I am a black man who lives in a very affluent, predominantly white neighborhood. I live in an area that I don’t see or have to think about guns and violence as much as so many others. Even though that is my current living situation in the city I live in, the racism and violence that is still prevalent in the world I live in does not get by me. The fear and the pain and the exhaustion and the wide gambit of feelings does not get by me.
Even where I live, I know what it feels like to see people cross the street when they see me walking by. I can’t forget that. I know what it feels like to watch women grab their purses and fathers hug their children tighter when they see me walking by. I can’t forget that. I know what it feels like to be followed and watched in stores that I go into. I can’t forget those experiences or feelings. They are in my bones and in my blood.
I will never forget what my father and my mother and my grandmother taught me and my two younger brothers about how to be smart and safe. I can’t forget what it’s like to act and speak and dress in ways that help “make other people feel more comfortable” (or whatever that means). Don’t even get me started on what it’s like to code switch for so long that it changes you to the point that you don’t know where you fit in or belong anymore. Some things change you. Some things you can’t forget.
As much as I have experienced in my nearly three decades on the West Coast, I have a hard time comparing my last ten years in Kirkland to anyone living in Georgia or anywhere in the south. I know that my daily experience is nowhere near as hard as my black brothers and sisters in other parts of the country. The fact that any of us have to adapt to fit in or survive should be horrifying. The fact that there are generations of people passing on trauma from unforgettable experiences should keep us up at night. The fact that people have to worry about violence in the neighborhood, the fact that a black man got shot while he was exercising, the fact that any of us feel unsafe on our streets and uneasy in our homes, that is just inhumane. Let me say that again: it is a sub-human way of living. It is less than human. It’s like being an animal. You can’t forget it.
Multiple of my friends who are white have asked me how I feel and what they can do to help.
How I personally feel is disheartened. This shooting is just another (not shocking) reminder of the world that we live in. It’s just a moment where you don’t get to forget. So while I’m enraged and saddened; I’m also just disheartened. Maybe the deepest feeling that I have, the one I am most embarrassed by, is the partial numbness. When I saw the video one of my reactions was “Here we go again. I haven’t forgotten how this story goes.” In some ways I felt deeply and in other ways I felt nothing. That is why I’m disheartened. This shouldn’t feel like a norm. This shouldn’t feel like a story I already know too well.
What may dishearten me most is that I will have to tell my sons the same things that my dad told me and that his dad told him. My kids will have to know and remember something that I wish I could forget.
I know that I have influence in the lives of many white people who I love and call brothers and sisters. For some reason, ya’ll are the people who God has placed me in front of. More importantly, ya’ll are the people who God has allowed me to live with and call family for these past years of my life. So what I ask of you is to help change this. Please say something. Please do something. Please make the world better. Please don’t forget. This means not waiting until the next tragedy to have these conversations. It means not only posting about injustice when someone is shot (as much as I appreciate the posts). It means not being ashamed of being white (we don’t need white guilt) but rather leveraging your voice as a person who is white. At the very least it means having these conversations as a norm in your life. It means having these conversations in your home, out of the blue, even if they are awkward and seemingly unwarranted. It means having an eye to carefully examine yourself and your norms and the norms of people of color in your life. It means posting about this stuff randomly as you notice it in every day life. It means not forgetting Ahmaud Arbery. It means not forgetting me. Start at home. Start with you. Help your families and your friends and your children do better. We have to do better. We can do better.
Please don’t forget.
In moments like these I do try to remember one thing. I try to remember that Jesus promises to return and rule the world with justice. Biblical hope is not just that individuals will fly around in Heaven after they die (which would make every hardship of life on earth a distant, bad memory possibly enabled by an aloof, uncaring, or unable God). Biblical hope is that Jesus will return to earth, raise our bodies up, renew all things, and rule the world with justice. Biblical hope means that suffering is not unnoticed nor ill it go unanswered. We ground justice in Jesus’ mission and vision not our own outrage or pain (as valid as it is). There are so many reasons why millions of marginalized, oppressed, and persecuted people’s throughout history have received Jesus. One of them is because, as the late James Cone said, Jesus is the God of the oppressed. He is the God who sees injustice and promises to rid the world of it. Not only that, He is the only God who has willingly subjugated Himself to injustice and even death. He not only cares, but He relates. He gets it and He promises that He will get rid of it. As the prophet Isaiah declared,
”His government and its peace will never end. He will rule with fairness and justice from the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity. The passionate commitment of the LORD of Heaven’s Armies will make this happen!”
