Perhaps intrigue was the initial drive. Perhaps God had begun to open my eyes to the world.
I eventually left teaching and entered full-time outreach ministry, where I spent the majority of my time working with kids of color. I don’t think it had anything more to do with them needing an adult to befriend and mentor them, and me being an available adult to fill that role. That, and the Spirit seemed to think we were a rather good fit for each other.
They also seemed to need me just as much as I needed them.
So I went to Jamba Juice with Leila, a first-generation Tongan, and I stood in line for Frappucinos at Starbucks with Jenise and Monique, who were black. Three Latinas, Flava, Stacy and Maria, proposed an after school exercise club to their high school’s administration and invited me, their newly appointed advisor, to come along and sweat.
We talked about race and we talked about faith and spirituality. I asked them questions about their families, and although I was single at the time, they learned about mine.
One day Leila and I sat on the sidewalk. A song always on her heart, she strummed her ukulele while I asked her questions. It was our usual Tuesday afternoon routine.
“I don’t like white people,” she said bluntly. I looked at her.
“Um, Leila, you realize I’m white, don’t you?” She nodded. Tears filled her eyes.
“But you’re different. You don’t count.” She went on to tell me about the white people who threatened to take away her family’s house, and how her white teachers were always telling her what to do. White people didn’t listen to her. They didn’t respect her. They took one look at her and judged her based on the color of her skin: stupid, lazy, ugly.
I put my arms around her and let her cry on my chest. Hers was not a judgment about me, but an association she’d made by how most white people had treated her.
I could only say I’m sorry.
