in response to Charlottesville, VA

After the events of this weekend, I am compelled to condemn the actions of the white supremacists and neo-Nazis who call themselves the ‘Alt-Right’.

Independence Hall Assembly Room - Philadelphia 2015

As a white woman, I condemn the words and actions of those whites who believe that they are superior to other humans based on the color of their skin.

As a Southern woman, whose family settled in the Carolinas when they were still but colonies, I condemn the culture of racism in the South and call for those roots to be torn out and thrown onto the fire of truth. Then move onward, because racism is an invasive weed that has roots spread throughout the country.

As a descendent of slave owners, I condemn all acts of slavery and its legacy in the discrimination and disenfranchisement of people of color. I weep that this is part of my family history.

As a Christian, I condemn the actions, words, and attitudes of those who claim to be Christians but are false prophets. ‘By their fruits you will know them’ (Matthew 7.20). Racism is sin and is contrary to the message of the Gospel and to the Kingdom of God. Before God there is ‘neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female’ (Galatians 3.28; see also Colossians 3.11), but Christ came for all, died for all, and rose for all. Each and every one of us.

As an American, I condemn those Americans who would deny the freedoms of this nation to other Americans and to those seeking to build a better life in this country. This country’s ideal is to be a place where every individual can live to their fullest potential, regardless of color or creed. As a nation, we are far, far from embodying that ideal, but it is an ideal we should be pursuing in order to bring to reality — not limiting its promises to an arbitrary chosen few.

As a white Christian American from the south, I condemn the words and actions of white supremacists, both in Charlottesville, VA this past weekend and beyond, as antithetical to my own beliefs and as morally wrong, nor will I stop opposing them.

Photo: The Assembly Room in Independence Hall, Philadelphia, PA, USA, where the Constitution was debated and signed.


Women are speaking out using a different hashtag now, #notokay, but it’s #YesAllWomen all over again.

  • I have been catcalled, whistled, and honked at — not just by older men, but by boys as young as 10.
  • I’ve had a man repeatedly come into my workplace to flirt with me, who followed me with his car and talked to me on the street, and who got my e-mail address from my work’s website and e-mailed me. During none of this did I “encourage” him. (When I complained about this to a male friend, he actually said I should have been “nicer” to the man because “it takes a lot of courage” to express interest in a woman!!)
  • In high school, one of my male classmates said that his goal that year was to get me drunk. He was later suspended/expelled for grabbing a girl under her skirt.
  • I’ve been leered at in at least five languages.
  • I’ve been followed when walking in a public park. Now I walk with a walking stick, not just because I have rheumatoid arthritis.
  • I’ve been cornered in my residence hall’s laundry room by a man who “loves America and Americans” and wouldn’t let me leave until I told him which room I lived in. (I lied.)
  • I have stayed late in my shared office when a female colleague was having a student conference with a male student that had made inappropriate comments to her, “just in case.”
  • Years later, I still feel uncomfortable eating ice cream in a cone after a man made a lewd comment about what else I could do with my mouth.

And more. Almost every woman I know has these stories and worse. This is #notokay. #YesAllWomen have these experiences. To be told that “you must have done something to get their attention” or that you are “overreacting” dismisses the validity of these experiences. To have Trump’s comments be glossed over as “locker room talk” and that “every man talks like that” does not make that speech or that behavior acceptable. Instead, it reinforces the victim-blaming rape culture in our society and trivializes how this kind of speech and behavior strips women of their humanity.

I am reminded of this (paraphrased) quote from Margaret Atwood:
“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.”

Why else was I taught to carry keys in my fist to use as a weapon? Why else was I taught to park my car under streetlights and to check beneath the car before getting too close? Why else was I taught to always be hyperaware of my surroundings, noting where the men were and reading their body language? I was TAUGHT these things. This is the information passed from woman to woman to keep ourselves safe.

When will enough be enough?


I have been challenged by my sisters in faith to speak out about my own experiences of racism. You might wonder, what experiences could I have? I am a white woman, after all. Blue-eyed, golden brown hair, very pale. But I have been challenged by recent events to articulate my part in this overwhelming system of white privilege.


So I admit that didn’t know brown people’s hair was different until high school, when a friend mentioned having to get her hair “relaxed,” and I was confused because up until that point, I thought hair was hair was hair. I admit that since then I have been curious to feel how the texture is different from mine – though I have never asked, and would never touch another person’s head without their permission.

I admit that I have wondered whether people of color need to wear sunblock – “Of course they do,” I tell myself, “UV rays affect them too, even if they don’t turn red as a lobster as you do in the sun.” The anthropologist in me notes how different cultures hid their (aristocratic) women away indoors to be pale, for being darkened by the sun indicated that you were a laborer.

I admit that I feel awkward or unwanted when I hear people lamenting the lack of diversity in my profession. I admit that affirmative action sometimes makes me feel uneasy, because I wish we lived in a world in which we could each be judged by merit and potential. I remind myself that meritocracy would only work if everyone had access to the same opportunities and resources and that the world we live in is drastically unequal.

I admit that my ancestors in South Carolina owned slaves. From what I’ve been told, it was a small farm and they ate meals with the family, but they were still slaves and I wish that was not part of my heritage.

I admit that I didn’t know watermelons were a racist symbol against brown people until the Boston Herald cartoon depicting Obama using watermelon-flavored toothpaste in 2014. I worry at how many other images or symbols are racist that I simply don’t know about.

I admit that I get confused about vocabulary. Should I say black, brown, people of color, African-American, Latino/a, Chicano/a, Xicano/a, Hispanic, Asian…? Especially since Asia encompasses Russia, the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent, East and South Asia, and parts of Oceania!

I admit that because I grew up in San Antonio, I am more comfortable around Latinos than other peoples of color – except for the fact that I never properly practiced my Spanish and always feel ashamed when I hear people speaking the language I’m supposed to be mostly fluent in.

I also admit that I love the fact that the majority of my students are people of color. That sometimes I wish I weren’t white so that they could have a teacher of color, too. It isn’t right that nearly all of the teachers at my summer job are white, when the vast majority of the students are not.

I admit that I am sometimes envious of my students’ hair, how they can do so many things with it, whereas mine is flat and frizzy and boring and straight and only stays in braids when it’s wet.

I admit that I’ve always thought it weird when people would mention the color of a person’s skin when telling a story, but only if the color were some shade of brown: because, “The woman in the store,” is presumed to be white unless the speaker says otherwise.

I admit that I think it’s strange and wrong to have clothing or cosmetics or crayons labeled “skin colored” or “nude” when the only skin it sort-of looks like is mine and other white people’s.

And I admit that I have felt and do still feel awkward talking about race with people of color because I don’t know what to say, how to say it, and am afraid of unintentionally causing offense.


I don’t remember when I first became aware of racial difference. I have a vague memory of my older sister dating a black guy when she was in high school, and that was considered to be “unusual,” but I didn’t understand why. (I must have been five years’ old.) Our neighbors in San Antonio were Latino and I grew up playing with their children because we were the same age. Many of my classmates were also Latino, though my elementary and middle schools were largely white. My mom taught at a school in downtown San Antonio, and because our schools followed different calendars, I sometimes went to school with her when I didn’t have school for myself. At her school, I was the only white girl with long yellow blond hair. Everyone knew I was Mrs. C’s daughter. It was a strange mixture of feeling out of place twinned with being somewhat of an oddity and celebrity. I remember people wanting to touch and play with my hair.

Even so, my best friends in middle school included Priscilla (a Canadian whose parents were from Ghana) and Nupur (whose parents were from India), who were my first friends of color who weren’t Latino/a. I remember feeling awkward talking about race and American history with Priscilla, because I didn’t know how to talk about it with her. She wasn’t African-American since she was from Canada. Her ancestors weren’t enslaved in America, because her parents were from Ghana. I didn’t know how she fit in the narrative, and I, too awkward, never knew how to ask. Because I still keep up with her, she might read this blog post. I’m sorry Priscilla, for being so awkward.

I went to a different high school than I was districted to. The one I would have gone to was mostly white; instead, I went to a magnet program at a “minority majority school.” I was often one of two or three white girls in my classes. Most of my classmates were black, Latino, or Asian, as were my school friends. I distinctly remember going with a small group of students to a conference or presentation at another school in the district. As we walked across the cafeteria for to find a table for lunch, I was taken aback by the sea of white faces. Someone shouted at us, “Welcome to America!” I was so surprised that I turned and faced the direction the shout came from and shouted back, “Thanks! I’ve only been here my entire life!” or something like that. I remember feeling uncomfortable, guilty by association with the white person who shouted at us, while also feeling out of place in a room almost entirely white except for the group from my school. I continued to feel that way in college and grad school, both places that were predominantly white. I remember feeling a sigh of relief whenever I stepped off the train in London: I would realize how a part of me was coiled tight in mostly-white St Andrews, which relaxed upon seeing all the different shades and hue of human skin and different styles of dress.

A few years ago I read Go Tell it on the Mountain by James Baldwin, and I remember reading about one character’s fear  when walking down the street at night and catching the unwanted attention of white men standing outside of a bar or shop. As a woman, I sympathized with that anxiety – I too have hoped to avoid unwanted attention – but I also knew that whatever I felt was only a fraction of what that character experienced on a daily basis in the early-twentieth century in the South. Even magnifying my apprehension in my imagination could not come close to the reality.

Despite all this, I’m ashamed to look at my Facebook friends and see so few people of color listed as my friends. I haven’t kept up with many of my high school friends. Out of about 170 Facebook friends, only about 10 are people of color. That’s ridiculous. Part of me responds by pointing out that roughly a third of that number are people overseas, from various countries, that my friends are at least internationally diverse. But that isn’t the point here, and I’m not here to make excuses to make myself feel better.

At the same time, I don’t want to commit “tokenism.” I wouldn’t dare befriend a person of color just because I wanted more friends of color. I find tokenism horrifying, unacceptable. No, I won’t just add a book to my curriculum solely because the writer is a woman of color. At the same time, I am conscious that most of my students are people of color and I want to reflect that in my curriculum choices. Sometimes that’s near impossible to do (e.g., a course on early British literature), but it’s something I have tried to keep in mind. More than half way through designing a course for this fall, I realized that most of the authors I chose happened to be women of color anyway, chosen by the merit of the text, not for the skin color of the author. I did notice that I have very few Native American and Asian women writers, though, so if you can recommend any short stories or poetry, please do so in the comments section.

But that last sentence in the previous paragraph leans towards tokenism, or at least, feels like it does. At the same time, though, want to broaden my awareness of writers of color and read and support their work.

As I write this, I think of the conversations I’ve had with other white people about white privilege. Last summer, this summer, every time I hear of another brown person shot or stopped or blamed for their own misfortune, part of me rails against the injustice of it all. We are ALL made in the image of God! Each and every one of us, every human being, is made in God’s likeness, and for that alone deserve to be treated with dignity, let alone basic human decency. That part of me reels when I look at the news, when I see the ways white people respond, or their lack of response. Another part of me weeps at the evidence of a fallen and sinful world. I swing between feelings of helplessness, being at a loss for words, stunned by the absurdity of hate, and feelings of action and righteous anger, albeit hobbled by awkwardness and some level of ignorance, though this latter I am trying to remedy.

To my friends, colleagues, and students of color: I want to stand with you against this systemic oppression and injustice. I hope that you know that I see you as an individual first and foremost. I hope you know that I am trying to sound the depths of my ignorance and am willing to share what I learn with others who are also ignorant. I hope you know that I am on your side. I am sorry if something I have done or said, or something I have left undone or unsaid, has caused you pain or harm. As a fellow human in this crazy spinning world, please correct me that I may learn and that I may help others learn. And know, too, that I see you as a person wonderfully and fearfully made in God’s likeness, deserving of dignity and respect.

And so I end my #WhiteConfessions, though I suspect I will think of more to add to it later. Now I challenge you, my readers: What confessions can you make about your own racism?

Photo: Me and a few of my school friends after the high school graduation banquet for our program.

Initial reaction

We have BBC Radio 3 play in the morning, which means I didn’t check the news until I got into the office. In fact, it was seeing a comment on facebook that made me switch over to BBC News.

Mixed feelings for my part. It’s good that Osama bin Laden was found. It’s a pity he couldn’t have been brought to trial. It’s concerning the amount of… jubilation there is at the news of one man’s death. It’s unsettling how the U.S. sent an operation within another country’s borders without informing that country what it was doing. I understand the reason given why, but does that make it right? Does the end justify the means? It’s curious that people are demanding to see the body, even though that was the first thing that crossed my mind, too: skepticism wanting proof. But a body is not a trophy. To have an Islamic burial he would have to be buried as soon as possible. How we treat our dead sets us apart as humans. He may have been an enemy, but vengeance should not be allowed to corrupt justice.

The men and women who carried out this operation demonstrated great courage and strength, and I commend them for that. I am more concerned about our reactions to this news, and what happens next.

Finding out so many hours after the fact, since President Obama made the announcement at 4.30 AM BST, makes me feel all the more detached from the news. Ever more clearly I find that no matter what is on the news, no matter what happens in the world, the world keeps spinning. The question is how we move forward.

As for me, right now that means saying an extra prayer for my friends in the Middle East, and continuing my research on Melusine.

Allegory of the cave

EDIT: Also, have you heard? Ten minutes ago it was announced that Hosni Mubarak has stepped down. Bye-bye, Mubarak! Hooray, Egypt!


I like songs about Plato. (Click for lyrics.)

A friend of mine said, ‘This is what crazy feels like. It’s the dissonance between the real world and what I perceive/feel/believe.’ Those are the words I’ve been looking for to describe what this feels like. It’s been several months since I was under water, and many more months yet before I step back onto the sandy shores of sanity. Swimming is hard work.

I can add physiotherapy to my list of health-related things. Hopefully we can get rid of these headaches. I have to be disciplined and actually do the exercises though. I always did hate practicing.

Watching the world

Don’t have much to say, so here are a few things I’ve seen or read in the news.

1. Christians protecting Muslims while they pray in Cairo. From @NevineZaki:

2. CNN: Why more Americans don’t travel abroad. Many of these observations are ones I’ve pointed out when discussing this topic with non-Americans. I am glad to be one of the 30%.

3. Zach Wahls, a 19-year-old University of Iowa student, addressing House Joint Resolution 6 in the Iowa House of Representatives. I know several if not most of the readers of my blog will disagree with him, but I found what he has to say very thought-provoking. I ask you to listen and consider what he has to say, too.

Watching, waiting

Internet and mobile phone networks have been cut off in Egypt since early this morning. I hope that my friend Chris, and the students she’s looking after, are safe. They were supposed to go to Luxor this weekend, but they might still be in Cairo. She and I are supposed to Skype on Sunday. Who knows if the Internet will be back up by then?

I’ve been listening to radio reports about Tunisia and have a personal interest in what is happening in Egypt just now. Oddly, no one else I know seems to be following the protests and the ripple-effect they are having across the region.

The ruling party’s headquarters is on fire. It’s right next to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. Please, oh please, I hope the museum does not catch fire, too.

Watch live updates from the BBC here: BBC News – Egypt Unrest.

Watch Al Jazeera in English: Live Stream.