Anytime lyrics from a Michael Jackson song become the title of your latest blog post - you can bet what follows will be epic.
I've been uninspired to post lately (since Easter, apparently) But, I think the dry spell is over. Now, I'm sure by reading the title of this post, you've assumed race will somehow be involved. And, you're right. My husband would probably like me to insert at this point that the views expressed in this blog are mine and mine alone. I have an opinion - that doesn't make me right, but if you don't like it , there are a billion other blogs you can read. Moving on...
I'm not sure where I should start... I guess the beginning is as good a place as any. I was raised in the South. (yes, born a yankee - but there was sand between my toes for my formative years -- so all things being equal, I consider myself a southern girl) I didn't grow up with black friends or white friends - I grew up with friends. I didn't give "race" much thought, honestly. Does that make me sheltered? Naïve? A lucky, privileged white girl? Probably so. That's not to say I didn't see color. I did. But, I didn't see the conflict surrounding it. My roommate in college (and, one of my best friends) was black. She taught me all kinds of things (being the sheltered, naïve, white girl I was) but not because she was black. I remember asking her one time, after she used the "n" word, why is was ok for her to do so - but not me? (or, any other Caucasian - for that matter) She had a pretty good answer, I thought. Basically, she supposed it was like how women can call each other "bit&#es" as a term of endearment - but we wouldn't tolerate a man saying it. Same for the "n" word. White people had used it as a label of hate for so long, we dare not say it now.
Fast forward 11 years (yes, it's been 11 years since my freshman year in college -- what?!)
Yesterday I experienced my first black funeral. Enter naïve girl again - I thought a funeral was a funeral. Nope. White people need to take note. I have never been to a better celebration of life. The family entered the church first, followed by 250 folks singing "I'm Free" at the top of their lungs. EVERYONE. Singing, giving praise, hands raised - it was amazing. Everyone was family. Maybe not blood, but they took pride in telling you how they knew the deceased. There was crying, sure - it was a funeral. But - it was - triumphant. I watched it all - in wide eyed amazement. If you felt compelled to stand, raise your hands in praise or call out during the service - you could. Jim and I are currently looking for a church - I kept thinking, I wonder if they would mind us coming here? It was moving - in a way, quite honestly, I haven't been moved in a long time. .
Ok, ok -- time to tie it all together. What does all this rambling mean? Well, maybe nothing to you - but I had a realization. I think, like a lot of people, I have always towed the line that we are all the same. It seemed wrong to suggest that any of us were different. Guess what, we're different. All of us - men/women, white/black, gay/straight -- and that's not a bad thing -- it's a beautiful thing. I don't want us to all be the same - how boring would that be?
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