Austin Channing Brown

I wanted to write something today. I've got words rolling around trying to come together. But then I opened my email and read the newsletter from an author I respect immensely, Austin Channing-Brown. And her words settled my rolling words. I want to include them here, because they talk about me (and a lot of folks that I know). They speak to something I have struggled with for a long, long time. 

"As someone who pursues racial justice as a speaker and writer, I am regularly faced with questions- immediate, emotional questions. Sometimes they are questions folks have been sitting on for awhile- especially when the question is situational. But for the most part, I hear the questions before there is a filter, before they’ve been completely thought through. So if you have heard me live or virtually, you know I do not give short answers to questions. And I dont want to. I give loooong answers because I want to offer folks not just a quick response, but a framework, examples, context, metaphors…. anything I can do to deepen our learning together. But in doing this, I sometimes run the risk of accepting the premise of a question that should be challenged.

For example, before the pandemic I gave a lot of lectures at Christian colleges. And almost without fail, a student would ask, “Can you make the connection for me between the Gospel + race + justice.” Because this is an extraordinarily common question from white evangelicalism, I often responded with examples or a list of authors who have been addressing this topic forever. I mean, the list is long, folks. But there was one day, when a student asked with all the earnestness he could muster (and I am a sucker for students who lean all the way in while Im speaking or who laugh at my jokes), so I was ready to give him a 10 minute master class. And just as I started to move backward to the white board behind me (I mean I was about to lay it out, yall), I paused. I realized there was something about the premise that needed to be challenged. This is what I said instead:

“I get this question a lot, and I want you to know there are many wonderful books written on this topic. You should check out Brenda Salter McNeil, Lisa Sharon Harper, Drew Hart, Jemar Tisby. If you want to go further back you should read James Cone or Howard Thurman. And if you want to talk about the relationship between white evangelicalism and (in)justice there’s another set of books devoted entirely to this topic. But what I want to tell you is that I only get asked this question at predominately white, Christian institutions. The Black church doesn’t ask this question, because by the time we get to the second book of the Bible there is a whole story dedicated to God freeing the enslaved. And this is important. I want you to understand that while you may be “wrestling” with the connections, there are people of color in this room and far beyond who have never known any other kind of Gospel except one that easily and obviously encompasses social justice.”

I needed to challenge the premise that the connections between the Gospel + race + justice are difficult to find, or require “wrestling” at all.

I share all of this because I’ve come to fully realize that there is another question I receive without fail from nice white people in corporations, nonprofits, schools and churches that I need to start addressing differently.

Here is the question: How can I overcome my fear of speaking up?

Of course the question is not always framed this exact way. [See also: How can I start using my voice as an ally? What do I do in xyz situation? In what ways can I be an ally to my coworkers of color?] But regardless of how the specific words change, the premise of the question typically remains the same, which is: I am scared to speak up, and I need to know how to overcome my fear.

I am no longer accepting the premise of the question.

Dear Nice White People, its time for you to honestly answer the question, “What are you afraid of?” because there is a reason you are scared to speak up and its not some vague notion of inability.

Let me get you started.

You are afraid to speak up because you know there will be repercussions for doing so. How do you know this? Because you have been watching it happen. You are not afraid of a ghost in the closet or a monster under your bed. You are not a child afraid of some intangible, imaginary outcome. You are afraid of being on the receiving end of the oppression you have witnessed.

You are afraid they will talk about you, the way they currently talk about your Black, female co-worker.

You are afraid that you will no longer be invited to the secret white people meetings where decisions are being made.

You are afraid that you will fall out of the good graces of those with power.

You are afraid that you will be labeled “the problem,” the person who is “not a team player,” the one who is going to ruin a good time.

You are afraid of not being invited, of not being favored, of not being liked because there are benefits for being liked.

You are afraid of challenging the system, the supervisor, the policy, the conversation because you have participated in the destruction of others and now you are afraid that you, too, will be destroyed.

If you are afraid, then you know there is danger in speaking out. And if you know its dangerous, you have either been complicit or you have been a willing participant in allowing others to face that danger alone.

You see, Nice White People, you have believed your lie longer than anyone else. You have believed that you could maintain the status quo, reap the benefits thereof, and if you are nice to people of color perhaps they wont notice. But we can see you. We can see you better than you can.

We can see how you always manage to fail up. We can see how you use niceness to make yourself feel better about the injustice(s) you’ve witnessed. We can see how you have taken positions, created positions, skipped over qualifications and done all manner of systems changes to get what you want when what you want is whiteness. We have seen how you manage to find your voice when you are asked to praise the system or enforce the system or justify the system.

And your weaponizing of niceness is so complete that you get mad at us, when we reject your niceness. You are mad when you apologize privately for something done publicly and your apology is rejected. You are mad when no one makes you feel better for confusing the only two people of color in your department for the fourth time. You are mad when no one wants to have coffee with you to discuss how your niceness sickens them. You are mad when you don’t get a pat on the back for your niceness. You are mad because we see your niceness for what it is- a desire to believe you are good, even as you uphold a system that oppresses.

And then I come speak at your MLK celebration, and suddenly your niceness takes the form of shyness, frailness, an inability to know how to speak up, a feigned ignorance that allows you to believe that the reason you wont speak up is because you don’t know how… when the core issue is that you don’t want to speak up because you know it will cost you.

If you really want to be in solidarity with Black people, it’s time to answer the question: What are you afraid of? Release all the bullshit answers about your own frailty, and get honest. Your hands are dirty. And they wont ever be clean unless you start being honest about the dirt you’ve been involved in or witness to.

Your niceness serves only you."

If that's not a word, I don't know what is. I feel pressure to be nice. And some days, I want to be nice. But, increasingly, I have found that being "nice" is not the same as being "kind" not to mention honest. The are often at odds. All sorts of dishonesty hides behind niceness. But there are penalties for not being nice. There are penalties for choosing to speak up about injustice, especially to white people who want nothing more than to focus on their small lives and ignore the suffering of black and brown siblings. They'll never say it that way. But that's what they'll communicate with their complaints about how you make "everything so political" or how "angry" you are. Or how obsessed with social justice you are. With the way they have zero curiosity about what their role in helping to address injustice could be. 

The consequences can be especially pronounced if those white people are your family or your supervisor. And it is lonely. I think the loneliest thing I have ever done is choose to not uphold empty "niceness". And that is wild to me. Nearly unfathomable. In all my upbringing, I was never prepared for what happened if you stopped being "nice". Which is another way of saying "quiet about the things that make people uncomfortable". Another way of saying, "don't rock the boat even if the boat next to you is sinking". Another way of saying, "love your neighbor and your enemy, but do not defend or protect them." Another way of saying, "it is normal for some people to suffer more than others." And what kind of love is that? It has taken me at least a decade to fully realize how profoundly unloving "niceness" can be. 

I keep thinking of Cain and Able. God is looking for Cain and Able but Cain is hiding because he killed his brother. When God finds Cain, he finds him defensive and evasive. Am I my brother's keeper? And I can't help but hear so many people close to me responding to the injustice around them in the same way. Am I the keeper of Black lives? Am I the keeper of immigrant health and wellness? Am I the keeper of my brother even if my brother is gay or not a believer? Am I my brother's keeper even if the problem and solution are political? A thousand times yes.  Your brother's blood cries out from the ground. 

When I was 18 or 19, I told my mom that if I ever had a tattoo one of my options would be to get the word "impossible" tattooed between my collar bone and shoulder to help me remember how many things I had already done that shouldn't have been possible. She told me that I was being arrogant. 

And that was probably the first time that I realized that she did not understand as well as either of us thought what a war my growing up was. At 19, it felt like a miracle that I was alive and still happy and hopeful. And I wanted to remember that feeling of having made it to adulthood. Despite the statistics of young girls from broken homes, despite the years casual sexism in my school, despite many long nights strategizing about how to organize and survive my upbringing, I became an adult and achieved a new level of autonomy. Nothing I have done since has ever been as hard as growing up.

Now, at 29, the list of miracles grows. I'm so proud of how I have handled my trauma. I'm proud that I still talk to everyone in my family and that I have become the kind of daughter who will reciprocate whatever kind of relationship my parents are willing to build within the boundaries of what is healthy for me. I'm proud that I know what those boundaries are. I've survived a failed career and the harassment that came with it, but I'm still me and still growing. 

It's still a miracle that I am alive, capable of happiness and hope. I've known anger and disappointment that I thought would consume me, but there has always been a voice inside that knows much more about endurance than I thought possible. Part of me wishes that I had gotten the tattoo. Part of me still might. There are still a lot of "impossible" things to do.

I Took God's Name Out of My Mouth

I took God's name out of my mouth because I wasn't sure that I was using it correctly. I imagined Isaiah with the burning coal that cleansed his lips and I swallowed and, in swallowing, scorched my insides. 

I took God's name out of my mouth because I wasn't sure He wanted to be called. I imagined Deborah and thousands of other women who walked with him in confidence. 

I took God's name out of my mouth because I wasn't sure that there was anything I could say that would help. And I imagined Job's friends whose best advice was their silent patience before they said anything at all. 

My prayer day and night has been that God would be patient with my questions, my doubt, my pain. My promise has been that I would not leave unless he sent me away. I know plenty of people and churches who would have sent me away.  But I remembered Ruth and Hagar whom God kept. So I listened to my questions but did not look for answers yet. And I listened to the doubt, the pain, the fear. I did not send them away. I let my bones rattle and I did not ask them to stop.

All this time, he has not sent me away. Hope has been rising and I have been learning a new way of being with God. I am making peace with my questions even when they don't have answers. And I am learning to live in this body, in this time with a God who blesses me even when I do not speak his name. There's a new intimacy even as I haven't found all of the words yet.

You can repeat, "I am grateful. I am grateful." to yourself like a meditation but if what you're grateful for is hurting you, your "I" will get smaller and smaller. One day, you will be just a vague wisp of gratefulness with barely any person-hood left. 

When you finally stop smothering your heart in drummed up gratitude, the weight of being will likely knock you down and you will wonder if you are strong enough for all of this existence. When the dark corners inside yourself are no longer closed off with fear. When there is no path in your mind that you have not traveled. When all of your emotions sit at the table as equals. When wholeness matters as much as holiness. At that time. In that place. The real work begins. 

It's scary. And it will be made scarier by the fact that people will fear you, fear for you. They will worry about your soul and your sanity. They will miss the person who was just thankful to exist instead of this new person who comes screaming into existence asking for health and wholeness, for boundaries and abundance. They will miss their expectations. They will miss your tranquility. They will miss how they used to understand. You will miss that too. 

There will be grief so great that you cannot imagine edges to it. I don't actually know if there are edges to it yet. But I trust that there are, because I refuse to believe that the only permanent thing is this feeling of loss. 

But the truth is you cannot bring them with you. No matter how much you love them. No matter how much they love you. This is the hardest lesson I've had to learn about my friends and family. I'm someone who used to think that communication and education could solve everything. That ignorance was always overcome by information. That differences could always be reconciled if you explained yourself. But I have spent long enough trying in vain to prove that point. 

You can't make them curious. And you can't answer the questions they're not asking. 

You can't bring them with you. Not on your back and not on your strength of word or will. But if you're on a similar journey, you can walk together. 

I'm reaching a point where I don't have the energy to explain or defend my thoughts and beliefs to folks who aren't curious. Most days, I also don't have the confidence. I'm realizing that explaining and explaining isn't a sustainable mode of living. So I'm looking for folks already on the same journey and for folks invested enough to ask questions and share the burden of vulnerability. But I'm also grieving all of the relationships that didn't turn out how I thought they would. Not just the people I've lost, but also people that I expect to lose. Not just the people who left, but the people who stayed but didn't stay close.