My then almost Mother-In-Law stood at the head of the table, sharing her speech with our family and close friends. She told the story of the first time Euwayne brought me home, how I - a white girl - had circled the Jamaican feast spread out on her dining room table, dove into the jerk chicken thigh with all its spicy heat, with only a naked bone left on my plate as evidence that I didn’t just tolerate it; I loved it. She said how easily I meshed with her family, saying, “Anna blended so well with our family I forgot she was white!” Our rehearsal dinner party burst with laughter until our sides hurt. It was and still is one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.
I was reminded of that familial feeling this past Saturday as my husband Euwayne and I attended BCU’s creative, educational and positive celebration of diversity through the “past, present, and future.” The energy in the gym ignited a deep sense of belonging and community. Whenever a new song played students would pop off the bleachers, swaying to the melody’s familiarity. Flags representing home wove their proud hellos. Singers, musicians, poets, actors and actresses all pulled us into a story. So much so, that I almost forgot I was white.
My husband and I wrestle against racism every day. His pain became my pain the day we joined our lives together - that’s part of what it means to become one flesh. Early in our relationship we talked intentionally and seriously about being an interracial couple - what that meant to us, what our backgrounds were, what our families were like, and what pain we carried. We followed the news together and cared deeply about the presidential race. It felt like an exciting time to be an interracial couple. Then, in July 2016 when I went home to Minnesota for my sister’s wedding, waiting for Euwayne to join me, we heard of the fatal shooting of Philando Castile. I cried myself to sleep that night. I felt like humanity had lost another battle. And my heart woke.
I felt like I had been in culturally diverse settings all my life. But I was blind. I had no idea what discrimination was like. How could I? I’d hardly experienced discrimination until I experienced sexism. The belief that one sex (usually the male) is naturally superior to the other is not just rampant in our society, it is systemic, and it’s woven throughout some of my own experiences as a woman in ministry testify of the reality.
It was through this lens that I began to see. Brokenness is the common denominator of humanity. It can successfully bind us together. When we see, hear and understand someone else’s pain, we’re often drawn closer because something resonates in us. Sexism and racism aren’t the same, but they’re similar, and through this window, I saw my ignorance. I wasn’t completely blind to racism. But I’d chosen for years to stay silent. I used excuses like: I don’t know where to even start? What can I even do? This doesn’t really even involve me, does it?
Racism is defined as “a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human racial groups determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to dominate others or that a particular racial group is inferior to the others; a policy, system of government, etc., based upon fostering such a doctrine.” Therefore, if I remain silent or inactive, I perpetuate a systemic racism - the system that discriminates against my husband, my extended family, my friends wrestling with DACA, and my future biracial mocha babies.
My dad has traveled often for work - I’ve never feared for his safety. But I would be lying if I told you I didn’t worry about my husband coming home at the end of every day. I would be lying if I told you panic doesn’t arrest me when I think about what could happen if Euwayne is pulled over by law enforcement. I would be lying if I told you my heart doesn’t break at the fact that some day we’ll have to sit down with our twelve year old son and give him “the talk” and no, I’m not referring to the “birds and bees.” Racism is something he has to be mindful of every day in even the most routine moments - things many take for granted.
Just like Euwayne and I lean into one another in our brokenness and pain, I want us to lean on each other. Southern, we have to fight racism better than we have been. While we’ve made strides, this weekend again proves that it is not enough. While faculty and staff have hosted race relations dialogues and students have been able to glean from panel discussions, we must do more than just talk. Listening to each other’s personal stories is powerful. But talking about racism without further action is not powerful enough to promote racial reconciliation. I’m tired of seeing racism and bigotry eclipse our campus’ beautiful diversity. It’s evidence that brokenness persists and hasn’t been thoroughly addressed. Breaking the silence is just the first step.
Southern, we must continue to aggressively write policy changes, implement multifaceted diversity and inclusion training, hire faculty, staff, and administration which reflect the student body. We must push for this together, each one of us, and not back down. And we must do so now, not tomorrow, and not next year. Why? Because we should not, cannot tolerate another episode like this each year in February. We should not, cannot tolerate another individual on our campus feeling isolated or attacked because of his or her skin color. We are better than this. “[We] must become the revolutionary fellowship of interracial love that Jesus desires or fail in our mission,” says Ty Gibson.
Long before Euwayne and I were even officially dating he asked me, in his partially-sarcastic, totally charming way, “How would you like to change the world with me?” We celebrate seven months of happy and sacred marriage this February. My name is Anna Bennett, and changing the world is just want I intend to do. How about you?