was afraid of him.  So instead I briefly shook my head and got the hell out of there.  “Men.  Black men—all the same—a bunch of sexually harassing bastards that think women are meat.”


July, 2006

This weekend I finally sold ‘lil smoky’ (that’s what I called my car—you can guess why).  In preparing to show it, I got a call from a man who’d seen the ad.  I could tell by his voice that he was black—a little ghetto speak.  He wanted to come out to my house with his friend and meet me to check it out.  I thought about how maybe it was unsafe for a shy white girl to meet up with 2 black men at my house alone to show my car.  I mean, men in general really—and mostly because I wouldn’t know what to say about selling a car anyway, not being much of a salesgirl or a mechanic.  But, none of my male friends seemed to be around.

Besides, I thought, if I’m so free of latent racism, why am I afraid to meet up with 2 black guys?  Is this an irrational fear?  I decided, in all my recent challenged thinking on this issue that this would be the perfect time to let go of these fears, trust God, and also go the ‘extra mile’ by trying to love these men.  After all, this “J” sounded polite enough on the phone.

So I went alone.  As I walked up to meet them, I began to feel a little uncomfortable.  One was Muslim, and the other, J, was dressed in baggy pants belted around his knees, a basketball jersey meeting the belt, hair in rows, and a bandana wrapped around his braids.  I started to squirm a little, fidgeting with my shirt.

As introductions were made, he proceeded to give me some kind of complicated homee handshake, which I messed up horribly—at which he was amused, but not shocked.  As we went through the motions of looking over the car, testing it out and the like, I noticed J staring at my chest an awful lot.  All I could think at first was “what a bastard—I knew it, they’re all the same”.  But when I heard this pattern of thinking, I tried to tie it on the tracks.  Maybe I’m just conditioned (or flattering myself) to make this assumption.   So, when he beckoned, with a glint of challenge in his eye to get in the car with them for a ride, (after a flash of conscience telling me not to do so) I jumped eagerly at the chance—and let him know it with enthusiasm. And I pressed on, full force, to make known to him that I wasn’t scared of him in the least, and that I was intimidated, or racist.  I tried to purposefully engage in conversation about where he was from (Miami), what he had moved here for (a job).  In turn, he began to ask pleasant questions, and we came to a successful conclusion of genuine conversation.  Walls seemed translucent at the moment.  We were both satisfied.

But then as we pulled back into my neighborhood, he began shaking his head.  “All you rich white folk out here, bunch a rich white folks”

“What?!  I’m not rich!”

“Ya, whatever girl—you all a bunch a rich white people!  This a nice neighborhood!  Full a money and class!”

“What?  Whatever.  It might be nice, but I’ll assure you I’m not rich.  I rent a room here”

“Ya, whatever” shaking his head and sighing in disgust.

I’m not sure why I felt the need to defend myself.  Other than of course that it’s true, I have dirt in my wallet instead of money, but I think it was something more about me trying to convince him that I was just like him; poor.  What?  Why do I assume he’s poor?

He continues looking at the car.  “I’ll give you $400.  You don’t need the money anyway. You got plenty.”  

“What?  Are you kidding me?!  I need this to feed myself!  You know what?  I’m damn sick of you judging me!  You don’t know me!  You’re just making assumptions!”  there goes that temper again.

“Whoa girl!  Calm down!  I’m not judging you!  I’m the most anti-discriminatory person you’ll ever find!  I would not discriminate or judge!”

“You’re doing it right now!  You’re treating me like crap because you think I’m rich!  Well, I’m not rich, and I’m sick of you saying it”

“Wow.  Ok, whatever girl, lets chat about something else.  What do you do for fun here…here in rich Bellevue?”  I hit you if you say rich again, that’s what I do.  I’m sick of everyone from the southend, Northend, whatever the hell end assuming that everyone in Bellevue is a rich asshole.  Isn’t it about time you realized that you’re being the judgmental, hypocrital snob?  Uh.

“Well, I don’t know.  I don’t really hang out here.  It’s not really….”

“Your style?”  

“Ya, I guess”

“Cuz you not rich?”

“Ya.”  Sarcastic eyes.

“hm.  Well, where do you go? “

“Renton, Seattle.  Wherever”

“Oh ya?  To do what?”

“um, listen to music, I guess.”

“What kind of music do you like?”

I thought about trying to level us again by boasting of all the hip hop bands in my collection.  But maybe it would seem too obvious?  Like I was trying to be cool and hip hop?  Like, hey gangsta, I bet you like hip hop—well I’m just as cool as you!

We talked for a while longer, as he stated he was just trying to get to know me so he wouldn’t judge me.  During this time he made fun of me a lot.  Mostly for being a rich white girl.  I think maybe he was just trying to flirt.  Like the flamboyant way black men do.  I didn’t like it.  I didn’t get it.  I didn’t understand the way he was trying to communicate.  Cultural barriers.  Damn.

But I tried to soften up, to understand, to communicate, to extend the way he was trying to extend.  To not give in to some sort of stereotyping, judging, some sort of racism, or discomfort.

But then he went there.

“You know girl, I’m just playing with you.  You know, now that I’ve gotten to know you, I think I like you.  I got to be honest with you, you know, keep it real”

Ok, cultural value, being honest an open, ok, I can handle this, I’m learning to relate, this is gonna be ok….

“I find you very attractive.  You know, you got a very nice ass.  I like it very much.  Nice and round…”

What the Fuck?  Are you serious?  Are you really saying this?  Damn my fat ass.  Does my ass look big?  Why didn’t I go to the gym today…

He steps in closer, puts his hands on my hips.

“I like this”

His face is close to mine.  

What do I say?  How do I tell him to get the hell off of me without seeming scared, racist, angry, stereotypical crazy white woman?

“You’re getting a little too close”  I back up.

“What?  Oh am I?  Well I gotta tell you, I just like girls with short hair.  That’s my weakness, you know?”

“Oh, I just whacked it off.  I used to have long dreads.  I don’t keep it short normally”  Stupid!  That’s not a deterrent!

“Oh ya?  That’s nice, dreads.  Really?  Imagine, I come here to buy a car and end up finding you, you know, end up talking to ya a while.  I like that.  Why don’t you let me take you out?  Give me your number girl, let me show you a good time”

Trying to figure out what to do. Want to sell my car.  Want to challenge racism.  Don’t want to believe stereotypes that all black men sexually harass women, and most often rape them.  Don’t want to believe that all black men disrespect women.  Don’t want to get raped.  Don’t want to let him sexually harass me.  Don’t want to freak out.  Don’t want to hit him.  Want to punch him.

“Well, I don’t think my boyfriend would like that.”

“Oh well, if you change your mind, here’s my number.”  

“Ya, well, let’s just get the sale taken care of here.” I say nervously.

“Ok, ok.  You want to do it like that.  Well, just sign this here, and off I’ll go.”

“Uh, I haven’t sold anything yet.  Gotta get that money first” I say, holding out my shaky hand.

“Oh shit!  White girl thinks were gonna steal the car, Cuz!  Uh oh, were from the ghetto!  Were gonna steal your car!!”  They erupt into laughter.




So, what the hell do I do about this?  Was this a stretching lesson for me?  Or does this just affirm my suspicions?  How do I confront my racism when all I get is big hands groping me?  How do I love this man like Christ would?  People talk about sacrificing, like Christ, being a little uncomfortable.  How far would you go?  Would you let a man rub his hands on you?  Would you yell at him?  Would you refuse to go alone?  How are women supposed to confront these issues?  How can I love men when all it ever gets me is sexual harassment?