Color

I thought I might escape unscathed

From the virus and the prejudice

I live a Democratic state I surmised

Among the learned liberals who will not bat an eye

To my color.

And then it happened along the frozen aisle

He saw me come and said “You stay away!”

Like I was the plague that passed him by

He turned to face the freezers and shook his head

At this person of color.

It is on them, I shall not be mad

I will take the high ground and not react

I barely settled in the car when I felt a knife twist in my heart

He left more than a scare on me

And how I wear my color.

This is nothing compared to the headlines

He was beaten by the police

He was shot unjustly

He was accused and molested via a body search

Because of his color.

This is nothing compared to history

They had to sit behind on the bus

They had to use different bathrooms

They could not eat at the same restaurant

For they had a different color.

Yet we still do it to one another, color to color

One might be a victim and to another a perpetrator

A stare, a snub, a step aside

Words, violence, genocide

Reactions to colors.

Lord haste the day when You will come

When we shall all be as one

When we will see each other through your eyes

Beautiful, dignified, treasured

Because of Christ.

Colors of the wind

As with most things, I’m often late to the game. Late to catch the joke, late to the reckoning, and late to feeling something.

A few weeks ago, there I was late to the farewell party. The party were sharing stories about horrible summer jobs and trading laughs. I enjoyed the tales and the food, happy not to be called upon. I think. And then D walked into the room, also late to the party. Soon after, M filled him in on the conversation topic and G asked him to contribute.

The conversation then turned into donkey meat. G thought it was a famous Korean delicacy. H, a Korean, said no – it’s likely the Chinese. “Korean, Chinese, they’re all about the same. You Asians look alike.”
I looked at he whom I considered a friend at work, “Did you seriously just say that?”
“I don’t mean to be racist, but can you tell apart Japanese, Korean and Chinese?”

This exchange inevitably threw shade on my first experience. Was I a fly on the wall? Did I exist? Am I my own person?

***

In light of what we celebrated on MLK day last month, it stung. It’s been hard being an Asian woman at work recently. So often I am the only woman in the room, the only Asian in the room, the only Asian woman at the table. On most days, I like to “be a big girl” and not “sweat the small stuff”. But it makes me sad that I cannot see a different future. How can I educate the privileged about their blind spots? How can I address this without coming across as being petty or playing the victim card? What is the Christian response to this?

Even though I shared with the kids about how MLK changed the world, and how fortunate we are to be living at this time; the feeling that the same problems still exists, nagged at me. It was there between the Jews and the Gentiles, the slaves and the masters. It was there between men and women, black and white. It is still here today. We can push the envelope with a female Santa, Captain Marvel, Black Panther and Fresh off the Boat. Yet the conversation continues.

Some say keeping the conversation going is the point. But doesn’t the need for conversation mean that the matter is not resolved? I’m not saying to stop talking about it, but I want to move past that. I don’t want to fight for my rights. I don’t want to prove my worth twice as hard. I don't want to hear snide remarks when I'm working from home so I can go to my children's class parties.

I want to see differences acknowledged and celebrated. I want to see everyone treated fairly and given equal chances (and pay checks for that matter). I want to see that a black sheep does not make the whole herd grey. I want to see women helping one another, and not tearing each other down.

***

God saw Hagar, God grafted Ruth into the Messiah’s family tree, Esther saved the entire nation, Jesus sought out the woman at the well, Mary Magdalene, Mary and Martha. And God grafted me, the foreign woman, in. There is hope yet. Perhaps not fully in this world, but in the one to come. And may God help me remember, at times when I’m on the other side.