Experiencing Racism, Inside and Outside of the Church

My experiences with prejudice and my prayer for the church

I remember my first experience with racism very clearly. I was a fourth grader at a ballet lesson, having just recently moved to Florida from a small town in Texas close to the Mexican border. Though our time in Texas was short-lived, most of my friends I had made there were latino. I would eat Mexican candies with my friends and speak Spanish in school with my teachers. I loved being a part of a culture that while unique, still similar to my own.

In Florida, my ballet teacher recognized the potential in me as I had excelled at the dance classes I had signed up for. She was so impressed that she asked me to be a teacher’s assistant for the pre-school class before mine. As a child myself, I was practically giddy to be given such high praise. I began coming to these classes and assisting, as the little kids danced away and their mothers sat in the front of the classroom to watch them.

One day as I was walking by two of the mothers, I heard one of them say in total disgust “Wow, so they’ve let more of them in, huh?” Something in her tone caused me to listen, as I was perplexed as to what she was talking about. She continued to talk to her friend and began to laugh, saying “I can’t believe we even have those dirty Mexicans down here!”

My heart froze as I looked around the room and realized something perhaps for the first time. Everyone in the room was white, except for me. Until that point, I had yet to realize that I was different from everyone else in the room. I also wondered why I was being called Mexican when I was clearly Dominican! Why did this woman believe that Mexicans were dirty and bad, anyways? Mexicans are dope! At this time in my life, the statement was more confusing than hurtful. Sadly, my experience the next following year at a predominately white Christian school continued the theme of mocking the color of my skin.

Students would make jokes about how high I must have jumped over the border, and how fast I must be able to run. The only time I heard black history mentioned at my Christian school was when a bible teacher suggested that biblically, black people became slaves because they were descendants of Abraham that he and God had cursed. I’ll never forget the tension in the room as my friend (the only black girl in the entire school) looked down at her desk, not making eye contact with anyone in the room. He had unintentionally singled her out. I remember feeling scared for her and also wondering where did that leave me? I’m not black but I’m also not white. Was I cursed too?

I remember the anxiety that I would get (and honestly would still get) when my mother would order food at a drive-through for us. There were countless times when she would pull up to a KFC to order for my brothers and I, only to get chewed out by the employee on the other end of speaker. “I can’t understand you! Speak English! Go back to your own country, lady!” I was always anxious for her, but not because I was ashamed. In fact, my mother’s voice is one of my favorite things about her. What would make me anxious is the fact that someone could be so cruel towards the person I loved most in the world.

When I turned 16 my dad (who is a successful doctor) took me to a car dealership to buy my first car. While you might expect a pushy salesman to come right up to us and try to make a deal, no one in the lot would even look at us. After standing around for quite while with no one offering to help, my father approached a salesman and asked to see the car I wanted. The man barely looked up from his desk, saying “Oh, sorry, we’re real busy right now. I’m not sure if anyone can help you.” Looking around the room, it was clear they weren’t busy. They just saw us as a waste of time.

I remember going to the mall shopping for homecoming. I was so excited to try on all of the beautiful dresses and to feel so pretty. I remember we walked into a designer dress store, and as I began to pick out some things to try on, one dress in particular really caught my eye. My mom and I went to the store clerk to ask her for my size so I could try it on, and this was her response: “Oh, that one? No, you should look at some other dresses or maybe even try another store. That is going to be way too expensive for you.”

I wish that I only had these examples, but there are so many more.

The time I went on a mission trip to Mexico and the entire van of white students vented (what was clearly passed down from their own family) how they wished Mexicans would get over themselves and stay where they belonged.

The time a crush I liked told me he would never date a girl who had brown skin like mine.

The time a boyfriend of mine told me he would never have kids with me or someone darker than me because than we wouldn’t know ‘what’ they are and they would be confused.

The times I felt the need to straighten my hair before school because I didn’t want my curly hair to get made fun of again.

The times people have stared at me and my white husband with disgust as we walk by.

Or the times I’ve been given glaring looks as I spoke on the phone in Spanish, in public.

Where do we go from here? To be excluded, mocked, hurt because of the color of your skin leaves you with deep wounds. Where is one to turn after experiencing this and far more severe versions of this evil?

Acknowledging racism in one’s own story is painful to re-live. Just like any other trauma, being vulnerable enough to publicly share the ways you’ve been humiliated and degraded is not easy. What makes the trauma of racism significantly unique is that while other types of abuse can leave you guessing why you were singled out, there are no questions about what made you the victim of someone’s malicious prejudice. It’s the color of your skin, the texture of your hair, or the accent in your voice. It is clear that you are hated because you are different.

How do we heal these wounds? Where do we go to process what has been done to us?

While most Christian counselors are qualified and eager to work through the wounds of sexual or emotional abuse, fewer are prepared to deal with the wounds of racism.

Why?

If you are black or brown, you innately carry the experience of what racism is. Each experience may be different, but no one has to teach you that racism is trauma. If you are white and have not actively pursued understanding the minority experience in America, than you are most likely ill-prepared to help heal the wounds that come with the communities of color. When you don’t try to learn or understand, you are naive to the reality of what these groups of people deal with every single day.

The same goes for the church, which is horrifyingly still one of the most segregated places in America. I have to believe that the church Jesus desires is one filled with the creative expression of every color, every nation, and every culture. One where everyone is not only represented, but equally empowered.

My prayer is that one day, when we look back at this time and this political climate, we will be able to say that the church rose up above offense and allowed love to lead. But I fear we’re failing at this. I fear that the next generations will remember us for our hatred, and not our love.

Yet I have hope that our story isn’t finished.

I have hope that our story isn’t over yet. I have hope that our nation can come to a place where they are eager to listen to the person on the other side of the table. I have hope that the power of the gospel can bring life even into places where death reigns supreme.

I do not profess to to be an expert in systematic racism, black history, or racial reconciliation by any means. All that I am is someone willing to be honest about my own personal experience, and to hear yours too.

I know that I am an imperfect person, but I am desperately trying to lay down my own arrogance and offense and allow love to lead.

Can you say the same?

This is my prayer:

Lord would you open our eyes to see.
To really see your Spirit.

Would you teach us how to walk in truth.

Would you show us how to grieve losses and offense.

Would you show us how to bridge the places that seem impossible and hopeless.

Father of abounding hope, would we feel your embrace as we walk on this journey, knowing that every step of the way we are not alone.

Would the reality that we are understood by you cover all offense.

Would you bring repentance and forgiveness.

Would you fill us with wonder and hope.

We need you to expose the darkness.

We need you to come in full justice.

Lord, we are tired.

We are achy, and frail

But we know you are strong.

We know that in the midst of chaos and confusion, you are somehow not shocked or surprised.

You are sovereign.

We know that you desire for your bride to dance in unity.

To sing, to celebrate, to lead out of freedom.

Would a spirit of freedom fall on your bride, in such an undeniable way.

Would we get to be a part of a generation that is strong enough to lay down our pride and run towards hope.

We need you to come in fullness.

We recognize that this issue is so much bigger than ourselves.

We also recognize that nothing is bigger than you.

So we wait.

We long.

We hope.

We dream of a day where trauma ceases to exists, and harmony abides.

We wait for that glorious day.

We choose love.

We wait.

We choose love.

We wait.

We choose love.

We wait.

We wait.

We wait.