Thank you for listening and commenting (on Facebook) for the past month as I have shared some of my memories. I was grateful to have an audience and a sense of accountability with the greater cultural conversation around race. There are more stories to tell, but where my story intersects with others, I have chosen to hold those in confidence, unless and until I have their permission. For now, they will have to wait.
I’m trying to decide if I will keep writing and if it is best to share on this platform. I don’t know yet. Feel free to vote, lol. Apparently, March is National Women’s Month, National Reading Month, and National Nutrition Month?? That’s what Google says. I could easily write about all of these topics, but idk.
I’ve considered writing about religion, my cult experience, or more stories around rape & recovery. This is something I’ve always wanted to do, but now I finally have some time. Again, my main goal is preserving my memories for my children and grandchildren, but you’re welcome to lurk, lol. Beyond that, I believe we need each other. This is me letting my little light shine to bring, hopefully, some glimpse of goodness to your world.
Thank you again for being such a supportive, loving community. I deeply appreciate the connections that I’ve developed across the US and that have lasted for so many years. You guys are the best!
A little over a decade ago in Nashville, Tennessee, I stood trial against the man who raped me at gun point. The trial lasted almost a week. There was a guilty verdict, and he was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole. For the record, that man is white and not black.
There’s a lot to share from this chapter in my life, and I may write about those memories in the future. But for this post, I just want to share something from the jury selection process that I was a part of and that has stayed with me all these years.
As much as people hate jury duty, I am very grateful for the anonymous men and women who served at my trial. I have never been a juror myself. It was interesting to have an inside view of how the process works. I was in the courtroom for the selection process and heard the prosecuting attorneys as well as the defense ask their specific questions. I remember that it took a whole day, as individuals would stroll in, one at a time, sit and respond to the brief interrogation, and then leave.
There was a mix of all kinds of people, as you can imagine – men, women, young, old, black, white. While I was in the courtroom, I really was not visible as I sat in the back and off to the side, watching from a distance. The state had some protocols in place to protect victims, especially from the media, which was also on hand.
There was one man, a black man, that I will never forget. During his questioning, he essentially said that he had remembered this event when it happened. That surprised me as it had been over a decade ago, but it had been big news at the time. Dateline NBC covered the case. This disqualified the man from jury duty, but as he left, he turned back to look at the courtroom from the doorway, and his eyes scanned the room. When he found me, he said, “God bless you!” emphatically, several times before he left.
It was a powerful moment. It was an honor to be acknowledged that way. That this stranger took the time to see me and to speak words of encouragement, while I was reliving the greatest moment of despair, meant the world to me and echoes in my ears to this day.
Many rape victims feel invisible; some hide intentionally. No one wants to talk about it. And yet that just makes it worse. Silence just fosters shame, when there should be none.
Sir, whoever you are, “God bless you!”
______________________ For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
I had the great privilege of living in Asheville, North Carolina, for a few years and being a part of the small but powerful Faith Church International – some of the most favorite years of my life. I sang on the worship team for a season with some very special people and I loved it. Shout out to Jim, Miriam, Matthew, and Ryan – you and the whole FCI family are loved and missed!
One Sunday we were having a church potluck, and I was supposed to bring cups or napkins, something like that, and I had forgotten. So I jumped in the car and made a quick trip to Walmart, not five minutes away. I ran in and made my purchase and was in the car to head back to the church, when I heard the most beautiful sound.
A black man was standing outside of Walmart on the sidewalk just singing his heart out – full on, free-styling praise. I was just fascinated. I don’t know what he was doing there or why he chose Walmart, but I wanted to hang on to his every word.
I drove back and forth a few times just to listen, but I was torn. I had to get back to church for lunch! He didn’t appear to be trying to raise money, you know, how some buskers will do. I admired his bravery to be so bold in public.
Funny how I had just been singing inside, but here he was singing outside – kinda like stumbling upon a special creature in the wild versus expecting to see one in a zoo. Makes it even more spectacular.
I went back a few times, but I never saw the man again. I will never forget his beautiful music and his beautiful soul.
_____________________ For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
Many years ago when I was living in Gainesville, Georgia, I received a postcard in the mail announcing the opening of a new church in town. I don’t remember the name of it, but it was clear to me that it was a black church, and culturally-diverse loving me thought, “Oh, I’ll go.”
At this time in my life, I had been in and out of all kinds of churches, and honestly, mostly out by this point. While my inner faith was always solid, my ability to attach to any community was near impossible – no matter how much I wanted to. It felt akin to being doused in oil and trying to climb a flagpole. There’s probably a hundred reasons for that, and we could discuss divine providence all day long, but I just want to highlight that if churches were countries, my spiritual passport is full and I’m a well-traveled church-goer.
So one Sunday I got up and ventured out to this new church. They were meeting in a large room in an office park, not a typical church building. And very much like the BLACK SALON post from a week ago, I walk in and voila! I am the only white person in a sea of 100+ black people. The difference in this experience was that I knew more of what I was walking into. I didn’t think I was going to be the ONLY white person in the room, but I fully expected to be in the minority.
Well, I didn’t flinch. I was there for it. I picked a seat, sat right down, and acted like I belonged. There’s a part of me that loves to have church, if you know what I mean — TD Jakes kind of church. Get your praise on! If we’re going to sing, shout, dance, cry, etc., sign me up! Put me in the back, and I will have an out of body experience, lol.
This church was so warm and welcoming, wanting me to feel comfortable, God love ‘em. They were just the best. You know when you’re a regular at church, and then everyone knows when a VISITOR walks in. That was me, the white elephant in the room, lol.
And so, you know, everything really goes pretty much as expected with preaching and singing and praying, until we get to the end and it’s time for an altar call and a collection. I get some holy-rolling prophecy spoken over me, something about taking gifts back to my people – which I’m guessing was white people?? Hey, I’ll take it. I wish I could remember all that was said. This is why important moments should be written as they are lived and not 10, 20, 30 years later!
Honestly, I was overwhelmed at this point. The meeting had already gone on for hours, and actually I think it was literally 4 hours, lol. Black church is not over at 12 in order to make it to lunch, like the Baptists, lol.
Anyway, after I had been sufficiently blessed by the speaker and then just like a scene in To Kill a Mockingbird, the doors were closed and locked until a very specific amount of funds had been collected. I’m assuming this was to help their fledgling church get established, but I was floored!! I could not believe that it was actually happening, and I did not dare make a move out of place, lol. Me, trying to fit in. I couldn’t believe how much it mimicked the book! Like is this a real thing? Is it a black thing? Does this happen all the time?? I was not prepared, lol.
Eventually, we were set free, and I left, exhausted, but with a full heart and this great story to tell.
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For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
In my career as a high school English teacher, I had the pleasure of reading the novel To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee with my students. I had not read it in my upbringing, and it was a delightful gem to discover in adulthood (wink, wink — iykyk). In my opinion, it’s a literary masterpiece and deserves every accolade ever earned. It adroitly deals with race and character issues on so many levels, and I wish it were required reading for everyone.
I want to talk about a scene in the book with Calpurnia, who was the much-beloved black housekeeper for the Finches, a white family. One Sunday, Calpurnia takes the Finch children to church – an all black church. The kids experience some “reverse racism” from one of the ladies and Calpurnia defends them.
This puts young Scout, a precocious girl, on alert, and she notices that Calpurnia uses different language when she’s around her black friends than she uses when she is at the Finch house. Scout confronts her about this, bluntly asking why her language changes. Scout knows that Calpurnia is educated, intelligent, and can speak “correctly,” yet her speech completely changes when she is at church.
Calpurnia replies, “It’s not necessary to tell all you know. It’s not ladylike — in the second place, folks don’t like to have somebody around knowin’ more than they do. It aggravates ‘em. You’re not gonna change any of them by talkin’ right, they’ve got to want to learn themselves, and when they don’t want to learn there’s nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut or talk their language.”
Basically, code switch. Or when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Calpurnia was adapting her grammar, cadence, and vocabulary, etc., to fit in with the people she was around. She could easily fit in with white people when needed, and she could easily fit in with black people. And she almost had to hide the fact that she was educated to not alienate certain black friends who were not. There was a risk and a challenge for her to be accepted equally by both cultures. She walked a very delicate line and moved fluidly between both worlds and her language was a clue.
I’ve heard some talk about “code switching” in our modern society, though not much lately. Anyone can code switch, black or white, or young or old, right? Every generation has their own slang and lingo. We have an urban dictionary if you get lost, and there are TikToks that will translate what your teens are saying, lol.
I love clever word play. I love to play with language and “code switch,” whether I’m communicating with young people or hanging around black friends, or — , or –, or –. For me, it’s fun and my intention is to fit in and honor the diversity of culture. But I’m also aware that some might be insulted by this – some teens would roll their eyes in contempt and maybe a black person would feel offended, though none has said as much.
But would they? Is it cultural appropriation or affirmation? Can it be neither or both?
NOTE: I know I am touching very lightly on a much deeper topic. I could write a whole dissertation on this, but for now, for this purpose, I trust this is enough.
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For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
I love this memory. I’m grateful to have a happy one to share after the last couple of posts.
When I have time, I like to go for a drive and venture down roads I’ve never been on before. I love to see new sights, and you just never know what you might stumble upon. I had quite the surprise one time when my sisters and I were heading to the beach in Florida. We made a wrong turn or 12 and wound up on some residential road in a small Georgia town with a house that had a naked Barbie beach scene set up by their mailbox, complete with sand and 50+ dolls! Apparently, it’s a thing – you can Google it. We knew nothing about it and had quite the laugh over our road trip escapades and still do, lol.
One afternoon I was taking a drive near Decatur Church of Christ, my home church growing up, and turned down a random road that led through a very poor area. I wouldn’t say it was the projects, exactly. There were houses, small, mostly run down with littered yards. There was also a little neighborhood church that I imagined the whole community could walk to. I don’t remember what denomination it was.
As I rounded the corner by this church, after driving by row after row of sad-looking houses, BAM! There was a house with the most stunning garden I had ever seen. Lush flowers of so many colors, beautiful stone work, little groupings with statues, benches, etc. It looked like something you would see at a million dollar estate. It seemed very much out of place for the rest of the neighborhood, which made it even more stunning.
At the edge of the yard, closest to the street, there was a large garden sign that said something like this in the most elegant script, “If you think this garden is beautiful, you should see the one built by my Father’s hands in heaven.”
Well, I was wowed and felt like I had truly stumbled upon a treasure. I drove back and forth several times just to take it all in. I continued to drive by the house for years when I was nearby. I have no idea if it is still there, but it made a lasting impression on me – such a bold statement of faith and exquisite beauty. Truly a little piece of heaven on earth.
On one of my drive-bys, I actually saw the man working in his garden – and of course, you’ve guessed by now, he was a black man, elderly actually. He may have no idea the extent of his ministry with his “secret garden,” but it certainly impacted me in the most wonderful way. The way he cultivated and surrounded himself with beauty while deeply living his faith, I will never forget.
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For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
Ugh, this one’s hard. I really debated whether to share this story. I think it’s maybe the most embarrassing one for me; in fact, I fully expect you may have some second-hand embarrassment on my behalf, lol. Up until now, I’ve tried to share my memories chronologically. But on the timeline of my life, this one comes before the last post. So I was even younger and more naive. Let’s keep that in mind, lol.
My first teaching gig right out of college was in Little Rock, Arkansas at a Christian school called Cloverdale Christian Academy. I graduated in December and began teaching there in January. I was thrilled to have found a job mid school year, and I was impressed that they hired me as a Church of Christ girl while they were Assembly of God. There’s a whole month of posts that could come from that sentence right there, lol, but for now, moving on.
As I drove back and forth to work, I would often stop at a restaurant that was in front of a strip mall and sat right on the corner of a major intersection. It was either a Shoney’s or a Denny’s – something like that. There was also a homeless black man that I would always see, begging for money. He was tall and thin, probably 15-ish years older than me, and he was always smiling and friendly. Over a few months, a nod, a wave became a hello, how are you? Until one day, I asked if he wanted a meal. After all, that was the Christian thing to do, right? Feed the hungry?
So essentially, without any forethought, I had asked this man to join me for dinner – to which he responded…no. And he kind of motioned to himself in a subtle way, and I picked up that he didn’t feel appropriately dressed to enter the restaurant with dirty, unkempt clothes, and I wasn’t close enough to tell, but he probably smelled and was clearly self-conscious about his appearance. Well, I hadn’t thought of that, and I was surprised that what I thought was an offer of kindness had been rejected.
So the next day or two, one day after work as I passed this same corner, I stopped and invited my homeless man friend to go shopping for new clothes. He was thrilled about this, and off to Walmart we went. I told him to pick out two of everything he needed – so two pair of jeans, two shirts, socks, underwear, and he was so happy, just gleeful like a kid as he was picking out new clothes. And I was happy too, feeling like I was really helping someone. I enjoyed seeing the joy on his face. I paid for everything which was maybe $100ish, which would have been a significant chunk of change for me at age 21/22, but I was happily doing my Christian duty.
The next time I saw my homeless friend – and I hate that I don’t remember his name – he was wearing his same old, dirty clothes. I was shocked. Like what?! I thought he would join me in the restaurant for a good meal. I thought I had helped him, where he could dress nicer for a job, etc. And I noticed that he didn’t really look at me, and within a few days I never saw him again. And within a month or two, I had moved to Indianapolis, and that was the end of that.
But it is a story with lessons that have stayed with me all these years. I remember feeling just helpless and sad. I didn’t feel taken advantage of. It’s when I learned that homelessness is a much deeper issue with so many layers that I am not equipped to handle. The movie Slumdog Millionaire addresses this well where children in India are purposely maimed so they can be pimped out as life-long beggars. I can’t fix that. I can have the best intentions, but sometimes that’s not enough.
It dawned on me that this man probably returned the clothes for the money to do who knows what with. Or were they stolen from him? I don’t know, but I do know that it’s hard to be poor. There’s a whole culture of obstacles around poverty. While I’ve never been homeless, I went through a phase in my life where I had to learn how to be poor, and even with all of my white privilege, it took a decade or more for me to climb out of it.
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For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
My second teaching job early in my career was at an inner city school in Indianapolis called Crispus Attucks Middle School. I was 22, in a religious cult, newly married, and pregnant – God help me. I started teaching in October-ish of 1992 to fill in for someone else who had left or maybe they were on maternity leave. Some details are fuzzy.
I was hired to teach a 7th/8th grade remedial reading class. The class sections were small, so they were more personal. I loved teaching, and I loved connecting with the students. Sadly, I can’t remember any of their names. There was one girl – white – who really seemed to bond with me. I remember she gave me a baby gift before I left, which was very thoughtful.
I remember another student — black, male – whose attendance was irregular. One day he came to class with a bullet hole in his arm, and I was horrified. That was the first time I was that close to the struggle of a poor, inner city Black kid, and I felt so powerless to help. I have no idea what his home life was like, but I always endeavored to make the classroom a safe space with positive interaction.
Interestingly, my supervisor – I can’t remember her name, but I think she was an assistant principal – a Black woman, did not like me. I remember getting a poor review from her, and I did not really know why. I was used to performing well and receiving the marks/feedback to reflect that. I was always a good student, doing everything I was supposed to do, going the extra mile, etc., and I thought that translated into my work ethic.
Was racial difference a part of her opinion of me? I don’t know, maybe. It felt like it. Truly, I was so young and naive and way out of place at a school like Crispus Attucks, although I gave it my whole heart. Maybe she was trying to send a message to me, like “Girl, toughen up and quick!”
Sadly, I withdrew before the end of the school year. A student (black) had pulled a gun on a male teacher (white) just down the hall from me, and I felt like I was at too great a risk to stay, especially being pregnant with my first child. I hated “quitting” and I hated leaving my students.
I moved on to tutoring where I had flexible hours. I became certified in Orton-Gillingham and worked with dyslexia students. In some ways, looking back, this time just feels like an unredeemable stain on my career. It feels like a “failure,” but I appreciate that I had diverse teaching experiences, which I think ultimately, made me a better teacher.
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For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
If you’ve read any of my posts in this series, you’ve noticed that I’ve used the simplest terms of black and white – and even brown – to discuss race. Is it offensive? I don’t know. I hope not. That’s not my intention, but that doesn’t mean the words don’t trigger somebody. And it’s hard to please everyone, though God knows I try, lol.
As an English teacher, we used to encourage students to use the more formal phrase “African American” when writing essays. I actually posted about this on Facebook a decade ago to ask, what was more proper or preferred? While people chimed in with their opinions, I had one of my former students message me privately and admit that he preferred “Black” over “African American” because he said it made him feel even more different, than just being called an “American” like everyone else. I really appreciated hearing from him and acknowledged the vulnerability it took for him to speak his truth, and I have basically defaulted to saying “Black” ever since.
I get it. I always thought it was weird to refer to myself as “Caucasian.” Like where did that come from? At least you can point to Africa on a map! Where the hell is Caucasia?? IDK. And I don’t care. 200+ years ago we all came from somewhere else.
I used to teach a lesson on word connotation, and I would use the example that there are a lot of names you could use to refer to a woman: female, dame, lady, girl, chic, ma’am, etc. And while they all mean essentially the same thing, the word you might choose depends very much on the context – and surely someone could be offended, but the point of the lesson was to choose wisely – to know your audience and choose words with precision and use synonyms…(Where my TPS students at? lol)
Connotation matters. There are all kinds of words for white people and all kinds of words for black people – and you probably know some that I don’t. And sometimes, WHO says the word matters, right? Like a black person may call someone a N—, and it can be a compliment. But be careful if you’re white! Or someone may call a woman a B—-, and it can either be derogatory or high praise, depending on who says it, how they say it, etc. Context matters.
If you’ve ever been hurt by words or labels or name-calling, especially due to race or identity of any kind, I am so sorry that was ever your experience. I can’t change that, but I can bear witness. Someone said that when someone bears witness to your grief or pain, that is where the healing begins.
While this may be a difficult conversation, I thought it was appropriate for Valentine’s Day, a day of love and flowers. Truly, “a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.” ~ Shakespeare
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For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
On one of my visits home from college in the early 90s, I needed a haircut. I didn’t have a regular stylist and my straight, super thin hair doesn’t take much to maintain, so I made my way to where I remembered there was a Great Clips, or something similar at Northlake Festival (for my local friends).
Well, I go walking in, without an appointment and without much thought, only to find it was now a black hair salon. Three ladies look up at me and I know they were thinking, what is this white girl doing here? And as I scan the place, I was thinking the same thing. It was an awkward moment.
For a hot second I debated what to do – turn around and leave quickly and risk appearing racist or stay and play it cool?
You know me. I sat right down in a chair and made small talk with the girl who came over to cut my split ends off. It didn’t take ten minutes. And I was mortified most of the time but tried not to show it. I felt so out of place.
The ladies were gracious, but I’m sure they had a good laugh when I left, wondering what this white girl was doing, showing up there. Although, fair to say it is Atlanta, which is a Black city, and maybe this wouldn’t phase me so much if it happened now; it had just never happened to me before then. Half the surprise was just that the salon was different than I remembered it to be.
As I reflect on this experience, I liken it to finding the right mechanic for the type of car you have. A good mechanic can work on any kind of car, yes, but certain cars and repairs require mechanics with specialized skills. I basically took my Chevy hair to a Ferrari mechanic.
I’ve also had my hair done at an Italian salon in Italy, which was fantastic. I was desperate on my semester overseas. They gave me the best eyebrow shape of my life, despite any language barrier.
I’ve also been to an all Asian salon in my hometown of Tucker, which was great. When I go to pay for services, they literally ask me what I paid last time, and I tell them the truth. Currently, I’m paying a premium for hair services in Acworth, where I masquerade with white privilege.
I adore the movie Beauty Shop with Queen Latifah, Alicia Silverstone, aaaaaand Kevin Bacon! 🙂
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For Black History Month, I’m sharing some of my personal stories that involve race. My goal is to preserve my own memories and honor the past. My perspective is as a white Southern woman, who was raised middle-class and very religious. I invite thoughtful discussion and encourage you to share your stories, too.
Riches and Rhymes 