Going Back...for the Future

On a cloudy January morning, just days before MLK and the storming of the Capitol building in Washington D.C., I stepped through the doors of our country's racial past. 

The doors were actually the entrance to The Legacy Museum in Montgomery, Alabama. A friend and I had decided to make the short drive from Atlanta after finishing up a book we read together on racial reconciliation. We were both eager to learn more. 

As we walked into the museum, I quickly realized the experience was going to be different from other civil rights exhibits. For one thing, it was dark inside, with only a few visually attractive but dimly lit displays. The staff greeted us in quiet, almost reverent voices, akin to the way you would expect at a funeral home when you pay your respects. Even the security guards checking our bags held my gaze as I moved through the checkpoint, possibly taking a moment to also scan my disposition.  

We proceeded to make our way to the first display screen which showed a short film. It was a re-enactment of a small girl, maybe nine or ten, being sold to a plantation owner. In the scene, her father was carrying her across a field to a group of men on the other side. He walked slowly, tears in his eyes, as he made his way to the meeting spot. In the background, you could see what appeared to be the girl's mother and other relatives watching from a distance. As the child reluctantly let go of her father and was placed on the ground, one of the men fastened a heavy iron collar around her neck.  Another man held the end of a chain leash that attached to the iron collar in his hand. In the other hand he held a whip. My throat grew tight with emotion as my mind tried to make sense of what was occurring, as if there could possibly be another explanation other than sheer horror. 

The next display held a map of the slavetrade pathways that sprawled across southern states and into familiar cities. Cities like Memphis, Tennessee where I grew up, and cities like Auburn, Alabama where I went to college and met my husband. Cities that I loved visiting on vacation like Charleston and Savannah. Cities that included the one where I currently reside. 

The irony of my unencumbered life in these places did not escape me. 

I made my way through the rest of the museum, carrying the discomfort of the stories as if they were my own iron collar. What I saw bothered me in a way that I hadn't experienced before. I tried to sort through my surfacing emotions as I moved down the long corridor, the exact location of what was once slave stalls. Slave stalls. Stalls for humans waiting to be sold. Humans. Sold. The words flipped around in my mind like clothes in a dryer. 

I knew that I understood slavery, civil rights, and racism from a headspace, but allowing my heart to go to these dark places in history was a uniquely different experience. For most of my life, the narrative I told myself was that I was separate from these stories. They weren't my story, after all. I loved all people, was not a racist, and had even worked to provide equity in many of my professional endeavors. 

I was missing, however, the part where I stepped into the shoes of my black brothers and sisters and began to grasp (although I know I will never fully understand), from a head and heart space, the oppression other people in my own country had endured, and still endure. The same country in which I had been given privilege.  

And although my experience walking through the museum created unpleasant feelings on that January day, I didn't ignore them. I've come to believe, over recent years, that I must lean in to these feelings instead of push them down or try to spin a positive. If we can find a way to do this work together as a country, I am confident we would have a huge opportunity for growth, and even more, begin to heal our broken places. 

In other words, we must find a way to sit in the discomfort of our collective story if we, as American citizens, are ever going to truly reconcile our past for future generations.

"In other words, we must find a way to sit in the discomfort of our collective story if we, as American citizens, are ever going to truly reconcile our past for future generations."

This is not new news if you have ever been to a therapist or have been forced to work through your own pain or grief.  You realize, over time, that you have revisit difficult memories, and it takes time, a commodity that we usually don't want to sacrifice. This is especially true if you aren't able to see how you could be a part of the problem. Unfortunately the alternative - avoidance - only creates more problems. Resentments build and your relationships begin to fall apart. This exact scenario has repeatedly happened in our country between racial groups, which brings us to where we are today. But how do we solve this together? 

How can we collectively do the shadow work of our country's racial past so that future generations live in a thriving community where racism is eliminated and differences are celebrated? 

These questions are complex and nuanced. But after a year of seeing unprecedented political polarization and racial unrest, it's time for us to take a different course of action. Action that takes courage. Action that is focused on peacemaking, not just peacekeeping. Action that can brings us closer together. 

Discovering this type of preemptive action his has been my quest for the past year. I desire a different future for my kids and grandkids. And while I believe I will be on this journey in some way for the rest of my life,  I wanted to share a few practices that have helped me lean in. 

First of all, pray and explore your own hurts. Do this anyway. Before you can begin to bring healing to your community, you may need to better understand your own wounds, or the places/words/people/things that cause a trigger or emotional reaction. As a person of faith, I truly believe that only God can heal these wounds and relationships, but no matter what you believe, there is a better path forward that living with wounds that only bring anger, fear, and shame. As my therapist once told me, "You can't have healthy relationships with unhealthy people." Consider that you may need some time to work on your own heart and mindset. Go see a therapist if you are able to. 

Second, start your own journey toward understanding racism and the parts of American history that you may not have learned about growing up. While I believe there is a time and place to discuss racism with our BIPOC friends, I've learned that it goes a long way when we show up to the relationship having educated ourselves. Of course, there are many ways to do this, but here are a few suggestions. 

If you are a reader, check out my growing list of bookshop selections for adults, teens, and kids.*  

There are also a number of black voices to listen to such as Lisa Sharon Harper, Latasha Morrison, Jemar Tisby, and Bryan Stevenson to name a few. Listen, listen, listen. 

Another option might be to grab a friend and work through this training for white bridge builders. It is not only a wealth of information and perspectives, but it's only ten dollars, and might just blow your mind. I know that I had misunderstood the scope of challenge for minority populations, and I've worked with diverse populations in various environments for the past twenty years of my life. I wish I'd had this kind of understanding sooner. 

After the aforementioned things, consider how you might diversify and/or deepen your relationships with people of color. Take the initiative and share a meal together. Take a moment to become aware of your tendencies to either move towards or away from people who look different from you.  

But whatever you do, do something, even if it's small, knowing that each and every step you make towards healing our country and ending racism matters. 

And in case no one has told you this today: You matter, my friend.