I have met the enemy and she is me.

I have met the enemy and she is me. 

I’ve known this for a long time.  I can’t remember the first time I realized that I perpetrate injustice in the world regularly, if perhaps unknowingly and/or ignorantly.  But I been knowing it long enough to know better.  And of course because I have this awareness, I’m also gratefully and painfully aware of the horror that I experience when I figure out how I am participating in and creating injustice and oppression, reifying hatred and bigotedness.  I know this. 

But GOD it sucks to find it out again.  And because I’m lucky . . . .

I have met the enemy and she is me. 

I was taking Norah to daycare last week.  It was the first day of summer and the first day of daycare.  Certainly a bitter sweet day. During the school year, Norah ordinarily rides a bus from school to daycare on Thursdays and Fridays and I ordinarily pick her up on these days, as close to the pickup time as possible because I’m me and I can’t get my shit together.  Or rather, I have shitty boundaries at work. And at home.  Whatever—not the point.  
Because Norah only attends daycare two days a week, because she rides the bus to daycare, because I am usually the last parent there to pick up the last child, I have really no working knowledge of who goes to her daycare.  Or who their parents are.  In fact, Melissa and I were recently remarking that we only know a few of the daycare teachers because I have a unique and tiny subset of self-diagnosed social anxiety where I don’t like to meet Norah’s teachers or daycare providers or parents of her friends.  I think I’m afraid of homophobia, but again—not my point today. 

Norah is prepared for this day, which she is mostly dreading.  I have done my best to give her as much control over it as possible since she's not getting to sleep late and watch TV and do all the things she thinks kids who don't have to go to daycare are doing.  SO she's wearing whatever she wants (dirty clothes she slept in last night) and she's going full on "natural" because she surely doesn't want me combing her hair this morning.  She has a small Rubbermaid container full of LOL dolls and their accompanying junkie things.    Perks of being a kid and having a semi-lazy, semi-empathetic mom who understands sometimes you just want to be dirty and nappy and surrounded by LOL dolls.  

When we arrive at the daycare, she bolts out of the car and runs to the door, where we have to wait to get buzzed in.  As we approach, she much faster than I, we encounter another adult and child combo waiting to be let in.  I don’t recognize them and in my extreme ignorance, I assume it’s because they’re new to daycare.  The child is in her tweens/early teens (this daycare takes kids through 8th grade).  She’s got brown skin, darker than Norah’s.  She’s holding a basketball under one arm and has the stance of someone who knows how to play basketball.  (I look like a dork when I’m holding a ball of any kind so I recognize the Other.) She’s wearing athletic shorts and an old worn-in clearly favorite T-shirt  Her hair is in a kind of messy bun/pony tail combo.  She looks sleepy.  The adult is older than I am, but not by much—maybe he’s in his early 50’s.  He’s got peach skin and he’s balding and wearing glasses.  He’s wearing typical white dude business casual clothing, a yellow polo-type shirt tucked in to his khakis with a brown belt and some 50 year old man loafers.  He’s got on a name badge for work.  He looks impatient and they both look like they don’t know how to get in the door.  I push the intercom button and tell the disembodied voice that it’s Norah, Lisa and “some others.”  What an odd way to say that.  I don’t know why it came out that way. 

We all step inside and I stop at the unattended desk to sign Norah in.  Norah has bolted off behind me, without saying goodbye or anything, which is typical for her and me these days.  I tell myself she’s lucky that I am laid back and don’t insist on huge goodbyes and displays of public affection, which she has lukewarm feelings about.  As I’m turning to leave, without speaking to anyone at the daycare to confirm they know she’s here, I see that the “others” who arrived when I did are giving one another a hug, like a sweet and tender hug. 

And I’m surprised.  


As I’m walking out to my car, in the 145 seconds it takes me to get to my car, here are my thoughts:

How weird that they are hugging.

Why are they hugging?

Why do I think it’s weird?

I guess it’s because he’s obviously some child care/foster care/social worker type of dude dropping her off for the first time at this daycare.  He didn’t know how to get in.  She wasn’t helping.

I guess I assumed she wasn’t happy to be here.  She looked kinda grouchy.  She hadn’t combed her hair.  Her clothes didn’t look fresh.  I mean they didn’t look dirty, but she looked like she rolled through the dirty clothes on her way out the door. 

No judgement here.  If I was going to daycare when I was 14, I’d be going in my dirty clothes too.  Especially if I was a foster kid and new here at this kinda lame white churchy daycare. 

He seems maybe out of touch about what that experience might be like for her. 

But MORE IMPORTANTLY why is that professional dude giving his client a hug?  Fiftyish professional social worker types know not to give young adolescent girls hugs.  It’s questionable all the way around.  People get confused.  It feels like risky behavior. 

Not that I don’t do risky.  Of course I do.  And how cool that they have the relationship where he can provide her with that support when she’s getting ready to do something shitty. 

Wait a minute. 

Why do I think he’s a social worker/probation officer/family home worker? Why do I think she’s a foster kid?

Oh my God. 

Because he’s White? Because she’s Black? Because he’s dressed professionally? Because she’s dressed ratty? Because he’s got a name tag on? Because she hasn’t combed her hair?

I am the shittiest human being on the earth.  There could be lots of back stories that explain “the others” and there tender hug here on the first day of summer and the first day of daycare.  What a giant loser I am for telling myself that age old racist bullshit story about who people are.  Kids look like kids.  Parents look like parents.  They all come in different shapes and sizes.  He was probably her dad.  That was the kind of hug a dad gives his daughter.  Maybe after his weekend.  Don’t go there.  They probably have a very happy and connected intact family.  I’m such a bitch. 

I mean, look at us.  Probably somebody could think the same thing about us. 

And then I get in the car.  And I look at myself.  With my professional clothes and my dorky old lady glasses. And my stupid white lady bob.  And my name tag. 

And then I picture my sassy pants daughter this day.  In her ragtag dirty clothes that she slept in last night. With her VERY nappy hair that I haven’t brushed in days.  And her toys all packed in a Rubbermaid bin.  Appearing to be all her worldly possessions.  And her running off without a single moment’s thought of “I love you Mommy,” or “Bye, see ya later!”  And me without a single moment’s thought of “I love you baby,” or “Have a good day! I’ll try not to be the last parent today!”

And me turning and walking out the door consumed by my petty and stupid story telling. 

And it occurs to me that Norah and I are the mirror image of that man and his daughter.  Only we fit my dumb ass story so much better than they did. 

Here’s the point. 

This is what white privilege looks like.  It’s telling yourself stories about who people are in the 145 seconds it takes you to get to your car.  Or to pull your gun out.  Or to grab your purse closer.  It’s the stories we tell before we think we’re telling stories. 

It’s the assumptions we make.  Based on the nothings we see. 

And it’s the absolute self-absorption that is required to miss our own culpability and participation in these stories. 

I don’t know who that man is and who that child is.  And I don’t know what their relationship is.

I do know that the story I told myself was the same asshole story that leads police officers to hold a person at gunpoint for trespassing while he is picking up trash on his own property; or that leads police officers to tackle a teenage girl at a swimming party because they think she is fleeing the scene of a crime; or that leads a teacher to assume that the clowning kid in the back is threatening bodily harm, which leads to a felony charge by the school resource officer. 

These stories are deeply embedded.  We have to pay attention to what we are thinking, even when we aren’t really thinking anything. 

I’m sorry, so sorry, for my prejudice and bias and shittiness.  I will keep trying every day to do it better.  But I will also have the balls to acknowledge when I am part of the problem.  And I am a part of the problem.  Fuck me. 

Because I'm lucky? Or just dumb. . . .

So today’s news from the United Methodist Church has left me feeling shitty. 

I first realized the significance of the General Assembly, or whatever it is, a couple of weeks ago when my dad saved the Star Telegram article for me to read about the pending LGBTQ drama. I dismissed it.  I was honestly a little irritated.  Why is my dad trying to harsh my mellow? 

We’ve been feeling slowly but surely more and more confident that Open, the community where we have started to worship, is as place where we can settle in and settle down, a place that we feel safe in, a place where we can begin to share with our daughter what a spiritual community is all about.  So when my dad gave me the article, I thought—that’s irritating.  And it’s not my community.  Because my community is very clearly and OPENly committed to creating a welcoming space.  And not just a welcoming space, but a space that is not preoccupied with sexuality.  It’s a space that is preoccupied with radical love and acceptance and social justice and making the world a better place.  It’s a cool place.  So no thanks, Dad, I’m not gonna read that article. 

But it stayed in my car.  I didn’t get around to throwing it away. 

And then in worship I heard that there was a delegate from Open going to the convention.  Or whatever it is.  The lingo wasn’t important to me and neither was the fact that we were sending someone.  I came up in a different denomination, and gratefully, I came up in a household where I mostly didn’t have to fight internalized homophobia.  And since my dad was my preacher, I haven’t ever been worried about how God was doing with me either. 

And since my dad was a preacher, I also have always been keenly aware that The Church is a fucked up place.  Just like the people who make up that human institution.  I don’t mean fucked up like unforgiveable.  I mean fucked up like we are all human.  We are fallible.  Churches are fallible.  And denominations are most certainly fallible.  And in my book, denominations are relatively unimportant (thanks to the Disciples of Christ for indoctrinating into me the unimportance of denominations, right?). 

And then two nights ago, a couple of Facebook friends shared a video of a young guy at the conference or whatever it is, giving an impassioned plea to the people in the massive room that he was a valid and righteous human being and important to the church. 

Melissa, my wife, overheard it.  It was clearly a powerful video. But the power was lost on us.  We aren’t into denominational politics.  We are barely into church.  We are VERY into social justice and being living examples of what it is to embrace humanity with compassion and kindness and that’s pretty much what we think the story of Jesus is about.  We each have some deep feelings (and thoughts) about spirituality and our unique experiences don’t always reflect the other’s experience.  But we get that God, the Goodness in this world, is out there and we know that God, the Goodness in this world, finds us to be good and our love for one another and our relationship with one another to be a sacred love.  We know this.  We’re not worried about it. 

We also know that we live in a stupid and fucked up world that thinks other things about our love and our relationship.  We know that Norah’s second grade teacher encouraged her to lie to her friends about having two moms, that she had a mom and a step mom (which she doesn’t), because it’s just easier for them to understand that.  We know that we got rejected from several daycares because when we were looking I insisted on scheduling the appointment at a time that my wife could come.  We know that our well-intentioned neighbor felt compelled to tell us when we moved in that she checked with the whole neighborhood and everyone seems to be “cool with the situation” at our house.  So this whole thing with the United Methodist Church seemed kind of boring.  And really, we’re over it.  Yes the whole world is full of people who are homophobic assholes.  Just like it’s full of racist assholes.  And many more idiots as well.  But we keep on keeping on, doing our kind and compassionate thing, staying true to the Goodness in this world, being who we are.  And we didn’t spend much time thinking about that video of that gay guy who is mad at his denomination because they’re just like all of the other assholes out there. 

And then more and more things started showing up in my feed on FB about this UMC thing.  And so I thought I would inform myself.  And I started reading articles.  I am still unsatisfied with the information I have been able to glean, because I generally don’t concern myself with denominational politics.  What does it matter anyway?  I’m going to a cool church . . .

What does this mean?  The Traditional Plan . . . sounds like it means that the denomination of the United Methodist Church is taking a very loud stance on gay people.  People in same sex relationships can’t be preachers in their churches because god isn’t cool with that.  And people can’t get married in their church if it’s a same sex marriage because god isn’t cool with that either. Who cares.  I didn’t need the United Methodist Church to get married or to know that God is cool with me.  There are plenty PLENTY PLENTY of churches that are wrong.  So the United Methodist Church is another wrong church.  Why do I care? 

Well here’s the thing.  And the reason why I needed to write this. 

I do care.  I care because I have a daughter.  She has brown skin and curly hair; she is multiracial; she is adopted; she is highly sensitive; she is smart; she is an only child; she lives in a house with two moms and has a relationship with her birth mom, giving her three moms.  She’s got a lot of stuff in her life that make her unusual.  And in this world, being unusual presents challenges, at best; but often times it presents barriers.  Being unusual can be a reason to be attacked.  Or killed. 

So I have this challenge in my life and that is to give her all the tools I can possibly give her to BE in this world.  I want her to be a kind and compassionate person who is preoccupied with social justice.  And I think my wife and I, with the help of our amazing families and cool neighbors and good teachers, are on the right track. 

And I was so excited to finally find a place of worship, a spiritual community, that could join us in this endeavor-- our family endeavor to make the world be a better place by being “Three Girls (who) Can” by being proud and strong and fearless, by knowing that in our differences we are beautiful and we are better for being different.

And now I am being challenged.  I cannot bring my child into a worshipful place that is supposed to be about focusing on the Goodness in this world, that is supposed to be about focusing on God, when that place doesn’t feel safe.  I know The Church is not a place.  But the place we go to is a place.  And it is located in the First United Methodist Church in Denton.  And I now know that the First United Methodist Church in Denton shares the name with  a movement that says that god is not cool with me or my wife or our family.  And yes I know that’s a lie.  And I know you still love me.  But we can’t do this like this.  We need to be in a place that has absolutely no affiliation with that kind of hatred.  Because that’s not focusing on the Goodness in this world.  It’s distracting from the Goodness in this world. 

And then I realize that I do care about this issue.  In fact, I am angry.  I feel betrayed.  Suckerpunched.  Like I’m so stupid for sticking my neck out again.  For thinking that I could worship again.  That I could be a part of something again.  Because this world is so chock full of idiots and assholes that I can’t even find the Goodness in this world because I’m busy trying to see over the heads and shoulders of all those people.  It doesn’t feel safe anymore.  It feels shitty. 

My family and I are cool with us and we are cool with God.  We know there is Goodness in this world.  I am not sure we are going to keep looking for it at church.