(It has taken some time now, but I think I am ready to start processing in writing this passion for reconciliation. Please bare with me. It may be a little rough. I plan on doing this in a series of thoughts over the next few… well, however long it takes.)
I am mixed. My Father is black and my Mother is white. My grandmother on my Father’s side, based on what I have been told, was ½ Hope Native American making me a 1/16. I have a cultural understanding that has developed out of my identity as a multi-racial, multi-ethnic and multi-cultural individual. I identify with each of these racial and ethnic identities excluding the Native portion of my cultural heritage. I often consider myself to be a “Third Culture Kid” (TCK).
I make the distinction between multi-racial, multi-ethnic and multi-cultural because they are not the same. In the United States we live in a racialized society that has a narrow understanding of the differences between race and ethnicity. We often times combine ethnic and racial categories and view them as being one. I also make a distinction when discussing what it means to be multi-cultural. One can be multi-racial and/or multi-ethnic, but not know or understand culture or potential cultural relationships connected to the racial and/or ethnic identity to which they may or may not subscribe.
A Little History…
My Mother grew up in Elwood, Indiana. This area is notorious for overt racism. She grew up in a community that was segregated. Her family, excluding her Mother (my Grandmother), was against interracial relationships. My Mother and her sisters all eventually moved to Indianapolis—the largest city in Indiana (also the state capital). My Mother and all of her sisters chose partners who were African American/Black, thus all of my cousins are multi-racial. My Grandfather for the longest refused to fully associate himself with us. In his eyes, for most of his life, we were not his Grandchildren. He recanted what had happened and asked for forgiveness on his deathbed. I was not there, but my family says that it was a redemptive moment for all.
My Father grew up in between Indianapolis, Indiana and a factory town in Louisiana. His Father and Mother, my Grandparents, were both the children of sharecroppers. His parents made the trek north to Indianapolis when the plastic factory closed in their hometown. My Grandparents were factory workers the entire time they lived in Indianapolis. His family accepted my Mother, but they were not necessarily happy with his choice.
Growing up my cousins and I existed in our own world. We lived in an area of the city where there were quite a few multi-racial, multi-ethnic and multi-cultural children and couples. Most of my friends having similar experiences contributed to me thinking that being multi-racial, multi-ethnic and multi-cultural was normal.
As a child I quickly learned how to move seamlessly between each of the groups with which I identified, or so I thought. I understood the differences, I knew the lingo, and I did so unconsciously. Despite all of this understanding, other people struggled to understand me. I was rarely fully accepted by the groups that I identified with outside of other multi-racial, multi-ethnic and multi-cultural people. It is hard for people to grapple with my ambiguous identity unless they are able to intuitively understand it.
Growing up I was not unaware of racism. One only had to drive to the outskirts of Indy to encounter it overtly. Just a few blocks from my high school, close to the heart of the city, people did not hesitate to display confederate flags. So, even in the city it was present and visible. My parents being Black and White in a hegemonic racialized society often took the brunt of these racial attacks. I remember times when we would not be served in a restaurant in the appropriate manner, and those moments stuck with me. I remember being with my biological Father in public when I was younger, and people would ask if my sister and I were his children. They would even stare, and be protective when he disciplined us. As I got older I would go shopping with my white friends and I would be followed through the store. This made me angry.
At the age of 14 I began working for a Christian campground. I would be gone two months of the summer and I loved it. Even on the camp ground though racism existed. Very few urban churches would send their youth for summer, but when they did those youth were always placed in my cabin. If there was a problem with one of those young people I was consulted. Everyone on the campground knew how to work with youth. Why was I consulted on all matters with urban youth or youth of color? The older I got the more questions I asked and the fewer answers I could find. A deep seeded festering lie began to develop in me over time, and bitterness slowly made its way into my heart.
Fast-forward four years…
I moved to Seattle, Washington to attend Seattle Pacific University. In October of 2004 Dr. John Perkins came to speak to the entire University. His plane didn’t come in on time, and so his daughter spoke at the afternoon convocation. It was at this convocation that the realities of ignorance and the need for reconciliation became startling evident.
In Dr. Perkins absence his daughter spoke. The University had not intended for Elizabeth Perkins to speak, but she was phenomenal. It was obvious that God delayed Dr. Perkins plane for a reason. As she walked up to the podium my heart beat with anticipation. Out of the crowd in front of a friend of mine the voice of a young woman rang out in a condescending tone, “Who is she—John Perkins’ mascot? I thought he was going to speak, not her.” My friends tried to ignore the comment, but it stuck with them. After the convocation they shared with us their experience. We, together, felt the sting of her words, and she most likely didn’t realize what she had said.
Dr. Perkins plane was set to come in that evening. A time was arranged for him to speak at a local church. The moment he arrived on campus they hurried him over to First Free Methodist. It was a packed house from the first floor to the balcony to the foyer. It felt like the entire campus was there. The scene quickly brushed the chip off my shoulder that had developed from the young woman’s comment.
As he spoke my heart, mind and Spirit had an encounter. He brought a truth that I had hungered to hear my entire life. The message of reconciliation both horizontal and vertical hit me like a ton of bricks. My local church had skimmed over this message my entire life; and yet I had felt it deep within the core of this faith in Christ from the moment I first encountered the Lord, but I didn’t have a language to express it. He was unafraid and he called out the devil’s lies around me, but more importantly he spoke the truth against the lies that were buried deep within me. Suddenly I had a new language to talk about all that I had been feeling and experiencing for so long. That day hope re-entered entered my life. The chains fell off and I was free.
It was God’s good planning that I was there because I discovered one of the greatest passions in my life—reconciliation. This is at the core of the Gospel. The hope that we can be reconciled both to Christ and to each other is powerful. I am thankful for my multi-racial, multi-ethnic and multi-cultural identity because the message of reconciliation has been made real in my flesh and it is a message I am honored to carry. The being of such people challenges the systems. This ambiguous being begs us to ask questions about reconciliation and what it means to be united to God and to each other even in our flesh.
My life will never be the same because of the hope that permeates this life that is the message of reconciliation brought to humanity through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
