As I attended the U.S. Senior Golf Open on Friday in Omaha, I pondered. Not about golf or how dumb I was not to apply sunscreen, but about something else. I pondered about my own privilege as a white man in the United States of America.
As I looked around at the spectators and looked at the golfers, I noticed their skin color. And I noticed my own. And I noticed the lack of skin colors other than my own. I'm not a statistician, but it appeared that 99 out of 100 people on the golf grounds were white.
I suppose that when everything seems the same, that's also when things seem very, very different.
So I pondered if it seemed different & odd to anyone else that at this tournament of golf, a sport I love & a sport that is often one of the more exclusive and expensive sports in existence, that there were very few minorities playing or watching. And I pondered if what I saw was actually a microcosm of the world outside of the country club grounds.
And then the Trayvon Martin verdict arrived on Saturday evening.
A decision so racially-charged that there was bound to be opposition and supporters, regardless of whether "guilty" was prefaced by the word "not" or simply left to stand alone. It didn't surprise me that there was outrage, relief, and emotional reactions on social media. What did surprise me was my own response to those reactions. My first thoughts revealed an ugly, disturbing part of privileged ol' me, and showed how far I have to go. Before you right me off, though, promise you'll read to the end...okay? Thanks.
"But maybe they got it right? Maybe the jury did its job?"
Those were my first thoughts. And then I realized. I realized that I have: No. Freaking. Idea. I don't understand what it means to be a minority in America. I don't understand that it might be a complete travesty that a black teen was murdered and no justice was served. I don't understand that it might be saddening, devastating, infuriating as a black man or woman to hear "not guilty." I don't understand that growing up as a minority comes with struggles and injustices that majorities never deal with. I wasn't wearing rose-colored glasses and assuming the best; I was wearing white-colored glasses and seeing only what I chose to see. My own white world.
As I struggle with this understanding that I don't understand, I think I know my response. It's not a response of guilt or shame for being white. It's not a response to fix everything and do racial reconciliation over social media before church at 10 am Sunday morning.
It's simply a response to listen to the hurt & frustration from my black friends. To admit that I don't fully understand. To agree that it's redonculous that a black 17-year old was murdered and there was no jail time involved.
And to marvel at how truly amazing the picture of racial & ethnic reconciliation is in Revelation 7:9. Every nation, tribe, people, & language in unison? God, make it be so.
As I looked around at the spectators and looked at the golfers, I noticed their skin color. And I noticed my own. And I noticed the lack of skin colors other than my own. I'm not a statistician, but it appeared that 99 out of 100 people on the golf grounds were white.
I suppose that when everything seems the same, that's also when things seem very, very different.
So I pondered if it seemed different & odd to anyone else that at this tournament of golf, a sport I love & a sport that is often one of the more exclusive and expensive sports in existence, that there were very few minorities playing or watching. And I pondered if what I saw was actually a microcosm of the world outside of the country club grounds.
And then the Trayvon Martin verdict arrived on Saturday evening.
A decision so racially-charged that there was bound to be opposition and supporters, regardless of whether "guilty" was prefaced by the word "not" or simply left to stand alone. It didn't surprise me that there was outrage, relief, and emotional reactions on social media. What did surprise me was my own response to those reactions. My first thoughts revealed an ugly, disturbing part of privileged ol' me, and showed how far I have to go. Before you right me off, though, promise you'll read to the end...okay? Thanks.
"But maybe they got it right? Maybe the jury did its job?"
Those were my first thoughts. And then I realized. I realized that I have: No. Freaking. Idea. I don't understand what it means to be a minority in America. I don't understand that it might be a complete travesty that a black teen was murdered and no justice was served. I don't understand that it might be saddening, devastating, infuriating as a black man or woman to hear "not guilty." I don't understand that growing up as a minority comes with struggles and injustices that majorities never deal with. I wasn't wearing rose-colored glasses and assuming the best; I was wearing white-colored glasses and seeing only what I chose to see. My own white world.
As I struggle with this understanding that I don't understand, I think I know my response. It's not a response of guilt or shame for being white. It's not a response to fix everything and do racial reconciliation over social media before church at 10 am Sunday morning.
It's simply a response to listen to the hurt & frustration from my black friends. To admit that I don't fully understand. To agree that it's redonculous that a black 17-year old was murdered and there was no jail time involved.
And to marvel at how truly amazing the picture of racial & ethnic reconciliation is in Revelation 7:9. Every nation, tribe, people, & language in unison? God, make it be so.
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