Battle Flags

When I was nineteen, I spent the summer after my freshman year in college working as a camp counselor in Michigan.  It was a wonderful experience in so many ways, and the people I worked with were fun and loving and inclusive.  I was one of very few people at that camp with brown skin, which has been my reality in most of the communities I find myself in.  Up to that point in my life, standing out was never really that hard for me.  But then one day it was.

On a lazy Saturday after the campers from the week had gone, I had to drive into the very small town outside of the campground to do my laundry.  I went alone, and I remember the day being warm and sunny and feeling happy about all that I was learning so far from home, on my own.  And then in an instant, my mood turned cold and I felt afraid – in a way that I had never before experienced.  I had driven by several houses with large confederate battle flags proudly displayed, and suddenly the color of my skin was all I thought about as I tried to find the Laundromat.  I became nervous, and I felt alone.  I didn’t know anything at all about the townspeople.  And yet the symbolism of that flag in my nineteen year old mind was powerful enough to scare me deeply and to make me feel embarrassed to be in my own skin.

Part of me wanted to just head back to camp – to the people who knew me and liked me, but I had to get my laundry done.  With a mixture of anger and sadness topped with insecurity, I grabbed my quarters and my bag of clothes and went into that Laundromat, feeling so small.  Gone was the smile and carefree mood I had only minutes before when I started my drive.  Now I wondered as people looked at me what they thought.  Were they judging me by my skin color?  Did they think that I was not as good as they were?  Were they disgusted that I was there?

Although I logically knew that those few houses did not represent the entire town (or at least I hoped that was the case), and that I should not assume anything about the townspeople, or even about those specific homeowners since I did not know them or their reasoning behind their flag displays, my logic did not prevent the overwhelming feeling that washed over me that I was not welcome there.  Nobody had to say or do anything overtly harmful to me that day in order to strip away the comfort of hospitality that I had felt prior to that moment.  I had encountered a symbol that did the work of making me feel alone, unwanted, and momentarily made me question my worth to those around me.  I tasted a sip from the cup that in my mind was called racism, and it was toxic.

It is now sixteen years later, and I have heard about high school minority students being targeted overtly and hatefully since the election, facing realities much scarier than I have ever experienced.  I have seen photos of graffiti proclaiming white supremacy, swastikas, and sentiments like “Gay families = burn in hell!” over the past week.  I know for some the fear is more than just symbolic.  It is tangible.  It is heartbreaking.  And for others, the fear is based on what could happen, what the symbolism of this particular election seems to suggest, and in truly not knowing who will be standing with them in their darkest moments … and if perhaps they will be standing alone.  Either way, the fear is real.  And I cling to the promise and the responsibility of knowing that perfect love casts out fear.

Overall, I feel like I have been privileged as a black woman in the communities I have been part of.  Though there have been other occasions in my life when the bitter cup of racism has been handed to me, it has always passed quickly from my lips.  But I realize that there are many who are forced to drink from this cup constantly – and sometimes the cup has a different name –  and some of the people who are handing out the cups don’t seem to realize what they are actually offering.

This has been a dark and heavy week for many since Mr. Trump was declared our President elect.  I have struggled with knowing how to respond, seeing the extreme hurt and fear and anger from those who feel that a vote for Mr. Trump was essentially a symbol of support for his rhetoric – which has been harsh and even hateful toward so many people groups in our country.  There are people who went to bed on Tuesday night feeling welcome in their American homes, and woke up to feel that hospitality suddenly stripped away, left to question their worth and what many of their fellow Americans actually think of them.

I learned a long time ago that grief is a process.  As much as I long for unity and hope and reconciliation and love in all things, I think those who are grieving should have space to grieve.  And I join you in those spaces.  For those who are afraid, I hope that you will hear the voices and see the actions of many of those who surround you – regardless of who they voted for – saying that you are heard, you are important, you matter, and you are not alone.  I hope the masses will speak against racism and xenophobia and bigotry and sexism – Trump supporters, Clinton supporters, and third party voters alike.  It is in the darkest moments that we each have the greatest potential to shine.  The stage is set.