Dismantling My Racist Heart

George Floyd. If you haven't heard of him, his public murder by Minneapolis police officers, or the protests, rallies, marches, and riots his murder spurred into existence, then I believe you're amazingly insulated from the world. His murder is the latest illustration of the systemic racial injustice embedded in the foundation of our nation. Communities throughout the US are in turmoil grappling with centuries of continuous and deep-seated hate, prejudice, discrimination, and oppression of people of color. The COVID-19 pandemic and the devolution of our democracy into authoritarianism under President Trump have unquestionably exposed the inequalities and injustices inherent in our institutions, our societal norms, our communities, and our homes.


More and more of us that are white are recognizing our own active and passive participation in the systemic and institutional suppression and oppression of people of color. We are struggling with our lack of awareness, our deep lack of knowledge, and our guilt for "not knowing sooner" so that we could do better. This is not absolution or an excuse. Indeed, this is a deeply disappointing fact for many white people.

White culture is teetering on a precipice, and it is telling how each white person handles the imbalance. Do I step forward off the edge into uncomfortable uncertainty as a student, acknowledging all that I don't know about racism and black history in America? Do I humble myself into a posture of learning, risking missteps and mistakes? Do I risk the pain of challenging my beliefs and relationships with loved ones? Or do I step back, away from the edge, and hide in either the comfort of silence or of maintaining an unchanging and inflexible worldview?

This is the penultimate moment of "unstruction". How will I unlearn my biases and prejudices? How will I become complicit in the dismantling of racism and inequality? Can I humble myself? Can I be vulnerable? Can I admit my fears and acknowledge my shortcomings? Will I be able to love the world when I see it through a new lense? Will I be brave enough to reach out to strangers, or speak up and face criticism from loved ones? Do I have the strength to sit with my discomfort, to move through fear, and stand up to opposition?

In the nearly 2 weeks since George Floyd's murder on May 25, 2020, protests around the country have been ongoing. Social media is on fire with thoughts, opinions, and messaging surrounding Black Lives Matter, police brutality, and systemic racism. Uncomfortable conversations are taking place within communities, within families, among friends, between co-workers and neighbors online, over the phone, and in-person about what is happening and what it means for our future.

The learning I experienced this week alone was overwhelming, exhausting, and deeply gratifying. In an attempt to channel my grief, disappointment, outrage, shame, and guilt, I jumped into planning a vigil for George Floyd for the small (~7000 residents) Southeastern Indiana town in which I live. Mind you, I have lived here for less than 3 years and I did not grow up here like my husband. This town is predominately Christian, steeped in conservative patriotism, and very, very white with families rooted here for generations. I knew a vigil for a black man murdered in a large city hundreds of miles of way would not be a popular event among the residents here. Regardless, and after consulting only a handful of friends in town, I created a public event page on Facebook for the vigil, invited my friends, and waited for no one to respond.

Oh my, what a clueless wonder I was in my understanding of the community in which I live. The response to the vigil was overwhelming, both in support for it and in opposition. Within 24 hours we had hundreds of people openly interested in the event and countless others talking about the event both on- and offline. I misread the proverbial room egregiously. While there was a great deal of enthusiasm and support, many in the community viewed the vigil as an anti-police protest and as an insult to the local police department. Many more feared an invasion of sponsored protesters coming into town from other localities with an intent to loot and riot the downtown. Armed residents were ready to "keep things in line" and "protect their town" from outsiders, damage, or violence. I received calls from the Mayor and the Police Chief that discouraged plans for the vigil because of the concerns expressed by local businesses and concerns for public safety. This small town was wholly unprepared for both the message and potential consequences of a vigil for a black man murdered by police officers even though the injustice that murder illustrated was undeniably heinous and wrong.

I quickly realized I did not have the support I needed from the town to ensure the safety of those attending the vigil. I recognized that the rumor mill had distorted our message of peace and solidarity into one of conflict and aggression. More importantly, I acknowledged that I was ill-equipped to lead this effort. Thus, after seeking the input of supporters that volunteered to help, I cancelled the vigil. The decision to cancel was deeply challenging. I felt like I was giving into fear, and rumor, and intimidation. I felt like I was weak and like I was giving up. Ultimately, I knew cancelling did not equate with quitting. Racism and inequality are not going to resolve overnight. And a vigil is not the only avenue for making a statement against injustice.

I learned a great many things in the 3 days I spent planning, then cancelling a peaceful vigil in a small, conservative, rural American town in Southeastern Indiana. I learned how little I know or understand about the people born and raised in this community. My first thought in putting this together was "No one will care and no one will come." The first thought of many long-time residents here was, "This isn't an issue in our town and I'm not going to let outsiders come into our town and make it an issue." I learned that our Mayor is not a leader, a creative thinker, or someone who understands each citizen's First Amendment rights. I learned our Police Chief is a decent man that cares very much about each person living in this town. I learned that I need more skills, tools, and community knowledge for organizing an event that is politically charged. Most importantly, however, I learned that I am not as alone in this town as I thought. My impulsive action resulted in connecting a large group of individuals that had the same longing -- to do something with their grief and outrage and to know that their belief in diversity, inclusivity, and equality is shared by more than just a few others in this community.

Thus, I took a step off the precipice and I found hope. There is a steep mountain of challenging and uncomfortable "unstruction" and unlearning still ahead of me and I am ready for it. I am ready because I want something better for my two boys and their future. I am ready because I truly believe Martin Luther King, Jr's words: "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere". We are all connected, and it is when we fight that connection that we find discord, conflict, and violence. I am ready because I believe in an ideal world, and as John Lewis said, "I discovered, I guess, that you have to have this sense of faith that what you’re moving toward is already done. It’s already happened...And you live that you’re already there, that you’re already in that community, part of that sense of one family, one house. If you visualize it, if you can even have faith that it’s there, for you, it is already there."