I don't believe in miracles - I rely on them



I don't believe in miracles - I rely on them

Yogi Bhajan

Welcome


You found my blog and as I am experimenting with the weird and wonderful world of cyber publishing, let me explain what
a gunna is: it's a word for all things desirable, something that makes us happy and warm and comforts us when we feel tired or sad or lonely. a gunna is the best gadget in the world! it was leah s first word for all things she wanted. Or you might also know it as: dummy, schnulli, pacifier binky, schnuller...... and so on. So this is for my beautiful




GUNNAGIRLS

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Do we really need more white people to say fuck you?

Ferguson makes me angry.
And yes, closer to home, black bodies being beaten, humiliated and dehumanised make me angry. Driving around in my comfy car, leaving my house in the suburbs, joining the traffic made up of mainly white people doing the same, I am silently seething with anger at all the complacent faces around me. But I also realise that these are  people who would in all likelyhood join me in my righteous anger. Some of them might even stand up and shout fuck you with the best of them  and thus make it appear that the likes of Darren Wilson or even Tim Osrin, Jan van Tonder, or the as yet unnamed UCT students are all abberations and nothing to do with us other good white people.

Is my sudden anger, I have to wonder, really a feeling of pure outrage at what actually has been happening for centuries or is it merely masking my shame at being part of the master-race, the institution of whiteness, which continues to allow, facilitate and white-wash systematic abuse of black mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and children.

And is demonstrating this anger in the face of racial violence not just another way of not owning up to my own part in this tragedy?


I do understand of course that anger is an emotion, and as such it would obviously be absurd to deny this feeling in the face of racial violence. But my challenge here is - and I am extending this to my fellow white people - to look beyond this anger and understand the underlying emotions of shame and fear.
 
The shame of knowing that I am and will always be a part of the evil system of white supremacy and the fear of being identified as such.

So shouting fuck-you might temporarily serve to seperate me from the assholes - but really, what does that achieve other than to  put me in the clear for a second?

And yes I do hear white voices  defending and claiming a right to their anger. Their right to show solidarity with black people.  I am not denying that. I am not making a sweeping statement here that white people have no right to demonstrate their anger. I am questioning if and what we wish to achieve. Today, as we are all sitting in shock with what hapened to this world, I am simply questioning our motives.

Do black people actually want or need our demonstrative shouts of solidarity in a world where nothing changes? Does it help anybody other than myself if I exert my right to my own self righteous rage-indulgence if the assholes still and will continue to reign supreme.

The release that comes with shouting fuck you on facebook or in our own safe circles of like minded people, might make me feel better for a moment or two. It might even give us the connection to our black family that we are missing alltogether in our every day journeys in our comfy cars. And maybe some  people might even defriend us - but really: is this enough?

If we leave it at that, if we are simply using  our white voices once again to speak, write about or otherwise take over the floor of black suffering, we are not even touching the system. We are just making ourselves feel better. 

It is easy to rant via Facebook at the likes of Darren Wilson, because clearly this man is beyond dialogue. But it is also safe for us white people.

It is not so easy however to stand up to the guest at our dinner table, a fellow parent at school or even a good friend, who oh so subtly perpetuates a racial stereotype. Where is our righteous anger, when our near and dear ones expose racial bias, assuming that as a fellow white person I am safe for them to say such things? Does it hide behind a polite smile and then come out in full force in a face book rant about Ferguson? Yes? Maybe?

So how can I actually do something proactive, how can I own up to my role in all of this and take some responsibility for my fellow racists? How can I start engaging rather than seperating. Questionning rather than raging? Dialoguing rather than "fuck-you-ing"?


For that to happen, we need to dig deep into our own white souls to find the hidden racist, the one that has been put there by our white education, our white parents, our white teachers and of course our white supremacist media. But instead of shouting fuck you at him or her,  we can try to understand where he or she is coming from and admit to ourselves, we are not as far removed from the Tim Osrins or even Darren Wilsons as we would like to be.

So here is what I will do today: I will try to stop feeding the beast which is my loud mouthed, self righteous anger and step aside from that particular stage in order to hear the people who are most affected. I will quietly,  privately and in my own circles at first, start to engage my fellow white racists at my dinner table, the playground and the work place. I will use my anger as an energy to help me expose but also engage with racism. And being me, I will of course write about this journey, hoping that others take it with me and we all learn how to be human again together.

Deep breath. 










Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Dear Black People


Dear Black People

I am a nice person, who does not want to hurt anybody.

I believed all my life that I am not a racist. Growing up in Germany, I had struggles like everybody else. Our family wasn't rich by any stretch of the imagination.

I am an over-used cliché.

I am your worst kind.

I am the white liberal, privileged middle class woman with the German accent, who has lived most of her life blissfully unaware of her privilege.

To tell me that race matters would have raised my eyebrows and my defences, because in my world, it didn't. Race was for dinosaurs, race was for racists. Skin-colour was something I did not need or want to think about.  And to tell me that this was of course the big red flag of my privilege would not have made any impact other than to alienate me.

Then, to top it all, I adopted black children. I did not specifically want to adopt black children. As I said: Colour did not matter to me. So I would happily chant with the best of them white liberals: Green, pink, brown, any colour child, bring it on!  And for the longest time, I really did not care that my child was brown. Sure, I battled with the hair, and wondered how to care for the dryness on her little legs - but I managed and did not think I needed much help or advise.

But inevitably and oh so slowly, something dawned on me. To call it awareness would be stretching. It was more like a predawn awakening, a reluctant and confused blinking of my eyes in a changed world of shadows, where my black and white was suddenly blurred  and danger lurked everywhere.

So how come, I asked myself, still rubbing my eyes, that there are no black dolls for my children, no black princesses, no black heroes? How come, (white) people think I am "race obsessed" or "crazy" when I bring these things up and start turning away from me or change the subject?

Then, later when my children started speaking for themselves, another dimension opened up, a black hole (excuse the pun) threatening to swallow me whole, when my daughter, aged three, asked if a person her colour could ever drive a fancy car.

I cried then, I ranted. I hated all white people, I hated myself. I pitied all black people, I pitied myself. I desperately searched for that one thing that would make all the difference so my children would grow up undamaged and not hating me.

I realised there was nothing there for me to cling to.

 I realised I needed help.

I read a lot on the internet. I bought books. I learned about white privilege, institutionalized racism, racial bias, cultural belonging, racial awareness. Those were all new terms to me.

I repeat: I genuinely had NO IDEA.

Is this absurd to you in this world of inequality and oppression? I assume it is.

So what happened to me? When exactly did I learn to close my eyes to injustice and suffering? When did I harden my senses and assimilate the concept of "othering", other people's suffering, other people's problems, other people's children, in order to preserve my plastic happy bubble?

I remember that first time; I was maybe six or seven, walking to the shops with my mother in German suburbia, when a homeless person asked her for money. I was shocked and saddened, that there were people in this world who did not have a home to go to and food in the fridge. But above all, more than anything I wanted to help this man and make the world right once again. My mother said, we cannot help everybody, and dragged me along. When I turned my head to look at him,  I expected him to be sad or angry. But he did not even look at us; he just stared into a space beyond us, beyond sadness, beyond disappointment and beyond anger. But I still felt all these feelings.

Until my instinct to help in the face of injustice and inequality was overridden by a new narrative, the widely accepted excuse for privilege-inertia:

You cannot help everybody so you better learn to be hard in the face of hardship.

I imagine that many more stories like that have been implanted in my mind, informing my attitude towards the "other". Anybody not my colour has always been on the far periphery of my reality as "not really our kind". "The poor children in Africa" was a story my grandmother told me repeatedly to get me to eat her pea soup. "Who is afraid of the black man" was a game we played in the schoolyard. "10 little negroes" was a song I was taught to learn how to count backwards from 10: .....And then there was only one.

We white people all have stories like that, stories we are ashamed of and stories that to this day hold power over us - mainly because we don't allow them to surface and push them back into our subconscious.  Inevitably they come out though:

When I walk at night in my predominantly white neighbourhood and the black man walking towards me threatens me by nothing else than his existence;

when the beggar at the traffic lights doesn't touch my heart, like a fellow human being should;

when the pictures on the news showing black people's tragedies don't scare me as much as if they were showing white faces contorted with grief, the stories are endless.

We are trying so hard (well some of us white liberals that is) not to be racist, not to say the wrong things, to be accepting and welcoming, yet, we fail to see that on a really basic level, we simply don't get it, because to us, the black person is "the other, and in our hearts this excludes them from our human family.

This doesn't mean we are bad people. It just shows our complacency, and somewhat lazy existence in our comfort zone, where we can't be bothered to connect with a wider humanity outside our own closed circles of privilege. And even if we sometimes wish we had a more diverse group of people in our lives - we don't know how to get there.

We make ourselves feel better by being kind and charitable, by giving to the poor and talking to our domestic workers about their children. But there is an unease that never quite leaves us as we are constantly aware of this invisible wall separating us from the "others".

We even tell our children, that we are not racists and that "colour doesn't matter" as if skin colour is an affliction, a bad thing that we need to overlook in order to be kind.

I knew on some level that this was not what I wanted my children to grow up with. I had no idea what to do about it though.

I only knew I needed to change my life.

To start somewhere, I went on a mission to make black friends.

Oh yes, you heard me right: I chose friends by the colour of their skin and I am not even ashamed anymore to admit this. My wish was to be the only white face at my dinner table once in a while, to ask the questions I didn't know to ask growing up in Germany or even living in white suburbian Cape Town. And of course I see the absurdity in all of this: Why would any black person wish to befriend me in order to help me change my life? And how would my white friends feel, when they are suddenly replaced or (in some cases even worse) confronted with the black man at my dinner table?

People surprised me, in good and in bad ways.

I lost many white friends and gained a whole new perspective on life, friendship and rice:

There was this awkward, funny moment, when our 6 dinner guests, all black new acquaintances happened to know each other quite well, but I really did not know any of them. I had made rice and luckily also some pasta as one of our guests upon sitting down remarked, he hated rice. "Are you a rice-ist" I quipped, in this too loud, too quick kind of jokey voice I obviously employ when I feel insecure. After a second or two of absolute silence, everybody burst out laughing - and this evening still remains in my memory as the first of a number of dinners at my house, where we sat until well after midnight, children sleeping on laps and couches, discussing race and all the uncomfortable things we never knew how to talk about. This was when I really started waking up.

Today, some years later, I have the best friends I could have wished for - and yes, some of them define themselves - amongst other things - as black. And the lesson for me in this is: even though it is a somewhat strange concept  to befriend a person because of their skin colour, once I make the effort, I will find  true connection beyond this aspect of our identity in just about anybody I choose to truly look at. And only through this connection can I learn and grow as a person.

No book, no article on the internet on white privilege and no amount of introspection could have opened my mind and my heart and at the same time challenge me in a way that my friendships did and continue to do.

But now, with my growing awareness also comes the fear, that I will fxx this up.  Compared to my black friend family who have lived with this burden of awareness and knowledge all their lives, I am like a toddler in a high school classroom:  frustrated and painfully aware there is so much stuff I have to catch up on, so much I am simply not getting:

Will I say something inexcusable, without realising it? Will I not notice someone being racist towards my friend? Will I mess up by not defending her in the face of blatant racism? Will I patronise her by stepping in and using my whiteness yet again to speak for her? 

And this is where the beauty of a living, breathing friendship outshines the set manual of rules and politically correct behaviours we largely live by in this society: I can ask my friend and she can let me know. Simple as that.

And for some of you  I will always be the white bitch with the privilege - this is also ok, I will learn in time to accept that I cannot be seen by everybody outside the system, whether I like it or not. I will always be a part of the system of whiteness - but I can chose to see myself in the eyes of my friends and try to contribute in some small way to the change I want to see for our children.

Thank you for listening to me.