I didn’t know Michael Brown. I never walked the streets of
Ferguson, but when I saw the first stories of his death it affected me. I am
white. I am from the Pacific Northwest. I currently live on the opposite side
of the world, yet I haven’t stopped thinking about Michael, Ferguson and the
tension his death revealed.
You’re probably wondering, “How are you connected this?” I
grew up in a white middle class family in the Pacific Northwest. There aren’t
many African Americans where I grew up. As such there was a period of my life I
was ignorant of the struggle, of the tension that is the African American
experience. Going to university an hour east of St. Louis educated me. Not only
did I study the local history of tension between white and black, but I made
friends with those not of my background. Campus organizations, dorm rooms, and
sport brought us together. These things gave us the opportunity to see each
other as teammates and friends. What started as a vague notion of historical
injustice began to form in my mind as a glazed over truth. I’ll never forget
going to a diversity conference with one of my professors, only to discover the
purpose of the conference was to address the issues of black and white and how
to form a whole out of the two communities. At that stage I didn’t know
anything was broken. But I knew something powerful brought us together, that
there was a divide, even though I didn’t understand it.
When I moved to Texas I saw the divide. Friends showed me
maps of the city and showed me where minorities lived. I drove around and saw
the differences with my eyes. I didn’t understand why one side of the street
had more and the other less. Didn’t they all pay the same taxes? I started to
see the injustice. I started to see the white community continually running
away from minorities, blocking them out. I saw the special white fairways, so
they didn’t have to see what I saw. I felt confused, “Why would people do this
to each other?” Then one rainy night I saw the truth.
It was a high-end society event for charity. White people were
giving to white people and white issues. Black people were serving. Brown
people were cooking. It was the clearest racial divide I had ever seen. It was like
seeing a mythical dragon alive, well fed, and flourishing. I struggled to make
sense of that night. How is it that such racism still exists? It made me want
to change the color of my skin. I felt so disgusted I didn’t even want to look
like those people. What do you do when your eyes are opened? I didn’t know what
to do, but I knew I couldn’t stand for that kind of world. The world that vilified
Michael Brown, and made a profit by keeping him and others like him down.
I know why Ferguson burns. It’s anger and frustration being
let out. It’s the logical side of our brains rebelling against the illogical
culture of oppression. Media may spin the violence, use it to explain how “black”
people are, but its only because they make a profit out of fear. If they felt
the same way people on the streets did they would be burning cars and
businesses too. They would hurt, just like Michael’s family and all the
protesters do. Instead they hide behind fear and exacerbate the issue. They don’t
want justice, they want money, or in some cases, to donate to a charity of
their own creation. They pat themselves on the back for their generosity, but
their generosity is self-serving.
Breaking the chains of oppression, racism, and the economic
divide takes community. It was a community in Texas that welcomed me in, asked
me to be part, and made what happened to Michael personal. I became a coach. To
a team of young promising men from the other side of the divide. I often
laughed at the situation, as my own fears of inadequacy played in my head. I
used humor to glaze over my fear. I formed drills to press into the stereotypes
I feared most. I made myself go through the motions. I made myself take part. I
targeted my fears and worked to destroy them. Joy was the best weapon. The joy
of shared activity, of watching players develop. Of watching them overcome
their battles, fears, and obstacles. I found myself caring deeply about the
future success of my team. I wanted to give them more than physical skills, I
wanted to give them an attitude they could take with them through life. I want
them to break chains, just as much I want to break them.
When Michael died, it was though he was on my team. That
someone had unfairly gunned down one of my players, because of fear. I have
been angry, sad, frustrated, sometimes I don’t even know what to say. It’s hard
to talk about something that foreign to other people’s experiences. They often
don’t understand, much like I didn’t while at university.
When I heard about the protests and the over-responsive
nature of the police I envisioned someone doing that where my team, my
community and my players lived. I thought, “What are you doing? You don’t even
know you’re making this situation worse!” Fear is profitable. Fear is a bullet proof
vest, a riot shield, and an armored personnel carrier. Fear is a helicopter
with a spotlight, making sure everyone on the ground obeys the loudspeaker.
Fear is what drives the use of force. These things make sense in a warzone;
they don’t make sense in neighborhoods.
I have never walked the streets of Ferguson. I didn’t know
Michael Brown, but when he died the whole world heard about it. I heard about
it. I saw images of fear in my neighborhood, of my friends being arrested for
peaceful protest. My friends weren’t the ones burning cars, though their neighbors
did. His death re-opened wounds and for many globally re-opened the
conversation about racism and long held divides.
I know there is injustice in the world. It’s not a black and
white issue. It is an issue of community. Of choosing to see another person as
an other: as something, rather than someone.
The fires of Ferguson will go out. One day the scars from
Michael’s death on the streets of Ferguson will be erased. The passage of time
does not heal wounds, it is a community that draws together, despite its
differences, that makes lasting healing. I hope the death of Michael Brown
brings a community together, a community that has been fracture by fear, by
fairways, and by time. The foundation of the community working to bring
together these differences in found in Jesus Christ. Whose simple prayer for
his people can be summed up in this, “That they all may be one.” I pray that
world becomes the world we live in, that we don’t have to see any more Michael
Browns. That all people of all colors will be able to see each other as
brothers, sisters and friends. That our barriers and obstacles would be torn
down. That the armor of fear would be cast aside. That the love of Christ would
takes its place and we would all be made whole.
These issues are not just American issues, they are present
in every culture, ethnicity, city, town and suburb. We all need to be made
whole. Even if we’ve never walked the streets of Ferguson, or met Michael
Brown.
