The Colorful Image of God

When Did You Realize You Were White?
Do you remember the first time you realized you were White? Seriously. That may sound like an odd question, but think about it. Does a time and place immediately come to mind? For me, it doesn’t. During a season when my eyes were being opened to my own Whiteness, I read Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by Dr. Beverly Tatum. I realized for the first time that if you are Black in this country (or any person with a non-White skin tone), you knew very early on that you were Black. However, lots of white people have never thought about the color of their skin. Why? Because Whiteness has been normalized. Black and brown is different from White so we notice those colors, but at some level, we assume white is normal. I would encourage you to read Dr. Tatum’s book for a more thorough understanding of racial identity development in children but also for you to think back throughout your life and jot down moments in your life when you first noticed race and when you first knew that you were White. After I read her book, I tried the exercise, and here are a few of the first memories that came to mind.
When I was young, I lived in a neighborhood that was White. The only Black kids were adopted and lived two houses down with their White parents. Maybe we talked about race, but I don’t recall. My mom was a teacher at a predominantly Black, public high school and we used to spend time there, especially during basketball games. Sometimes my sisters and I would watch the game (and the cheerleaders- more on that in a minute), sometimes we would help work the concession stand with her and some other teachers, and sometimes we would play teacher in her classroom. Here’s what stands out to me: The students called her “Ms. Bratley” even though her name was Ms. Bradley. I know that we laughed at that. As I reflect on that now, I know that wasn’t something we should have laughed at; this was a part of those Black teenagers’ pronunciation of her name. Just because things don’t sound like “the King’s English,” doesn’t mean they are wrong. I also recall that the cheerleaders’ chants and moves looked very different than those at my own school. Their moves were louder, bigger, more “in your face” than what I knew as cheerleading. My younger self judged that for a long time and thought it “less than” the way the White cheerleaders I knew clapped and tidily chanted their rhymes. My current self can appreciate the cultural differences in cheerleading for sure but also in music, dance, art and so much more. Thank GOD for differences in cultures and the gifts of each culture that we get to experience today. Bring me a step show any day of the week and I’m all in, albeit always a bit jealous that my rhythmically challenged body will never move like that.
I remember watching a beauty pageant on television, probably in middle or high school and seeing a woman of color win. The sentiment in the room, and on the news, was one of surprise. I remember someone saying “she is so articulate” and all of us nodding, as if that was a rarity for a woman of color. Again, normalization that White people can be articulate (and can also be really ignorant and challenged in their communication skills, let’s be honest) but it was different for a woman of color to sound so intelligent. It makes me feel uncomfortable thinking about that story, but it is true. By the way, whenever I start to feel uneasy about my past, it’s always a good time to remind myself of Angelou’s quote, “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” At the time, I didn’t know any better, so I need to let myself off the hook. However, now I absolutely know better, so it's time to face forward and do better.
I could tell a hundred small stories of moments when race was present, even if I didn’t have the words to express it at the time. But that’s just it. I can tell you now, having thought about my role in the world as a White, Christian woman the last thirteen years or so. I couldn’t have done this in my 20’s because I wasn’t conscious of being White. I mean, I knew I was White of course but it didn’t carry the weight that race does if you aren’t White, because my world was pretty White.
In talking to friends who identify as people of color, I understand that race is something that is always with you- there are conversations that take place in homes all across America about race if you are not White. I can’t overstate how thankful I am that I learned about it sooner rather than later. I am so grateful to my friends of color for both trusting me with their stories and for helping me do better over the years. I am lucky to have so many courageous, truth-telling, empathetic, grace-filled people in my life. One of the things I know from them is that my story is very different from theirs. Some friends have shared pride was a central theme in their childhood homes - “you are black; be proud of that.” Many friends received “the talk” when their mom or dad sat them down to tell them that the world would not treat them the same and outlined the “rules of the game”- things like putting your hands up quickly when a cop pulls you over, even though you have done nothing wrong.
I pray that God would continue to reveal the differences in people so that I may more fully appreciate the diversity of His amazing kingdom, while simultaneously reminding me of the similarities in all of us, his beloved people. Humans are all made in the incredibly colorful image of God. Every race, ethnicity, and culture gives us another glimpse into just how big God is.