Shiny, Happy...Racism?

It's been a minute—and we're diving in DEEP.

As you can very see, it’s been a little more than a week (Ha. more like well over a month) since I’ve written my next thoughts on the pervasiveness of “Shiny, Happy People” culture.

I’m sure you've probably forgotten about it because if you’re anything like me, you probably wanted to read up on more Taylor Swift facts. Or watch Barbie. Or Oppenheimer. Or literally, anything else because—well, I have.

Truth be told, I’m super great at procrastinating.

I can create a goals list a mile long that accomplishes nothing except avoid the task I’m doing (for example, I sewed my youngest this completely necessary/unnecessary dinosaur chicken nugget pillow).

To be honest, I’m a soft soul. I would rather talk about the things that make your soul light on fire in enthusiasm (again, I’m still talking about Taylor Swift. Or Barbie. Or Oppenheimer.) Tell me all about your next crochet project, the poetry you’re writing, that song lyric you love, the cocktail you’ve made, the pontoon boat your husband built from scratch.

But please don’t make me talk about racism.

Because if anything, it makes my stomach turn. It’s the thing that makes my toes curl or feel like I’ve taken a bite out of that mushroom that Alice took in “Alice in Wonderland”. You know, the one—where she shrunk super small?

Hi, it’s me. I hate to admit that I care a lot about what people think of me.

I’m also not the type of person who likes to challenge people. I am more the type that hangs out with you because I like being around people. I like to think the best in everyone.

But lately, it’s been a little un-fun around these parts. We talk about race, and everyone gets upset. I hate to be the bearer of bad news—it exists pretty prevalently still. Uncomfortable or not, here we go. We can still talk about my sequin jacket later.

I can think of a lot of instances where I’ve been treated differently simply because of my skin color.

The thing about racism in this day and age is that it looks…different.

Sin does that, doesn’t it? Sin skulks around shadows and sneaks up, and whispers lies to the person committing it. It also lies to the person to whom the act is done.

Two stories.

The first one is painfully recent. I’m covered in sequins with painted lips and a heart full of song lyrics, ready to belt out my favorite songs from Taylor Swift. Me and my delightful, wonderful, magical, and spectacular writing friends all attend.

I’m the only Brown Latina among the group—yet, I’m celebrated in this group along with my white friends. We were brought together by an event we’ve only been talking about for the last year.

But remember—sin skulks. It hides. And it hid until it didn’t want to anymore.

At the security line, my friends enter before me. We all talked and talked and talked about the items we’ll have in our clear plastic bags. IDs, phones, credit cards, collapsible water bottles, and disposable cameras. Maybe a few other odds and ends, but small differences like bandaids.

What they didn’t know was that I breaking a rule of mine—I’m typically pretty minimalist when I go through security lines.

Why?

I always get searched. It’s just—a fact. 

And this time? Even though I went through the same security line with the same items in her clear bag, guess who was stopped?

My heartbeat pounded through my chest. I swallowed my tears and ran toward my friends once I was cleared.

I didn’t mention it until much later.

***

Next story.

I once worked as a children’s ministry site manager. I loved working at my church—offering resources and preparing rooms for children to be taught the gospel was my bread and butter. Delight often colored my disposition.

I was also the only person of color on staff at my church. My church was also predominantly white. I knew this—my town is 88% white. It’s an inescapable fact.

But what happened one Sunday is that the shadow lurked in. Yes—even at church.

An older white woman, from an outside parachurch ministry, visited our church. She took a table that belonged to our children’s ministry. Seeing that I was managing the site, I asked her to please not take the table as it belonged to our children’s ministry.

She huffed. She began to say that my pastor had given her the authority to do as she pleased and yanked on the table.

My pastor witnessed the scene and immediately came over. He apologized, introduced me, and said I was, indeed, in the right.

She apologized to him. He walked off. And then looked at me. 

“Where did you say you were from? You have an odd name.”

***

I don’t want you to feel bad for me in these stories.

That’s not what they’re intended to do. In both instances, I went to a safe place and opened up about it.

And trust me, I cried. I’m not going to pretend they didn’t hurt. I don’t like talking about it. I prefer to shove those feelings far down. But there are a couple of key differences in the stories.

In the first one, I told my friends what happened that night. I was believed and trusted. It hurt. They sat in that hurt with me.

The second one was harder. I went to another friend, another church member—the words, “She didn’t mean that,” popped out.

When it comes to other believers, we often neglect to sit in the pain—especially if it happens at church.

It’s not to say the first story didn’t have a group of Christian friends—in fact, they all are. But stories of hurt from church, especially when it comes to race, are easy to steamroll over. And that’s where the shiny, happy part comes in.

The dangerous beliefs that IBLP put out are extremely pervasive because they paint a picture of a homogenous Christianity that shouldn’t veer. African drum beats were actually forbidden as a musical instrument, for example. Note—European music was never seen as evil or even satanic. It’s pretty clear what we mean here.

It’s these little tiny ways where you can’t be different and show up consistently where if something happens, we can pop in with the answer, “Oh, they didn’t mean that”. 

We can ignore real hurt where it actually happens. But the gospel doesn’t talk about that—brotherly love, in fact, is ready to right wrongs. 

Romans 12:9-13 NIV says,

“Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.”

Show hospitality—listen to hurt. Hate that your brother or sister hurts. Be patient in someone’s affliction. Faithfully pray.

And be joyful in it. At the end of the day, I still talk to my beautiful white friends, who I scream-sang Taylor Swift songs. And I still love the church a whole lot (shout out to my multi-ethnic church, One Hope!).

But be aware, friends—sin hides. It doesn’t have to end there, though. Community breaks us out of the darkness. We can still have hope—if we rely on one another.

—

Definitions:

• Microaggression

• Racial Profiling

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I like to end on a happy note!

• If you haven’t already heard the Barbie soundtrack, I highly recommend it. I’ve listened to WATATI more than I can admit. (Are you surprised I didn’t recommend yet ANOTHER Taylor song??)

• Remember those absolutely fantastic writers I was talking about? Check them out here :) Shannon, Molly, and Rachel are my favorite humans. (Rachel’s recommendation is the BEST podcast.)

• I’ve been watching a lot of home remodeling shows because there’s something SO satisfying about home transformation. Hack My House has been an ABSOLUTE delight to watch.

• Remember that nugget pillow? Here’s a sewing pattern for it!

• Enjoy the last bit of summer! Enjoy this peach tea <3