Confessions of a 20-Something White Man from SC

I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the tragedy that occurred on Wednesday night in my hometown of Charleston, SC. As the reactions poured out on social media, I became increasingly uncomfortable as people entered an almost ritualistic process of putting distance between themselves and the perpetrator, Dylann Roof.

I saw the same thing happen when white police officer Michael Slager killed Walter Scott, a black man, in North Charleston. Then I couldn’t quite put my finger on what made me uncomfortable, but now I understand—my fellow South Carolinians are unwilling to accept that we have created a culture where this sort of tragedy happens. We make them out to be ‘one bad cop’ or ‘one troubled youth’ instead of sons of South Carolina who really aren’t that different from us.

Take, for example, South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley, who defiantly declared at a prayer vigil on Thursday, “What happened in that church is not the people of South Carolina… We are a state of faith, we are as state of prayer, we are a state of love.”

But I’d like to take a moment to say in fact, Governor Haley, we are a state that raised a white supremacist that entered the prayer service of an historic black church and murdered nine black people.

Most people immediately proclaimed how different this killer was from them, but as I took in the story, I was struck by how much we have in common. I fit the initial description released by the police: “white male, early 20s, clean shaven, slight build.” (I think I have a better haircut than Dylann, but I’ll let you decide.)

Kind of a strange reaction, right? Of all South Carolinians that look like Dylann and me, I probably have the most right to distance myself from him. I completed high school. I went away to a fancy, liberal college. I moved to Philadelphia (Yankee territory!). I’m a member of a black church. I live in a black neighborhood and work at an organization that serves a largely poor black community.

Indeed, there is great distance between the path that Dylann took and the one I’ve followed. But still, I couldn’t help but feel like we weren’t all that different.

For starters, Dylann and I were educated according to the same state standards, which include SC history. I love history, so I soaked it in. I would have remembered if we ever learned about the black freedom struggle in South Carolina, for instance about the Denmark Vesey slave revolt and the burning of Mother Emanuel AME Church. It wasn’t until college that I had the opportunity to explore the South Carolina Civil Rights movement. Black history wasn’t taught in my SC classrooms.

And I grew up misunderstanding black culture that was all around me. Each week we drove past an AME church on the way to our (almost exclusively white) church. And every so often I would say, “I just don’t understand their name. How can you be Methodist and Episcopal?” Dylann Roof would probably have agreed when I rolled my eyes at such an ignorant name that only black people would come up with. (If you know the history of the AME Church, you recognize the irony of my thinking.[1])

And finally, I confess that as a kid I was kind of obsessed with Confederate war history. I had books about Confederate history, a replica CSA soldier’s cap, and for an elementary school art project I used paper pulp to create a Confederate flag. Like Dylann, I grew up celebrating that flag as a symbol of the glory days of the South. And why shouldn’t I? When I was a kid it still flew high above the state capitol building.[2]

White South Carolina, we have rushed to put distance between ourselves and Dylann Roof, to say that his actions don’t represent what we stand for. I’m not afraid to say that Dylann Roof and Preston Hogue sound pretty similar; we were raised in the same white South Carolina culture! We may want distance from Dylann, but if we’re honest we can see a little bit of Dylann Roof in all of us.

We must confess that Dylann Roof is a white South Carolinian. And we must confess that South Carolina is a state where we would rather celebrate the glory days of the South than admit they were purchased with black lives.

…a state where our children only learn the white side of history.

…a state where we would really prefer our kids to not have interracial relationships.

…a state where we ignore black history and culture.

…a state where we would rather everyone have a gun than everyone have healthcare.

…a state where symbols of hatred are revered, defended, and celebrated.

We must confess that South Carolina is a state that raised a white supremacist that entered the prayer service of an historic black church and murdered nine black people.

White people of South Carolina, let this tragedy be a wake-up call so that we can truly become the state Governor Haley and all decent people long for, “a state of love.” But let’s not deny where we are right now as we work toward that goal:

We are a state that raised a racist mass murderer. Until we own that fact, we will raise another one and face this tragedy again.

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[1] The AME Church took its name from the white denomination they left—the Methodist Episcopal Church (now United Methodist Church)—because of discrimination against blacks.

[2] At the time of writing, the flag still flies on the grounds of the state capitol after a long fight to have it removed from atop the building. [Update: the flag was removed from statehouse grounds on July 10, 2015.]

A Helpful Analogy for Understanding Privilege

It started with a simple question of one of my new friends: “May I try on your glasses?” This is sometimes a fun exercise—see how blind your friend is and see how you look with their frames on your face. We got a good laugh out of both of those things, but it also served as a reminder of something I had realized before but had forgotten—I have really good vision! That was brought (back) to light for me when, within our conversation, one of my other friends mentioned that she wears contacts.

Apparently a lot of people wear contacts. This is something that usually catches me by surprise. As someone with really good vision, I assume that anyone who isn’t wearing glasses also has really good vision. Who knew that I am pretty much the only person that doesn’t require the constant assistance of vision correction? Certainly not me! Had it not been for this conversation, one that I now remember I’ve had before in other contexts, I would have gone on believing that every non-glasses-wearing person had vision as good as mine.

This conversation becomes a helpful analogy for understanding privilege. Just so we’re on the same page, Google defines privilege as, “a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group of people.” In the conversation recounted above, I realized that good vision is a privilege I enjoy. Not everyone shares it. It’s advantageous. And I didn’t ask for it; it was granted to me by genes and probably diet or lifestyle at some level too.

But I didn’t realize that I enjoyed it until I engaged with someone who did not. In the context of my friendship, I tried on a pair of glasses and saw what my vision-impaired friend sees every day without them: an indecipherable, fuzzy, blurry mess. Without knowing him, and without a trusting relationship, I never would have been able to learn what it’s like to see without the privilege of vision.

Vision, or able-bodiedness in general, is just one category of privilege that I enjoy. Some of my other privileges:

• I’m white.
• I’m male (anatomically), identify as a man, and am heterosexual. All three of these together is a bonus privilege.
• I’m of average size and stature (for a white man).
• I’m Christian. (Although it’s debatable as to whether or not our society still values this, it affords me a certain cultural foundation that is still beneficial.)
• English is my first language—Standard American English, at that.
• I’m a U.S. citizen by birth. And I live in the country where I have citizenship.
• I come from a comfortably middle class family.
• I have a college education from a school with at least a little bit of name recognition.

I don’t pretend to have a comprehensive list here, but I think you get the picture. If not, then let me say this: I haven’t yet encountered a form of privilege that I don’t enjoy.

Allow me to ride this vision analogy a little bit further. When I took off the glasses, I had a headache for a moment. My system was confused, in shock from the new perspective I gained by peering through my friend’s lenses. It’s disorienting and frustrating and often hurtful to realize that you have privilege, especially when you learn that it’s at the expense of others who don’t share that privilege.

But I’ve also learned that it’s okay to enter into that pain, learn from it, and become more aware. Although my vision may indeed get worse with time, most of my privilege will be with me forever. Like the glasses, I won’t ever be able to take it off. And that means it can be easy to forget or overlook in the future. Remember, I’ve had the realization that I have great vision before! But my privilege acts as a blinder (excuse the pun) to the fact that others don’t go through life in the same way that I do.

One last thing to note—I made jokes about my friend’s need for glasses as I learned about his different experience: “Wow! You’re really blind!” Although jokes can sometimes help to alleviate pain, they usually end up causing pain, too. I say this addressing two crowds: those with privilege and those without.

To those with privilege, know that you are always walking on eggshells as you take this journey of growing awareness. Remember, your privilege blinds you to all kinds of stuff you never imagined, like the fact that people wear contacts! Be ready to hear these things, and don’t make excuses. (e.g. “He’s just playing the race card.”) In that vein, I’m aware that I’ve probably offended someone as they’ve read this blog post. But I’m ready to receive that, and in the context of a trusting relationship, have a conversation that will bring understanding and deeper awareness.

To those without as much privilege, please have grace with us who do. We need a lot of it to figure all this stuff out. Please, please keep raising our awareness whenever you can, but always take the time and space you need when we do things that are offensive.

Although I walked into Mission Year aware of a lot of my privilege, I’m still encountering it in new ways all the time. But it’s not just about awareness. The next step is learning to leverage my privilege for those who don’t share it, in a way that’s dignifying to them. That’s what a lot of my Mission Year is, so this won’t be the last discussion of privilege. Watch for more on privilege, especially racial privilege, in future blog posts. 

10 Word Poem

A lot of orientation for Mission Year has focused on identity and living communally across difference. In one recent activity, toward the end of orientation, we were instructed to write a poem that described us or expressed our identity. We could only use 10 words. There were no other expectations or parameters. Just ten words.

Usually I roll my eyes at activities like this, but I've learned over time that it's better to engage with them, even if they seem annoying. I put my pen to my paper and began to process some of the conversations and experiences I've had in the last two weeks, and really over the last four years, when I first really began to consider my identity and its implications for how I interact with society. I ended up liking my poem so much that I'm sharing it with you here! I especially like the simplicity of it.

Maybe later I'll unpack more what I was thinking as I wrote. For now, I'll just leave you with my ten words.

Redeemed white man

Called to reconcile

Finding a voice

Expectant