I fought writing this for weeks. Can I say this? Am I being pretentious, talking about the Big Things like I am any kind of expert?
But also in the back of my mind, the reality: it is my privilege as a white person that even gives me the option to NOT discuss it.
I am a racist.
I hate the word. I hate that I just wrote it. I hate that it’s true.
I know in my head and in my heart that God made us all in His image and loves us all the same. I know that the variation of color on our outsides is a reflection of His great creativity and beauty.
But there is some preprocessing part of my brain that still has an urge to separate people into categories: Us and Them.
The other day, I was downtown. I had just packed my circus of small people into the minivan at the curb, fresh from a birthday party at the museum. They had a chance to decorate their own cupcakes at this party, and I was balancing a plate full of ridiculous-looking something that wouldn’t necessarily look like a dessert to the untrained eye. As I was grabbing the plate of frosting off its holding space on top of my car and getting in, a guy was looking at me curiously.
I felt my body tense. He looks sketchy. What does he want? Are my doors locked?
Then, a half second later, the rest of my brain caught up and shame washed over me. He doesn’t “look sketchy.” His skin is a different color than mine. Jeez. A second look revealed zero red flags. I unrolled my window, wondering if he needed directions or something.
“Can I help you?”
“I was just curious what you were carrying.”
“Oh! Believe it or not, these are cupcakes! The kids got to decorate their own!”
We both chuckled. I went home.
