What I learned in African American Studies...

In college I took a number of African American Studies courses.  So many, in fact, that I seriously considered a minor in the subject.  My study abroad semester in put an end to that though as African American Studies credits are rather hard to receive in Dublin, Ireland.

Anyway, I loved these classes.  I was always one of a handful of white students.  And I learned more in these classes than in any other course.   They were discussion based for the most part (a favorite for my extroverted, verbal processing self) and the discussions were always intense and authentic.  Every semester my eyes and heart were opened wide to the actual present day treatment of minorities, in particular African Americans.  Every semester I broke a little more over the history of abuse and injustice they have endured. 

I always did a lot more listening that talking in these classes.  I had so much more to learn than offer. 

They were sacred spaces, these African American Studies classes.

In every class there was often at least one student who had a hard time.  This student was always white and entered into conversations slightly (or incredibly) defensive.  Black students would share their experiences with racism and hatred and this white student would tell them that no, that couldn’t possibly be their experience.  They must be mistaken.  White people don’t act that way.  I can remember in particular one student who quickly became very disliked.  Instead of listening and receiving stories she rejected and defended.  In her frustration she offended and silenced vulnerable sharing.  You could see it on the faces of my classmates.  Every time she spoke up in class those around her started to shut down or get visibly frustrated.  This was supposed to be a sacred space and she was defiling it.  Instead of heart changing dialogue the class found themselves on opposing sides believing that no common ground could ever be found.

I felt bad for her.  Deep down I understood how she felt and the reasons behind her reaction.  It’s hard to hear about the marginalization, mistreatment and oppression of others, particularly when we find ourselves carrying some amount of guilt regardless of whether or not the pain was caused by our own actions or the actions of those that look like us.  Our tendency, in that guilt, is to get defensive.  When we get defensive we sometimes try to discredit the marginalization, mistreatment and oppression.  We put the blame on the other; convince ourselves that they are over reacting, misinterpreting, or exaggerating.  It can’t possibly be that bad.

Unfortunately it is.  But even if it wasn’t, it does us no good to discredit someone’s story.  Their story is their truth.  Trying to convince them their truth is incorrect is not only wrong, but also downright offensive.

I’ve watched with a heavy heart the events unfolding in Ferguson, MO this past week.  It is utterly heartbreaking and difficult to watch.  News of John Crawford’s death split my heart right open.  It’s bad out there right now. 

We have a problem in our country.  We just do.  There is no defending or denying the systematic injustice that occurs on a daily basis in predominantly black communities all across the nation.  We have a serious problem.  Kristen Howerton’s article does a good job of laying out some facts regarding what’s been happening at Ferguson before the shooting and with regard to racial bias and police brutality in general.  I think it’s important to understand the facts regarding what has been going on long before Michael Brown was killed.

I think we also have a listening problem in our country.  We respond to the stories of black men and women much like that girl in my class.  We get defensive.  We try to derail from issue at hand with one-off instances or issues that are beside the point. We as a country are sticking our heads in the sand, unwilling to own or even hear about the racial injustices that exist in America in 2014.  And it pains me to admit this, but I think white Christians are some of the worst offenders of this listening problem.

We need to listen to the stories of others.  Listen without fear or judgment.  Without trying to fix or defend.  We need to seek out the stories of those that are different from us.  We need to really listen to the stories that make us uncomfortable, that twist our insides and leave us feeling a little defensive and exposed.  And then, instead of reacting, we need to sit with these stories for a while until our walls come down and our hearts open and break and recognize these stories as important and true as our own.  We need to listen until we recognize the storytellers as our own.

If we continue to act defensive we will continue to stand at opposing sides and no common ground will be found.  We will do well to remember that when listening to those who have spent a lifetime at the receiving end of systematic injustice, we have much more to learn than offer.  If we can’t do this we will learn nothing.  And what is happening in Ferguson will continue to happen all across our country.

Another Lou to Love

For all of my life I can remember my dad answering my Uncle Tom’s phone calls with the same greeting in his deep gravely voice, “Heeeey Chief!”  And hearing, over the phone, my uncle’s cheerful reply “Heeeey Lou!”

I don’t know why, but my uncle called my dad Lou.  I never gave the nickname much thought, it was one of those things that always just was.   He was Lou and Uncle Tom was Chief.  

*****

For all of my pregnancy with Red I thought for sure I was having a boy.  You can imagine my surprise when, 15 minutes after arriving to the hospital, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.  (There were a lot of surprises in that moment.  The fact that I was holding a baby and not, in fact, still in labor was probably the most shocking.  But her gender did fall towards the top of the list.) 

Names were a tough topic in this third pregnancy.  We wanted to honor my dad, but Tommy and I had different boys names that meant something to us in connection to him.  And, with the exception of one family name my sister had claimed years ago, we really didn’t have any girls’ names that connected to my dad.  Since I didn’t think we were having a girl, and the high emotions behind our differing opinions on boys’ names left us unable to discuss them without (my) tears, we were at a stalemate on baby names right up until the moment Red was born.

A week before her birth my sister had thrown out the name Louisa.  “You could call her Lou.  Like dad’s nick name with Uncle Tom.”  Lou.  It was a thought.  A good one, but not one I took very seriously since I was definitely sure I was having a boy.

Fast forward to the moment, seconds after a nurse caught my baby, Tommy announced that the baby boy I was sure I was having was actually a girl.  A girl for which I had no name.

Once the adrenaline of having just had a baby when sixteen minutes ago Tommy was peeling his dad’s Buick Oldsmobile into the hospital parking lot wore off I tentatively suggested we should name this baby. 

Some of our old names just didn’t seem right.  She wasn’t a Fiona.  And while I loved Breen, my dad’s middle name, I knew in my heart of hearts it belonged to my sisters’ future daughter.  Rory?  We do like boys’ names for a girl.  I threw out Louisa.  “We could call her Lou, like my dad’s nick name with Uncle Tom.”

I was nervous to land on this name, even though it felt right.  Because a week ago this name didn’t even exist on my radar, I feared I was making an emotional decision.  That I didn’t love the name I just loved that it sort of connected to my dad.  Moreover, Tommy hadn’t had any time to consider this name since I was just bringing it up then. 

And there we were, trying to figure out the name for our daughter, a decision that requires more time and less exhaustion than we had at that moment. 

We were stuck between Louisa and Rory, Tommy leaning towards the latter and me towards the former, when my mom arrived with Monster and Toots.  Monster had been so incredibly excited about this moment for months.  He couldn’t wait to meet “his” baby in Mommy’s belly and his reaction did not disappoint.  He ran right over to the chair Tommy was sitting in with Red and immediately started kissing and petting her.  For Monster it was love at first sight.

Tommy said, “This is your baby sister.  What do you think we should name her?  Louisa or Rory?”

And Monster responded, so matter-of-factly, “Louisa.”

And that was that.  Another red haired Lou entered our life.

My mom called my Uncle Tom that night to give him the news of Red’s arrival.  She told him about her name and why we had chosen it.  Later that night he sent her in email.  In it he said the following,

“I feel so honored and blessed to have a new " Lou " in my life to love and cherish forever. That name was created by a special bond over 50 years ago and Tommy & Colleen were unbelievably thoughtful in naming her as they did.”

I think we all feel honored and blessed to have a new “Lou” in our lives.  I can’t wait to tell her about the man we named her after and the ways she keeps him alive.  I love her name, full and shortened versions.  And I love that in her own way she carries part of my dad with her.  He may never hold her, or sing to her, or delight in her in the ways he could her older siblings, but Red carries a cherished nickname and relationship with her.  And miraculously his trademark hair color too.