When Ferguson Burned

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.