How It Happens
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After presenting my first workshop at the 2011 General Assembly of the Unitarian Universalist Association, I decided to reward myself by purchasing a gold chalice necklace, which I’ve been wanting for a while. I went to the exhibit hall to one of the jewelry vendors, where the artist kindly walked me through the dazzling display of options. I found a small, delicate gold pendant on a beautiful chain, and when she fastened it around my neck and I looked in the mirror, I fell in love.
I decided to buy it, even though it was three times what I’d originally been planning to spend. As she prepared to take my credit card, I added the cost of the pendant and the chain and asked for confirmation of the total. She, clearly impressed with my mental arithmetic abilities, responded, “That’s right. I don’t want to stereotype, but you’re some kind of Asian, right? So, math is, like, in your DNA?”
I was rendered temporarily speechless.
Many Unitarian Universalists know that our denomination has always struggled with racial inclusion. So for me to hear a remark like this at our General Assembly was a great disappointment, especially just after presenting an emotionally demanding workshop on this very issue. I knew the artist’s intentions were not malicious, and I knew this was what we call a “teachable moment.” But I just wasn’t in the mood to engage. I was tired, and I’ve been burned too many times when calling people—even seemingly nice people—on racial insensitivity. I simply said, “No, not all Asians are good at math. I happen to be.”
She ran my card, I thanked her, and I made a beeline for the DRUUMM booth. Diverse and Revolutionary Unitarian Universalist Multicultural Ministries is an organization for UU people of color, and our booth at GA provides information, chaplaincy, and a place to just hang out. Several of my friends were there. I related the incident. There were grumbles, eye rolls and jokes—expressions of the frustration that we felt about our many experiences of marginalization in our faith communities.
I also posted about it on Facebook. Responses of commiseration, mostly from my friends of color, included sarcasm, irritation, anger, confusion, and calls for boycott. My minister, Fred—a white male—asked whether he should have an “educational conversation” with the vendor. I told him he was welcome to do so.
The next morning, Fred found me and told me he’d had a great conversation with the artist, who had been horrified when she realized the impact of her statement. In tears, she’d asked him how she could make things right.
Upon hearing this, I left plenary as soon as I could and returned to the exhibit hall. As I approached her table, her eyes filled with tears once again and she said, “Thank you so much for coming back, Karin. Can you ever forgive me?”
I sat down across from her, took her hand, looked into her eyes, and said, “Yes.” Tears continued to stream down her face as she told me how she always tried to do the right thing, but sometimes she just didn’t get it. I told her that we all make mistakes, and that I certainly made plenty around issues of sexual orientation, class, age, and even people of other races. I explained that racism was something that is taught to us, and that the only way to fix it is to have conversations like the one we were having right then. I told her that I was grateful for her openness and willingness to talk and that I was sure of her goodness.
Still in tears, she told me she was so incredibly sorry that she’d ripped up the charge slip for my necklace. I said that was a very kind gesture, but it wasn’t necessary, and I meant it—the jewelry hadn’t been cheap. She insisted, “I’ve already done it. It’s done. And I hope that when you wear it, you won’t think so badly of me.”
I responded, “It’s a beautiful piece of jewelry. And when I wear it, I’ll remember this gift. I’ll remember you, and I’ll remember this conversation.” I asked if I could hug her, and I spoke of the many ways in which the forces of the world seek to divide us, and that we had to trust that the love we have for each other would carry us through. I patted her shoulder and said goodbye. She was still crying when I left.
I am moved and humbled.
How quickly had my friends and I been prepared to demonize this woman, someone who I knew was good at heart, because she hurt me through her inability to understand my life experience? How quickly did a pleasant business transaction degenerate in my mind to yet one more example of the ubiquitous, incessant racism I have dedicated my life to fighting? How quickly had my feelings of comfort at being loved and nurtured in my faith community been destroyed at the reminder of how far we still have to go?
We cannot simply ask people of color to be patient and understanding when they encounter racial insensitivity. Such a request ignores our pain and leaves the burden of reconciliation where it has been for far too long, on the shoulders of the marginalized. But neither can we label as fundamentally bad all those who inadvertently cause pain out of ignorance. To do so is to concede victory to the forces that seek to divide us. We must harness the power of love and trust in its ability to hold us.
I am an atheist, but I consider this an experience of the divine. Her life experience was too narrow to inform appropriate actions without education. My pain and brokenness were too great to risk engagement without guarantee of a safe response. So someone else stepped in to build a bridge over the gap, to connect us through the borderlands. And thus, a 68-year-old white woman from Texas and this 37-year-old child of Taiwanese immigrants found common ground.
My friends, this is how it happens. This is how we heal ourselves and each other. Trust in whatever it is that you hold sacred, no matter what you call it. Build bridges and let them be built for you. Allow yourself to be changed. Choose love, and you will create more love.
- How It Happens - July 1, 2014
