What’s in my blood is
not what’s in
my heart
My
DNA results say that I am 95% British and most likely completely descended from
the very earliest settlers of Massachusetts, Maine, North Carolina and Virginia,
from both sides of my family, mother and father.
Most likely these ancestors of mine were
escaping something difficult for them, not knowing at all what they were going
to become here in this land, now called the United States of America. Several even came over on the very Mayflower
of Thanksgiving fame. I always wanted to believe that they were brave. But, perhaps it is true. They were selfish. They left oppression to worship freely, to
spread the gospel unfettered by rules set forth by the queen, the king. They were not perfect. They wanted to do the right thing before God
as they conceived God. They didn’t have
everything figured out.
My ancestors have taken land from
Native peoples. Some tried to work with them. Some were successful some were
not. They were afraid and unsure of their ways. Some of them tried to save the natives from
their “savageness” when they believed the world was about to end. They feared
them and fought them for land… to survive. Some tried to escape their anger. Some did not survive. Most times there was no
mercy for the white men. Certainly they
did not understand what they were doing.
My ancestors profited from trading
with the natives and unknowingly stripped the land of its animal inhabitants.
The fur was so valuable to them, more valuable than money. It’s how they developed businesses and trade here
in the new land.
They
took down trees and built homes on land they were deeded by their homeland far
away. They took these opportunities to
better their own lives. With them, they brought guns, alcohol and diseases, that
wiped out entire nations of native people.
They did not know what they were doing and their understanding was
limited.
My ancestors enslaved human beings
to work the land for their own benefit. They fought for their own well being
above others, with their own unclear thinking about race and about religion. Some were Confederate soldiers, or their wives
or mothers. They were white, educated
and privileged. Later, they hired black
men to work in their fields and black women to help in their homes. My mother
always said they loved the “help” like
family. It was accepted even though it
was wrong.
I don’t know for sure what my
ancestors really believed. I wish I had heard in their own words what they had
to say surrounding all of these issues. But, alas, all I hear are whispers from
the grave.
What’s in my blood is not what’s in
my heart. It’s such a paradox of ideas. What’s in my heart comes from my family as
well as from my own experiences growing up.
It comes from how my parents lived within our community. I must confess that I lived a sheltered,
white privileged suburban childhood. I was not afraid and I never thought twice
about forming new relationships.
My parents encouraged me to engage
in friendships with people who were different from us. I loved and grew and
learned about differences and similarities from the loving relationships that
were formed during. I learned acceptance and I learned love from all of these
encounters. But I never felt the sting of being on the other side. I was the one that received the good.
When I went to college and decided
to major in Spanish. My parents
supported my desire to travel and experience the world from Mexico to Europe,
and primarily Spain. During those
travels, they provided me with the resources so that I could explore and
experience immersion in different culture and language without judgment or
jealousy. I developed a wonderfully
loving relationship with a family that nurtured me and loved me as their own
daughter. These relationships continue
and are alive today.
When I became a teacher, I had
students of many different faiths, skin colors, languages and socio-economic
status. I thought and claimed that I wasn’t
there to “save” them, I was there to “help” them and their families survive in
an English speaking country that was sometimes hostile to their being here. But
what was the difference? I would never truly be in their shoes. In trying to help them, did I subconsciously
put myself above them in some way?
I cannot recall even one truly difficult
relationship working with families of all types throughout my teaching
career. I reveled in the days we
celebrated Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday and we recalled his “I have a
dream” speech. In front of me was a
school assembly full of multicultural children, sitting side by side, learning
and playing together. Working in a very mixed school culturally was
enlightening and rewarding. It certainly
shaped my feelings about differences we have, as well as all of the wonderful
similarities we experience and share together.
As I write this, again, I am distraught
with myself. I find that I am continuing to justify my position. My bloodline is responsible, but not me. I’m making
excuses and saying that I am not responsible for any of the hatred that exists
between races, between people. My
bloodline is responsible, but not me.
But oh! I am. I am responsible
because my blood is in me. It is the
living part of me that keeps me alive. I
don’t know what to do with all of the muddled feelings that I have. I want to
love everyone. I want to love like Jesus,
but this love I am not able to manifest of my own volition. When Jesus’ blood was shed, it was shed for
me too, whatever history brings to the table.
I do know that I don’t know. I will never completely understand the
“others”. I will never be on the other
side…can never be. Maybe we, as “whites”
and “privileged”, deserve to be uncomfortable with this. I pray that we never allow hate to continue
and turn itself around. I do not want to
be a white supremacist. I do not want to be a racist. In spite of the potential for hate, I still
strive to be an ally, a friend, and a supporter.
I will always be the privileged
“white girl” from the suburbs and I cannot change that. My forefathers and mothers were Puritans and
Colonists who came across the sea to start a new life. With their own problems and ways of thinking
our great country was built…in spite of their shortcomings. We cannot change
history. All I have is a glimmer of what my family thought, but that doesn’t
really matter now. The damage has been done.
Today I am waving my own personal
flag of surrender. I know I can never
make amends for my people. At the same
time, I cannot bear the weight of all of this on my own weak shoulders. I cannot make progress nor move into the
future and work towards change while looking back and living in the past.
I am truly sorry…sorry that this is
such a difficult time between races and religions, men and women. I am sorry that I don’t understand differences
that relate to sexuality, gender and gender identity. I am sorry that we fight one another on a
daily basis regarding these issues even still.
I am sorry for what I’ve said unknowingly that has hurtful. I am sorry I
don’t and never will completely understand. I reach out with open hands and an
open heart to work for a better way to do life together. Will you work with me?
Will you allow me to enter into a tentative place of understanding? Can we find
a place of love and respect for one another? Will you help me be the ally,
supporter, a friend? I offer myself to
the world and know, without a doubt that I will fall short in spite of my
desires.
I ask for forgiveness, forgiveness
for the unimaginable.
“Father, forgive them for they know
not what they do…” –Luke 23:34
